The next morning, the reality of Darcie's "victory" set in.

She was sitting in the study adjacent to the ICU. Dr. Aris had pinned a series of brain scans onto the light board. They looked like storm clouds.

"Massive trauma to the brain stem," Aris said, tapping a dark spot with his pen. "He's in a persistent vegetative state. Locked-in syndrome is a theoretical possibility, but highly unlikely given the extent of the damage. Optimistically? Three months."

Darcie looked at the scans. A strange pang of sadness hit her. He was a war hero. A titan of industry. And now he was just a timer counting down.

Mr. Sterling cleared his throat. He slid a folder across the desk.

"Since time is short, Mrs. Maxwell, the Trust Committee has activated the 'Widow-Maker' clause."

Darcie frowned. "The what?"

"It's an anti-fraud measure," Sterling said, not meeting her eyes. "To ensure the marriage is... consummated. Or at least, that the spousal duties are fulfilled."

"He's in a coma," Darcie said, her voice rising. "What do you expect him to do?"

"Intimacy is required," Aris interjected clinically. "We call it 'Sensory Stimulation Therapy.' You need to provide two hours of direct skin-to-skin contact massage daily. It stimulates the nerve endings. Keeps the blood flowing."

"And," Sterling added, "you must sleep in the same bed. Every night. The cameras will verify your attendance."

Darcie stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "This is perverted. I'm a human being, not a heating pad," she declared.

"It's the condition for the inheritance," Sterling said calmly.

He opened the last page of the folder.

"If you fulfill these duties until his death, you inherit the Manhattan penthouse portfolio. Estimated value: fifty million dollars."

Darcie stopped breathing.

Fifty million.

That wasn't just money. That was freedom. That was paying off her stepmother's debts ten times over. That was never having to count backward from ten to stop a panic attack again.

She looked at Sterling. She thought of Hugh and Gwendolyn laughing at her.

She sat back down.

"Just massage and sleeping?" she asked. "No... weird stuff?"

Aris coughed. "Strictly medical contact. Unless... well, that's your prerogative."

Darcie picked up the pen.

"Deal. But I have a condition."

Sterling raised an eyebrow.

"For these three months, the East Wing is mine. Gwendolyn and Hugh are banned unless me invites them. I don't want them stressing the patient."

"Reasonable," Sterling agreed. "Sign it."

Darcie signed her name. Darcie Maxwell.

She walked out of the study. A maid was hovering by the door, trying to eavesdrop.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "New rules."

The maid scampered away.

Darcie walked back into the hospital room. Fleet was exactly where she left him.

She sighed and walked over to the bed.

"Well, old man," she said, reaching for the buttons of his pajama top. "Looks like I have to feel you up for fifty million dollars."

Feel me up? Fleet thought.

The thought was a jagged shard of ice in the darkness for him. The indignity burned. He was a soldier. A commander. Now, he was a piece of meat to be groped for cash by a woman with a voice like velvet and the morals of a pirate.

Darcie undid the buttons, exposing his chest.

It was... impressive. Even after weeks in bed, the muscles were defined, scarred here and there from what she assumed were shrapnel wounds.

She poured some lotion onto her hands and rubbed them together to warm it up.

"Sorry if my hands are cold," she muttered.

She placed her palms flat on his chest.

Heat. Her hands were small, but the pressure was firm, sure. The heat seeped through his cold skin, a jolt of pure sensation that bypassed the static and hit the nerve endings that were screaming for input. He hated it. He hated that it felt good. Don't stop, a traitorous part of his brain whispered from the abyss.

In the security booth, Dr. Aris watched the monitor. Darcie had seen the slight flicker in the ECG feed when she touched him-a telltale spike. While his back was turned, she'd discreetly pulled out her phone and activated the data-smoothing script her brother Garey had designed for her. It wouldn't erase major events, but it would soften micro-fluctuations, bundling them into the machine's acceptable margin of error. Dr. Aris, who she suspected was on Gwendolyn's payroll, would see nothing but baseline noise.

He scribbled a note.

Subject heart rate stable. Sympathetic reflex to touch within expected parameters. Therapy initiated.

The bathroom in the master suite was bigger than Darcie's entire trailer back home.

She filled a bowl with warm water and added a few drops of sandalwood oil. The scent was masculine, earthy.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair messy.

"Just pretend he's a big, unmoving... tractor," she told her reflection. "You've fixed tractors. You can massage a husband."

She carried the bowl back to the bed.

Darcie rolled up her sleeves. Her arms were deceptively strong-years of hauling water buckets and chopping wood in Appalachia did that to her.

She dipped a towel in the water and wiped down Fleet's arm.

The warm water was a map. The sensation traced the lines of his own body, reminding him of its shape. Left arm. Bicep. Forearm.

Darcie started to knead the muscles in his forearm. They were rock hard.

"Jesus," she grumbled, digging her thumbs into a knot near his elbow. "What are you made of? Granite? Did you eat rocks for breakfast?"

MREs and gravel, sweetheart. Special Forces diet. The thought was a flash of dark humor, a ghost of his former self.

Darcie worked her way up to his shoulder. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone.

Then she saw it.

A jagged, silvery scar running from the base of his neck, disappearing behind his ear. It looked old, but deep.

Her hands slowed down. She traced the scar with her thumb, gently this time. Not a massage. A caress.

"This must have hurt," she whispered.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

The simple words struck him with more force than a physical blow. Nobody ever said that. They asked if the mission was successful. They talked about the medal. They never asked if it hurt. Yes. It hurt like hell.

Darcie shook her head, snapping out of it. "Whatever. You have fifty million dollars. Pain is the price of admission, right?"

And there she was again. The gold digger. He felt a surge of disappointment that was sharp and annoying.

Darcie moved to the bottom of the bed and threw back the sheet.

His legs were long, powerful. She started on his calves, pushing the blood back up toward his heart.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"I demand to see my sister!"

Floy.

Darcie's blood ran cold.

She stopped massaging. She pulled the sheet back up over Fleet, tucking him in with a protective aggression.

"Stay here," she told him. "I need to take out the trash."

Darcie marched to the door and threw it open.

Floy was trying to push past a security guard. She was holding a basket of fruit wrapped in cellophane.

"Darcie!" She flashed a fake, bright smile. "I brought a wedding gift. Thought I'd see the happy couple."

Darcie stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

She snatched the basket from Floy's hands.

"Thanks," she said.

Then Darcie dropped it directly into the metal trash can next to the nurses' station. It landed with a satisfying crash.

"Hey!" Floy squawked. "That cost fifty bucks!"

"This is a sterile environment," Darcie said, crossing her arms. "No contaminants allowed. Especially you."

Darcie stepped into Floy's space. She was taller than her by three inches, and right now, she felt ten feet tall.

"I'm a nurse with signature authority," Darcie said, her voice low. "I control the household budget now, Floy. Hugh's credit cards? I can freeze them with a phone call. Do you want your shopping spree to get declined?"

Floy's face went pale. The money was her oxygen.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," Darcie said. "Now get out. Before I have security escort you off the property."

Floy stomped her foot, spun around, and marched away, her heels clicking angrily on the linoleum.

Darcie took a deep breath, counting backward from five.

She turned back to the room.

Inside, the muffled sounds of the confrontation had reached Fleet. Her voice, sharp and cold. Protective. A strange sense of... satisfaction settled in the darkness of his mind. She had defended his territory. He decided he liked her.

The storm hit at midnight.

Thunder rattled the windowpanes of the East Wing, shaking the old stone foundation.

Darcie hated storms. In the trailer, a storm meant leaks. It meant the roof might fly off. It meant fear.

She had showered and changed into silk pajamas-part of the "wardrobe" Gwendolyn had provided for the role.

Darcie climbed onto the massive medical bed. It was wide enough for two, but she stuck to the very edge, as far away from Fleet as possible.

"Just three months," she muttered to the ceiling. "Ninety days."

She turned her back to him and closed her eyes.

CRACK-BOOM.

Lightning struck somewhere close. The room lit up in a flash of strobe-white.

Darcie gasped, her body jerking instinctively.

The mattress was designed to prevent bedsores, which meant it was soft and slightly fluid. Her sudden movement shifted the center of gravity.

She slid backward.

Her back collided with Fleet's side.

Darcie tried to scramble away, but another clap of thunder roared overhead, louder than the first.

Panic overrode logic. She didn't move away. She sought the anchor.

She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. She threw her arm across his chest and tangled her legs with his. He was solid. Immovable. Safe.

Fleet was drifting in the void when the weight hit him. Soft curves. Trembling limbs. A foreign, living heat against his inert body. She was shaking.

Scared, the realization came to him, a clear signal through the noise. The tough girl was terrified of thunder.

Her hair was under his chin. Her breath was warm against his neck. It was sensory overload for him. His brain, long starved of input, fired neurons like fireworks.

"Momma..." Darcie mumbled into his shirt, half-asleep, half-delirious with fear. "Don't go..."

Momma? Fleet thought.

A strange, protective ache formed in the center of his consciousness. She wasn't asking for money. She was asking for comfort.

Move, he commanded his body, a desperate, silent roar. Dammit, move. She needs you.

Another crash of thunder. Darcie whimpered and squeezed him tighter. Her hand pressed flat against his pectoral muscle, right over his heart.

The electricity of the storm seemed to jump from the air, through her, and into him.

MOVE! Fleet thought.

He focused everything on his right hand. Every ounce of willpower. Every scream of frustration.

And then, it happened.

His index finger twitched.

It wasn't much. Just a jerk. A spasm. But against her palm, it felt like an earthquake.

Darcie froze. Her eyes snapped open.

She lifted her head. The room was dark, lit only by the lightning flashes.

"Fleet?" she whispered.

She stared at his hand.

"Do it again," she begged. "Please."

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing. His hand was as still as stone.

Darcie let out a shaky breath, laughing at herself. "I'm losing it. Plants don't move, Darcie."

But she didn't move away. The storm was still raging outside.

She laid her head back down on his shoulder.

"Goodnight, big guy," she whispered. "Thanks for the twitch. Even if I imagined it."

I moved, Fleet thought, a savage, roaring triumph echoing through the darkness. I moved for her.

He felt her breathing slow down as she fell asleep. He stayed awake all night, a silent sentinel in the dark.