The iron gates of the Sterling estate groaned as they swung open. Through the rain-streaked window, Sera saw the main house. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress of gray stone, looming against the night sky like a threat.

The car stopped. Sera stepped out into a puddle, the cold water soaking instantly into her shoes. There was no umbrella waiting for her. Just a severe-looking woman in a stiff uniform standing under the portico.

Mrs. Sterling, the woman said. Her voice was devoid of inflection. I am the housekeeper. Mr. Sterling does not like noise. You will remove your shoes before you go upstairs.

Sera nodded, playing the part. She slipped off her wet heels and carried them. The marble floor of the foyer was freezing against her stockinged feet.

The housekeeper led her down a long corridor lined with portraits of dead men who all looked like they disapproved of her existence. They stopped at a heavy oak door.

He is inside. Do not disturb him unless necessary.

The housekeeper opened the door, ushered Sera in, and closed it. The lock clicked.

The room was pitch black. The air was thick, smelling of antiseptic and sandalwood. It was the smell of a hospital trying to disguise itself as a library.

Sera stood still, letting her eyes adjust. The only light came from the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, a sliver of gray moonlight cutting across the carpet.

In the center of the room, facing the window, was a wheelchair. A silhouette sat in it, motionless.

Mr. Sterling? Sera whispered.

No answer. Then, a rhythmic tapping sound began. Tap. Tap. Tap. His finger against the armrest. It was fast, agitated.

Sera took a step forward. The floorboard creaked.

Get out, a voice rasped. It was deep, rough like gravel.

Sera froze. I... I can't. The door is locked. I'm Sera. From the Quinn family.

A low, dark chuckle vibrated through the room.

Another one. Did they tell you I eat my wives? Or just that I break them?

I signed the papers, Sera said, keeping her voice small. I have nowhere else to go.

The wheelchair spun around with violent speed. Sera couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses he wore in the pitch black, but she felt the wave of aggression rolling off him.

I said get out!

He grabbed something from the side table-a heavy crystal water glass-and hurled it.

Sera didn't think. Her body reacted before her brain could process the "victim" script. She sidestepped smoothly to the left. The glass smashed against the wall exactly where her head had been a second ago, showering the room in shards.

Harrison heard the movement. He heard the lack of a scream.

He launched himself from the chair.

He wasn't a cripple. He moved with the desperate, adrenaline-fueled burst of a cornered animal, all coiled rage and raw willpower that ignored the tremors racking his frame. He tackled her, his weight driving her into the thick carpet. His hands found her throat instantly. His fingers were ice cold and shockingly strong, though she could feel a fine, spastic tremor in his grip.

Sera gasped, the air cut off. Panic flared, hot and white. He was going to kill her.

She couldn't play the victim anymore. She reached up, her fingers finding the bundle of nerves on the inside of his wrist. She pressed her thumb down, hard and precise.

Harrison grunted in shock as his arm went numb. His grip faltered.

Sera bucked her hips, using his momentary confusion to flip their positions. She pinned him down, her knee driving into his solar plexus, her forearm pressing against his windpipe.

For a second, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. They were intimately close, chest to chest in the dark.

Sera realized what she had done. She scrambled back, retreating to the wall.

I'm sorry! she gasped, forcing the tremble back into her voice. I... I grew up with brothers. It was a reflex. Please don't hurt me.

Harrison lay on the floor. His sunglasses had been knocked askew. In the dim light from the window, Sera saw his eyes. They were unfocused, staring at nothing, but she saw the muscles around them twitching in a spasm.

Nystagmus. Drug-induced.

Harrison sat up slowly. He adjusted his glasses, his face a mask of stone. But he didn't attack again. He turned his head slightly, listening to her heart rate.

You're not a Quinn, he muttered. A Quinn would have fainted.

I am, Sera insisted. I just don't want to die.

Harrison pulled himself back into his wheelchair. His movements were stiff, but controlled.

Sleep on the sofa, he ordered. If you come within five feet of the bed, I will break your neck. And next time, I won't miss.

Sera grabbed a pillow and retreated to the sofa. She watched him in the dark. He wasn't just blind. He was being hunted. And that meant he was useful.

Sera woke up to a sliver of sunlight burning her retina. Her neck was stiff from the uncomfortable Victorian sofa. She stayed perfectly still, listening.

The rhythm of breathing from the bed was uneven. Rapid. Shallow.

She sat up slowly. Harrison was asleep, thrashing slightly under the silk sheets. His forehead was slick with sweat.

Sera moved silently across the carpet. She needed to confirm her diagnosis. She leaned over him, her hand hovering inches from his face.

Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes were darting frantically. REM sleep, but too intense. His skin had a grayish undertone, and there was a distinct, sweet chemical smell on his breath.

Neurotoxin, she thought. Atropine derivative, maybe. Or something synthetic.

Harrison's hand shot out and slapped hers away.

Sera jumped back, her heart leaping into her throat.

I was just... the blanket was falling, she lied.

Harrison didn't wake up. He groaned, turning onto his side. It was a reflex.

Sera exhaled. She backed away, looking for the bathroom. As she scanned the ceiling, a faint, circular distortion in the paint of the corner molding caught her eye. It was almost perfect, but the light from the window reflected off it with a subtle, concave gleam that was different from the flat matte of the ceiling. A lens.

She kept her face neutral, stretching her arms over her head like a bored, tired girl. She scanned the rest of the room. Another glint above the door. Another by the wardrobe.

Three cameras. No blind spots.

He wasn't the master of this house. He was the specimen in a jar.

She went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. The noise covered the sound of her own voice.

They're watching him rot, she whispered to her reflection. If I cure him... he becomes the weapon.

She washed her face. When she came out, Harrison was sitting on the edge of the bed, fumbling for a white cane. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all.

Sera picked up the cane from the floor and held it out. Here.

Harrison froze. He reached out, his hand brushing hers. His skin was burning hot. He snatched the cane.

Don't touch my things.

A knock at the door. The housekeeper entered with a silver tray. Breakfast, and a terrifying array of orange prescription bottles.

Time for your medication, Mr. Sterling. The housekeeper stood there, arms crossed. She wasn't leaving until he swallowed them.

Sera watched closely. Vitamins. Sedatives. Anti-psychotics?

Harrison opened his hand. The housekeeper dumped a handful of pills into his palm. He threw them back and swallowed dry, his throat working convulsively.

Good, the housekeeper said, and left.

As she turned, Sera spotted a small white pill that had fallen onto the duvet cover near Harrison's leg.

She waited until the door clicked shut. She walked over, pretending to fluff the duvet. With a sleight of hand she had perfected in medical school to steal supplies, she palmed the pill and slipped it into the cuff of her sweater.

Do you trust your doctor? she asked quietly.

Harrison let out a harsh laugh. Trust is a luxury for people who aren't worth a billion dollars dead.

Sera looked at the camera in the corner.

So is privacy, apparently.

Harrison turned his head sharply toward her. What did you say?

Nothing, Sera said, pitching her voice higher. Just that I hope we can get along.

Downstairs, a commotion erupted. A shrill, imperious voice echoed through the floorboards.

Harrison's face went pale, then hard.

Damn it, he hissed. The Witch is here.

The bedroom door didn't just open; it was assaulted.

Beatrice Sterling, the Grand Dame of the family, marched in. She leaned heavily on a cane topped with a silver eagle, but she moved with the energy of a tank. Behind her trailed Sophia Sterling, Harrison's aunt. Sophia looked soft, wearing cashmere and pearls, but her eyes were scanning the room like a shark looking for blood.

So this is it? Beatrice pointed the cane at Sera. This is the trash the Quinns sent us?

Sera dropped her head. She hunched her shoulders, making herself look smaller, frailer.

Look at her. She's shaking like a leaf. Beatrice turned to the two massive bodyguards behind her. Get her out. Send her back. I'm voiding the check. This is fraud.

The guards stepped forward. One grabbed Sera's arm. His grip was bruising.

No! Please! Sera squeaked. She looked at Harrison.

Harrison sat on the bed, his face blank. He was going to let them take her. If she left, her mother died.

Sera yanked her arm free. She threw herself onto the floor at Harrison's feet, wrapping her arms around his legs. She buried her face in his knee.

Harrison! Don't let them take me! Not after last night! she wailed.

The room went dead silent.

Sophia stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. What about last night?

Sera looked up, tears streaming down her face. She made sure her cheeks were flushed.

We... we consummated the marriage. I'm his wife. In every way.

Beatrice looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Impossible. Harrison is... incapacitated.

Sera pointed a trembling finger at the bed. The sheets were rumpled. And right in the center, a small, dark reddish-brown stain marred the white Egyptian cotton-the result of Sera using the tip of a hidden needle to draw a bead of her own blood from her fingertip just moments before they entered.

Sophia looked at the stain. She looked at Sera. A flicker of calculation crossed her face. If Harrison had actually slept with her, annulling the marriage would be messy. Public. And if the girl was pregnant...

Harrison felt the heat of Sera's body against his legs. He felt the way her hands were gripping him-not in fear, but in warning. She was playing them.

He hated Beatrice. He hated Sophia. And this girl... this girl was lying through her teeth with the skill of a sociopath.

He decided he liked it.

Let her go, Harrison said. His voice was low, dangerous.

Beatrice bristled. Harrison, don't be stupid. She's a gold digger.

She's my wife, Harrison said. And she stays. Unless you want to explain to the press why you're dragging a weeping woman out of my bed the morning after my wedding?

Sophia put a hand on Beatrice's arm. Mother. Leave it. If he wants the stray dog, let him keep it. It won't last a week anyway.

Beatrice glared at Sera. You. One toe out of line, and I will destroy you.

They turned and left, the guards following.

The moment the door closed, Sera released Harrison's legs and stood up. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The tears stopped instantly.

Harrison smirked. Nice performance, Mrs. Sterling.

Sera smoothed her dress. You too, Mr. Sterling.

Why did you lie? Harrison asked.

Because I need to stay here. And you need someone who isn't trying to kill you.

Harrison's smirk vanished. What makes you think you can stop them?

Sera walked to the window and watched Beatrice's car drive away.

I don't just want to stop them, Harrison. I want to make them pay. But we need a real deal. No more lies between us.

She turned back to him.

I have a proposition.