The clock struck 2:00 AM.

The estate was asleep.

Delia changed. The silk dress was replaced by black tactical cargo pants and a fitted long-sleeve thermal. She pulled her hair into a tight braid and shoved it under a black cap.

She bypassed the hallway sensors-she had installed the update herself last summer, leaving a backdoor in the code. She slipped out the second-story window, dropping onto the terrace, then vaulting over the railing to the grass.

She didn't take her car.

She went to the back of the garage, under a tarp. Her Ducati.

She rolled it down the driveway in neutral until she was a mile away. Then she kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest.

She tore down the highway. Speed was the only thing that cleared her head.

She headed downtown. To the gritty district where the streetlights were broken and the shadows had teeth.

She stopped in front of a dusty bookstore called Ink & Paper.

She knocked on the metal shutter. Three times fast. Two slow.

A slat slid open. Eyes peered out.

"We're closed," a voice rasped.

"I'm looking for a first edition of 'Southern Rain'," she said.

The shutter rattled up.

She walked in. The smell of old paper and stale coffee hit her. She walked straight to the back, pushing aside a heavy velvet curtain.

The Archive.

It was a room filled with servers and terminals. The information hub of the underworld.

She sat at a terminal. She needed leverage on Killian.

She typed his name.

Warning: Level 10 Encryption.

She started the bypass sequence. Her fingers were a blur. Her mind raced. Accessing this terminal was risky. If Killian had traced her earlier hack at the club, he might have flagged her digital signature. She was counting on the anonymity of The Archive, but a man who scrubs the internet might own the library too.

Suddenly, the lights cut out. Red emergency strobes began to flash.

Intruder Alert.

Not her.

The front door of the bookstore exploded inward.

Men in tactical gear poured in. Automatic gunfire shredded the bookshelves.

"Clear the room!" someone shouted.

Delia dove behind a heavy oak desk. Wood splinters rained down on her. This wasn't a police raid. This was a hit. And the timing was too perfect. Either she had led them here, or this place was already compromised.

A mercenary rounded the desk. He saw her. He raised his rifle.

She didn't think. She moved.

She swept his leg, grabbing the barrel of the rifle and driving the stock into his throat. He gagged and dropped. She pulled a knife from her boot-a ceramic blade, invisible to detectors-and spun.

Another man rushed her. She ducked his swing, slashing the tendon behind his knee. He went down screaming.

She needed an exit. The back door.

She sprinted through the chaos, dodging gunfire. She burst into the alleyway.

Rain was falling again.

She ran toward her bike, but a black SUV swerved into the alley, blocking her path.

She raised her knife, ready to fight.

The rear window rolled down.

Killian Gibson sat there. He was illuminated by the streetlamp. He looked calm. Bored, even.

He looked at the knife in her hand. Then at the blood on her shirt-not hers.

"Get in," he said.

Bullets chipped the brick wall next to her head.

She didn't hesitate. She ripped the door open and dove into the backseat.

"Go," Killian ordered.

The driver floored it. The Maybach surged forward, leaving the alley and the gunfire behind.

Delia sat up, breathing hard. The adrenaline was crashing. Her hand was still gripping the knife so hard her knuckles were white. He was here. He knew. He had either ordered the raid or was watching the place waiting for a rat to scurry out. And she had run straight into his car.

Killian turned to her. He held out a pristine white handkerchief.

"Wipe your hand," he said softly. "You're getting blood on my Italian leather."

She looked at him. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't asking why the "spoiled heiress" just neutralized two mercenaries.

She took the handkerchief. "Thanks."

The car didn't go to her house. It pulled up to the curb of Velvet, the most exclusive nightclub in the city.

"You can't go home looking like G.I. Jane," Killian said. "Go inside. Clean up. Blend in."

He didn't get out. He just waited.

Delia slipped out of the car and into the club's side entrance.

In the bathroom, she scrubbed the blood off her hands. She ditched the cap. She shook out her hair. She took off the tactical jacket, leaving her in the tight thermal top. It looked intentional. Edgy.

She walked out onto the floor. The bass thumped in her chest, masking her heartbeat.

She found Elsie Kidd in a booth near the bar.

"Delia!" Elsie screamed over the music. "Oh my god! I thought your dad locked you in the dungeon!"

Delia slid into the booth. "He tried."

She signaled the waitress. "Tequila. Double."

Elsie grabbed her arm. "Is it true? About Ansel?"

"Yes."

"Everyone is saying he dumped you because of his... condition."

"He's just ugly, Elsie," she said, downing the shot the waitress brought. "Inside and out."

Elsie grinned mischievously. “Oh? And what kind do you like, then? The deadly type? Like Killian Gibson?”

Delia choked on the lime.

Elsie's eyes widened in alarm. "No way! You're actually into that devil? He'll eat you alive!"

The image of Killian handing her a handkerchief in the car just moments earlier flashed across Delia's mind.

Delia quirked up the corner of her mouth. "Maybe I want a taste of being devoured too."

"Well, well." A slur of a voice interrupted them.

Delia looked up. Luke Higgins. Ansel's best friend. He was swaying, holding a drink that was mostly spilled.

"The reject," Luke sneered. "Ansel told me you begged him. On your knees."

Her hand tightened on her glass.

"Go away, Luke," she said.

"Or what?" He leaned in, his breath smelling of sour whiskey. "You gonna cry to your daddy?"

He reached out, his hand grasping for her shoulder.

Her muscle memory triggered. She grabbed his wrist. She twisted.

"Ow! Fuck!" Luke yelled.

"Let go of her!" Elsie shouted, standing up.

Luke shoved Elsie. She stumbled back, hitting her hip against the table. She cried out.

That was it.

The red haze dropped over her vision. She stood up. She was about to break his arm. She was about to snap it like a dry twig. She didn't care about the cover anymore. She was going to hurt him.

Suddenly, the music cut out.

The silence was instant. Violent.

Every light in the club swiveled upward. They focused on the VIP balcony overlooking the dance floor.

The crowd froze.

Killian Gibson stood at the railing.

He held a glass of amber liquid. He wasn't looking at the crowd. He wasn't looking at Luke.

He was looking directly at her.

Two men in black suits materialized behind Luke. They didn't speak. One of them kicked the back of Luke's knee.

Luke hit the floor with a crack.

"Hey! What the-"

"Mr. Gibson requires quiet," the bodyguard said. His voice was flat.

Luke looked up at the balcony. His face went white. "Mr. Gibson... I... I was just..."

The bodyguard grabbed Luke by the collar and dragged him backward. Luke's heels scraped across the floor. He didn't dare scream.

Killian didn't even blink.

The club was dead silent. Five hundred people, and you could hear a pin drop.

Elsie gripped Delia's arm. Her nails dug into her skin. "Oh my god. Delia. Look."

Delia looked up.

Killian raised his glass. He tilted it toward her. A toast.

I see you.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. It wasn't fear. It was... recognition.

She grabbed her tequila glass. She held his gaze. She raised her glass and downed the rest of the shot.

A slow smile spread across Killian's face.

The music blasted back on. The spell broke. But the air around her felt charged.

A bartender appeared at their table. He set down a glass filled with a dark, smoking liquid.

"Compliments of the gentleman upstairs," the bartender said. "It's called 'Dangerous Love'."

Elsie squealed. "He is totally into you!"

Delia stared at the drink. It was a trap. A beautiful, intoxicating trap.

"We need to go," she said.

"What? No! Stay!"

"Now, Elsie."

She dragged Elsie toward the exit.

They reached the doors. But a large figure blocked the way.

Dirk. Killian's assistant.

"Miss Fitzgerald," Dirk said. He wasn't smiling. "Mr. Gibson insists. It's raining. He will drive you home."

Delia looked past him. The rain was pouring again.

"I have a friend," she said.

"A car has been arranged for Miss Kidd," Dirk said. "You come with us."

It wasn't a request.