"Well?" Dorian said. "I don't have all day. Did the walk clarify your priorities?"

Ines gasped for air, her chest heaving. The panic attack was setting in, hyperventilation making her vision spotty. Hhh-uh. Hhh-uh.

The man with the knife grew impatient. He leaned into the phone, shouting.

"Listen here, Mcclain. We got your girl. She's bleeding."

Silence on the line. Absolute, dead silence.

The thug grinned. "Fifty thousand. Cash app. Within thirty minutes. Or she gets a lot uglier."

Dorian's voice changed. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a tone so cold it could freeze helium.

"Put her on."

The thug pressed the phone against Ines's ear. "Talk, bitch. Beg him."

"Ines," Dorian said. His voice was sharp, a command. "Tap the phone twice if you're alone. Once if you're not. Give me a signal."

He was testing her. Not for her voice, but for her mind. He was giving her an out, a way to communicate past her captors.

Ines squeezed her eyes shut. She tried. God, she tried. She willed her numb fingers to move, to give him the single tap he needed.

But the thug's grip was like a vise on her wrist. She couldn't move. She could only produce a wet, choking sound of pure terror.

The memory of the night her family fell, the screaming, the gunshots-it all crashed over her. Her voice was locked in a vault, and her body was a prison.

"I'm waiting," Dorian said. His voice was strained, the nonchalance gone.

Ines sobbed, a silent convulsion of her shoulders.

"Fine," Dorian said. "You made your choice."

Click.

The line went dead.

The thug pulled the phone away, staring at the screen in disbelief. "He hung up? The motherfucker hung up?"

He looked at his partner. "She ain't worth shit."

Rage twisted his face. He backhanded Ines.

The blow sent her sprawling across the floor. Her head cracked against the floorboards. Her ears rang. She tasted copper.

"Don't kill her!" Silas shrieked. "She's still useful!"

The thug began to unbuckle his belt. "If we can't get money, we take payment in trade."

Ines scrambled backward, her heels skidding on the trash-strewn floor. Her hand brushed against a shard of a broken vase. She gripped it, the glass cutting into her palm.

She backed into the corner, raising the glass. She would kill him. She would try.

The thug laughed, stepping closer.

SCREEECH.

Outside, tires squealed. Not one car. A convoy.

Heavy boots thundered on the stairs. Fast. Disciplined.

The thug paused, his belt halfway undone. "The cops?"

Ines's heart stopped.

One minute earlier.

In the back of the Escalade, Dorian stared at his phone, his knuckles white.

"He didn't hang up to abandon her," he thought, his own heart hammering. "He hung up to cut the line, to make them think they won. To make them get sloppy."

"Do we have it?" he barked into the car's intercom.

Preston, in the front seat, tapped a tablet. "Triangulation complete. Queensbridge Houses. Alpha Team is thirty seconds out. He hung up the second we got a lock."

"Breach," Dorian ordered. "I want them alive. Barely."

He hadn't hung up because he didn't care. He hung up to start the clock.

But his hand was shaking. Just a little.

CRASH.

The apartment door didn't just open. It exploded inward, kicked off its hinges.

The door slab flew across the room, knocking Silas into a pile of dirty laundry.

Four men in tactical gear swarmed the room. They moved with a terrifying efficiency that made the street thugs look like children.

The man with the knife didn't even have time to raise his weapon. Thwip-crack. A taser probe hit him in the chest. He convulsed and dropped like a stone.

The second thug reached for a gun in his waistband. A rifle butt smashed into his face, shattering his nose with a sickening crunch. He went down screaming.

Ines was pressed into the corner, the shard of glass held out like a dagger. Her eyes were wide, unseeing. She was in a fugue state, her brain disconnected from reality.

Dorian walked in.

He stepped over the twitching body of the first thug. He was still wearing his immaculate suit, but his tie was gone, and his collar was unbuttoned.

He scanned the room. He saw the blood on the floor. He saw the bruise blooming on Ines's cheek.

His eyes went black.

He walked straight to her. He crouched down, ignoring the filth on the floor.

"Ines," he said.

She didn't lower the glass. She slashed at the air, a feral sound escaping her throat. She didn't recognize him.

Dorian didn't flinch. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the jagged glass she was holding.

"It's me," he said.

The glass sliced into his palm. Blood-bright red-welled up between his fingers, dripping onto her knee.

Ines stared at the blood. The color shocked her back to the present. She gasped, dropping the shard.

"Dorian?" she mouthed.

He didn't answer. He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her, covering her torn dress. Then he scooped her up into his arms.

He stood effortlessly, holding her against his chest.

Silas was trying to crawl toward the door. "Dorian! Mr. Mcclain! I'm her uncle! I was just-"

Dorian stopped. He looked down at the pathetic man.

"Preston," Dorian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Make him disappear."

"Understood, sir," Preston said.

Ines shuddered in his arms. She buried her face in his shirt. The smell of cedar and blood filled her nose. It was the safest smell she had ever known.

Dorian carried her down the stairs, past the gawking neighbors, and out into the night.

He didn't put her in the seat. He sat in the back, keeping her on his lap.

"Don't move," he growled when she tried to shift. "You're bleeding."

The car pulled away smoothly.

Dorian opened a first aid kit from the console. He took an alcohol wipe.

"This will sting," he warned.

He dabbed the cut on her neck. Ines hissed, shrinking away.

Dorian frowned. He leaned down and blew gently on the wound. The cool air soothed the burn.

Ines looked up at him. His face was inches from hers. He was focused, intense, treating her skin like it was precious.

"Why didn't you speak?" he asked quietly. "Why didn't you ask for help?"

Ines looked down. She couldn't explain that her voice wasn't a choice. It was a casualty of war.

Dorian sighed. He pulled her tighter against him, his wounded hand staining the back of her dress.

"Never mind," he said. "Rest."

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

It was a cavernous space. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Tribeca skyline. The furniture was sparse, modern, and cold. Gray velvet, black marble, chrome. It looked like a museum, not a home.

Dorian carried Ines to the massive sofa and set her down.

He walked to the wet bar and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He downed it in one swallow. He needed to burn away the image of that knife at her throat.

He returned with an ice pack and the medical kit.

He knelt on the floor in front of her.

"Legs," he commanded.

Ines hesitated. Her dress was ruined, riding up her thighs.

Dorian rolled his eyes. "I've seen it all before, Ines. Don't be shy now."

She extended her legs. Her knees were scraped raw from the fall.

He cleaned them with efficiency. His hands were gentle, despite his rough words. He bandaged the worst of the cuts.

"Shower," he said, pointing to a hallway. "There are clothes on the rack. Use the guest bath."

Ines nodded. She limped to the bathroom.

It was larger than her entire apartment. The shower was a rainfall style with six jets. She stood under the scalding water for twenty minutes, scrubbing the smell of the projects and the thugs' hands off her skin.

She dried off and found the clothes. There was no dress. Just a white button-down shirt. His shirt.

She put it on. It hung to her mid-thighs, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She rolled them up.

When she walked back out, Dorian was on the balcony, talking on the phone. The glass door was open.

"...freeze all of Silas's accounts. I want him destitute before he leaves the state," Dorian was saying. "And get me the number for Dr. Aris. The throat specialist."

Ines froze. He was looking for a doctor for her?

Dorian hung up and turned. He saw her.

His eyes swept over her, taking in the wet hair, the oversized shirt, the bare legs. His gaze darkened.

He walked back inside, sliding the door shut.

He picked up a new phone from the coffee table and handed it to her.

"It's encrypted," he said. "My number is the only one saved."

Ines took it. She typed quickly. Thank you. I will pay you back.

Dorian let out a harsh laugh. "Pay me back? With what? Maid wages?"

Ines flushed. She typed: That is my problem.

Dorian stepped closer. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her.

"Silas said you belong to me," he murmured. "Since I'm absorbing your debts, that makes you my asset. Assets don't have problems. They have owners."

Ines glared at him. She pushed against his chest. He didn't budge.

He leaned down. His lips hovered a breath away from hers.

"Tell me," he whispered. "Why did you run three years ago? Tell me the truth, and I wipe the debt."

Ines's breath hitched. She remembered the night. The file she had found. The conversation she had overheard between his father and the senator. The reason her family had been framed.

If she told him, it would destroy him. Or he would kill her to protect the family.

She couldn't take that risk.

She looked away and shook her head.

Dorian pulled back. The heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by a wall of ice.

"Fine," he said. "Guest room is down the hall. Don't make a sound."