Alton threw a damp, chemical-smelling rag directly at Amalia's face. It hit her cheek with a wet slap and dropped to the floor.

"Clean the wine stains off the living room rug," Alton ordered, his voice flat. "Consider it a test. Pass, and maybe you get your passport."

Amalia didn't argue. She picked up the rag and a bottle of heavy-duty carpet cleaner. She walked into the massive, sunlit living room and dropped to her knees on the expensive Persian rug. She sprayed the cleaner and scrubbed the red stains with all her strength, her bruised knuckles aching with every movement. She kept her head down, trying to make herself invisible.

The heavy front doors of the penthouse suddenly burst open.

Amalia's hands froze. She scrambled backward, pressing her body deep into the shadow of the large leather sofa, her heart kicking into a frantic rhythm.

Two men in black suits dragged a third man into the living room. The man in the middle was covered in blood. Thick, dark drops of it fell from his clothes, staining the pristine hardwood floor.

Chadwick walked out of his study. He held a crystal glass filled with amber whiskey. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying calm.

One of the bodyguards placed a silver, sealed cooler box on the glass coffee table. He unlatched the heavy metal locks with a loud click.

The moment the lid popped open, the heavy, metallic stench of raw blood flooded the living room. It hit Amalia's nose, making her stomach heave violently.

Driven by a morbid, uncontrollable terror, Amalia slowly raised her head. She peeked over the edge of the leather sofa.

Inside the cooler, resting on a bed of melting ice, was a severed human hand. The flesh at the wrist was hacked clean, the bone and muscle exposed in a gruesome display.

Amalia gasped, slapping both her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her eyes widened so far they hurt. Her lungs refused to take in air.

"Is this Montgomery Astor-Clarke's man?" Chadwick asked, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. He looked at the severed hand with the same boredom one might look at a misplaced pen.

"Yes, sir," the bodyguard nodded. "He was trying to destroy the last security tape of Davina."

Chadwick let out a short, dark chuckle. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and slammed the heavy crystal glass onto the table. The sound made Amalia flinch.

"Box it up. Mail it to Montgomery," Chadwick ordered, his voice cold and detached.

Amalia's entire body was shaking so violently she couldn't control her limbs. As she tried to press herself further into the corner, her elbow hit the plastic bottle of carpet cleaner.

The bottle tipped over and hit the floor with a hollow thud.

Every head in the room snapped toward the sofa.

In less than a second, the two bodyguards drew their guns. The black muzzles pointed directly at the shadow where Amalia was hiding.

Amalia let out a choked sob. She threw her hands in the air, tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

Chadwick raised his hand. The bodyguards lowered their weapons.

He walked slowly around the sofa. His long legs brought him to where Amalia was cowering on the floor. He stood over her, a dark silhouette blocking out the light.

"I... I was just cleaning," Amalia stammered, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely form the words. "I didn't see anything. I swear."

Chadwick slowly crouched down. He reached out into the cooler, his fingers brushing the melting ice, and then moved his hand toward Amalia's face.

His freezing, wet fingers traced the line of her jaw. The shocking cold against her warm skin sent a violent shudder through her entire body.

"Are you scared?" Chadwick whispered. His voice was incredibly soft, almost intimate, but it carried a psychotic edge that made Amalia's blood run cold.

Amalia nodded frantically. Hot tears spilled from her eyes, running down her cheeks and dripping onto the back of Chadwick's icy hand.

Chadwick stared at the tear on his skin. His expression twisted into sudden, violent disgust. He snatched his hand back as if she had burned him.

He stood up abruptly. "Alton. Clean up the blood. And get rid of this crying nuisance. Throw her in the storage room."

Alton grabbed Amalia by the upper arm. His grip bruised her skin instantly. He dragged her across the floor toward the hallway.

Amalia thought they were going to kill her. The image of the severed hand flashed in her mind. Pure survival instinct took over. She twisted her body and dug her fingernails deep into the back of Alton's hand, dragging them down to draw blood.

Alton hissed in pain. He let go of her arm, pulled his hand back, and slapped her across the face with brutal force.

The impact snapped Amalia's head to the side. Bright lights exploded behind her eyes. A sharp ringing filled her ears, and the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth from a cut inside her cheek. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed.

Alton grabbed her by the collar, dragged her down the hall, and threw her into a narrow, pitch-black storage room.

"Make another sound, and you lose a hand," Alton warned, his voice dripping with malice.

The heavy door slammed shut. The lock clicked loudly.

Amalia lay on the cold floor, surrounded by total darkness. Only a thin sliver of light leaked in from under the door. Her cheek throbbed in agony.

She slowly reached into the pocket of her jeans. Her trembling fingers brushed against a small plastic bag. Inside were three strong sleeping pills she had secretly packed before leaving her home country, a desperate measure of protection she had prepared because she was terrified of traveling alone.

She pulled the bag out. She stared at the sliver of light under the door. The paralyzing fear in her chest began to harden into something else. Desperation.

She gripped the pills tightly in her fist, her fingernails digging into her palm. She was going to drug him. It was her only way out.

The lock on the storage room door clicked open.

Alton stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light. He tossed a piece of fabric at Amalia. It landed on her face. It was a flimsy, black silk slip dress, the material so thin it was practically transparent.

"Put it on," Alton ordered coldly. "Go to the master bedroom and serve the boss. This is your last chance to breathe."

Amalia pulled the silk from her face. Her hands gripped the delicate fabric tightly. A wave of intense humiliation washed over her, making her face burn, but she bit her tongue and kept her head down. She couldn't fight Alton.

Alton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, bright pink pill. He held it out to her. It was the standard compliance protocol for any woman sent into the master suite, a chemical guarantee to maintain the boss's flawless, aggressive public facade, regardless of what actually happened behind closed doors.

"Take this," he said, his eyes narrowing with cold detachment. "It's a party favor. Don't lay there like a dead fish and ruin his mood."

Amalia's heart pounded against her ribs. She reached out with a trembling hand and took the pink pill. She brought it to her mouth, pretending to place it on her tongue, but quickly pushed it deep into the pocket of her cheek with her finger.

She tilted her head back and swallowed loudly, making a show of gulping it down.

Alton watched her neck muscles move. Satisfied, he nodded once and turned away, closing the door behind him.

The second the latch clicked, Amalia spat the pink pill into her palm. She grabbed a piece of tissue from a nearby shelf, wrapped the pill tightly, and shoved it into the pocket of her jeans.

She quickly stripped off her dirty clothes and pulled the black silk dress over her head. The cold air in the room hit her bare skin, making her shiver violently. She pulled the bag of sleeping pills from her jeans. Placing the white tablets on her palm, she used the edge of a heavy coin from her pocket to crush them into a fine, chalky powder.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She pushed open the heavy door to the master bedroom.

The room was massive, lit only by the dim, warm glow of a bedside lamp. From the attached bathroom, the loud, steady sound of a running shower echoed through the space. Chadwick was inside.

Amalia walked on her tiptoes, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. Her heart beat so fast she felt dizzy. She approached the nightstand.

A crystal glass filled with ice and clear water sat next to the lamp.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she hovered her palm over the glass. She tipped her hand, letting the crushed white powder fall into the water.

The powder hit the ice and began to dissolve, leaving a cloudy swirl in the clear liquid.

Amalia grabbed the small silver stirring rod resting on a napkin. She stirred the water frantically, the metal clinking softly against the glass, until the liquid turned completely transparent again.

Suddenly, the sound of the shower stopped.

Amalia gasped. Her hand jerked, and the silver stirring rod slipped from her fingers, dropping onto the thick carpet with a muffled thud.

She yanked her hands behind her back, standing frozen next to the bed. Her lungs seized up. She couldn't draw a breath.

The bathroom door swung open. A cloud of hot steam rolled into the bedroom.

Chadwick stepped out. He wore nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. Drops of water clung to his broad shoulders and ran down the hard ridges of his stomach. The overwhelming scent of expensive soap and raw, aggressive male heat filled the room.

He ran a hand through his wet hair and stopped. His sharp, predatory eyes locked onto Amalia standing by the bed.

He recognized the girl who had fought him in the hallway. A dark, mocking smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

Chadwick walked slowly toward her. Every step he took felt like a hammer striking Amalia's tightly wound nerves. She wanted to run, but her feet were glued to the floor.

He stopped right in front of her. He reached out and picked up the glass of ice water from the nightstand.

Amalia stopped breathing. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms they almost broke the skin.

Chadwick brought the rim of the glass to his lips. He paused. His dark eyes flicked over the rim, staring directly into Amalia's terrified face.

Amalia quickly looked down at the floor, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. Drink it. Please, just drink it.

Chadwick tilted his head back. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the entire glass of spiked water in three long gulps.

A massive wave of relief crashed over Amalia. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

Chadwick slammed the empty glass onto the nightstand. Before Amalia could react, his large hand shot out and clamped around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

He leaned in close. The coldness of the ice water lingered on his breath, mixing with his intense heat.

"Take off this useless dress," he ordered, his voice a low, rough rasp.

Amalia stared into his wide, alert eyes. He wasn't sleepy at all. Panic seized her throat. The pills needed time to work. She had to stall.

Chadwick's fingers tightened around Amalia's jaw, the pressure bruising her skin. His eyes were dark, demanding immediate obedience.

Amalia's brain raced. She reached up with trembling hands and grabbed the thin silk straps of the dress. She pulled them down, moving with agonizing slowness, dragging out every second she could.

Chadwick let out a sharp hiss of impatience. He didn't wait. He grabbed the front of the dress and ripped it downward.

The sound of tearing silk was loud in the quiet room. The dress fell away.

Amalia gasped, instantly crossing her arms tightly over her chest to cover herself. Her skin broke out in goosebumps from the cold air and pure terror. Tears of deep humiliation welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Chadwick stared at her defensive posture. His brow furrowed deeply. Suddenly, a strange, intense heat flared in his lower abdomen.

He thought the room was too hot. He reached down and roughly loosened the edge of the towel around his waist, his breathing growing noticeably heavier.

Amalia watched his chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. Hope flared in her chest. The drugs were working. He was getting weak.

She took a tiny step backward. "Are you... are you feeling tired?" she asked, her voice shaking.

Chadwick's head snapped up. His eyes locked onto hers, and Amalia's blood ran cold.

His eyes were bloodshot, burning with a dangerous, feral intensity. There was no sleepiness in them. Only pure, unadulterated hunger.

He lunged forward. His large hand wrapped around her wrist like an iron shackle, yanking her hard against his chest.

The moment their bare skin collided, Chadwick let out a deep, guttural groan.

A violent shockwave tore through his body. For years, he had been completely numb, suffering from severe psychogenic ED. No woman could make him feel anything. But the second this trembling, terrified girl touched him, his body reacted with explosive, uncontrollable force.

The raw, primal urge bypassed his brain entirely. It consumed him like a wildfire.

Amalia felt the undeniable, hard evidence of his arousal pressing against her. Her face drained of all color. She pushed her hands against his rock-hard chest, thrashing wildly.

"Let me go!" she screamed, pure panic tearing at her vocal cords.

Chadwick didn't let go. He wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her against him so tightly she could barely breathe. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. His breath was scorching hot against her skin, making her shudder violently.

Amalia realized with absolute horror that the sleeping pills hadn't put him to sleep. His mind was entirely consumed, registering only an unprecedented, alien fire burning through his veins. It had absolutely nothing to do with any chemical reaction or drug. The sole, undeniable source of this raging inferno was the terrified girl trembling against his chest-the softness of her skin, the frantic beat of her pulse, and the panicked, desperate look in her eyes that shattered his decades of numbness.

"Help!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the walls of the massive bedroom. But the soundproofing was absolute. No one was coming.

The noise irritated Chadwick. He pulled his head back, grabbed the back of her hair, and smashed his mouth against hers to silence the screaming.

The kiss was brutal. It tasted of whiskey and violence. He devoured her mouth, driven by a starvation he couldn't control.

Amalia squeezed her eyes shut. The sheer physical dominance of the man overwhelmed her. In a burst of desperate defiance, she opened her jaw and bit down hard on his tongue.

The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded their mouths.

Chadwick grunted in pain. He tore his mouth away, stumbling half a step back.

He wiped his thumb across his lower lip, smearing the blood. The haze of lust in his eyes shifted into something lethal.

He reached out and grabbed both her cheeks, squeezing hard enough to force her mouth open. He leaned in, inspecting the inside of her mouth.

"Where is the pill?" he demanded, his voice a terrifying growl.

Amalia whimpered, saliva dripping down her chin as she struggled against his grip.

He let go of her face. "What did you put in the water?" he roared, the sound vibrating in his chest.

Amalia collapsed onto her knees, her legs completely giving out. "Sleeping pills!" she sobbed, wrapping her arms around herself. "I just wanted my passport! I just wanted to go home!"

Chadwick froze.

He looked down at the sobbing girl on the floor, then at his own body, which was still raging with an erection he hadn't experienced in years.

It wasn't a party drug. It wasn't an aphrodisiac.

The realization hit him like a freight train. The only thing that had broken through his psychological barrier, the only thing that cured his impotence, was this cheap, terrified girl crying on his floor.

A twisted, possessive darkness ignited in his eyes. He stared down at Amalia not as a nuisance, but as the only cure in the world.