The heavy oak door slowly swung shut behind Kyler. The lock clicked into place, cutting off the light from the hallway. The room plunged back into the dim glow of the medical monitors.

Kyler took a slow step forward. His custom leather shoes squeaked slightly against the hardwood floor. He carried the arrogant swagger of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

Arletta scrambled backward. She let out a whimpering gasp, dragging her body across the floor until her spine hit the cold plaster wall. She pulled her knees to her chest.

Kyler laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound.

"Look at you," he mocked. "That cheap trash you're wearing is polluting the air in my house."

"I-I'm sorry," Arletta stuttered. She crossed her arms over her chest, trembling violently. Beneath her panicked exterior, her eyes locked onto his knees, calculating the exact physical distance between them. Three feet. Two and a half.

The door handle rattled. The door swung open again, and the sharp clatter of high heels broke the tension. Fernanda Wolf marched into the room, her designer dress swishing around her legs.

She spotted Arletta cowering in the corner and rolled her eyes in blatant disgust. Fernanda ignored her and walked straight to Josue's bed.

She reached out and stroked Josue's pale cheek.

"I am the only woman who belongs in this room," Fernanda announced. Her voice was thick with possessive obsession.

Kyler leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "She's just a cheap good-luck charm the old man bought. We can throw her out with the trash whenever we want."

Fernanda snapped her head toward Arletta. Her eyes were venomous.

"If you touch him with your filthy hands, I will cut your fingers off," Fernanda hissed.

Arletta nodded frantically. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, forcing fat tears to spill down her cheeks. She looked utterly broken.

Fernanda let out a satisfied huff. She turned and strutted out of the room, off to her afternoon high tea, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The room was quiet again. Kyler's eyes darkened. He pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them in two long strides.

He loomed over Arletta, his shadow swallowing her completely. The overpowering stench of his bourbon and heavy cologne made her stomach churn.

"Let's see what my brother bought," Kyler whispered. He reached his right hand down, aiming to grab her chin.

The second his fingertips brushed the air near her skin, Arletta let out a blood-curdling scream. She threw her upper body forward, ducking wildly as if trying to shield her face.

Under the cover of her frantic dodging, her right hand shot out, her knuckles striking the sensitive nerve point right behind his knee. His leg buckled instantly from the sharp, unexpected pain. It looked like nothing more than a clumsy, panicked flail of a terrified girl, but the angle and impact were flawlessly calculated.

Kyler's right leg instantly went dead.

His knee buckled. The sudden loss of motor function sent him crashing down. He landed hard on one knee right in front of her, his face twisting in shock.

Arletta scrambled out from under his arm. She sprinted to the open doorway, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Help! Somebody help!"

Kyler tried to stand up, but his right leg convulsed violently. It felt like a live wire was shooting electricity through his veins. He couldn't put an ounce of weight on it.

Two maids came running down the hallway, their eyes wide. They stopped in the doorway, staring at Kyler, who was kneeling on the floor, his face pale and contorted in pain.

"He-he just fell!" Arletta sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Mr. Kyler's leg cramped up! I'm too weak to help him up!"

Kyler bared his teeth. He opened his mouth to scream at her, but a fresh wave of agonizing cramps ripped through his thigh. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, looking completely ridiculous.

Two male servants pushed past the maids. They grabbed Kyler by the armpits and hauled him up. Kyler glared at Arletta with pure hatred, but he had absolutely no proof she had done anything.

They dragged him out of the room toward the medical wing.

Before leaving, one of the maids shot Arletta a filthy look. "Stop screaming over nothing," she muttered, pulling the door shut.

Arletta stood alone in the quiet room. The tears on her cheeks were still wet.

Slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted into a cold, mocking smile.

She walked over to the sink in the corner. She pumped a heavy dose of antibacterial soap into her palms and scrubbed the fingers that had touched Kyler until her skin turned red.

She dried her hands on a towel and walked back to Josue's bed. Her eyes were hard and focused.

She reached into her hair and pulled out the wooden pin. She needed to start the second round of deep nerve stimulation. This man was going to wake up, and when he did, he was going to tear this house apart.

The only light in the room came from a small floor lamp in the corner. It cast long, distorted shadows across the walls.

Arletta held her breath. She pinched the longest silver needle between her fingers and slowly pushed it into the base of Josue's cervical spine.

A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead and stung her eye. This kind of high-precision nerve block release drained every ounce of her physical energy. One millimeter off, and she could paralyze him forever.

She felt the tissue yield. The blockage was clear. Arletta quickly pulled the needle out and stared at Josue's chest.

The heart monitor beeped. The green line jumped from a sluggish sixty beats per minute to a strong, steady eighty-five.

Arletta dropped the needle onto the sterile tray. She grabbed Josue's large, cold hand and pressed her thumb against his wrist to feel his pulse.

Right then, Josue's stiff index finger twitched. It was a microscopic movement, but the rough pad of his finger scraped against the center of her palm.

Arletta's heart slammed against her ribs. Her pupils dilated. It was the undeniable proof of neural pathway reconstruction.

She grabbed her notebook to write down the time, but a wave of dizziness hit her. The room spun. She gripped the edge of the mattress, her knees shaking from exhaustion.

She couldn't keep her eyes open. She dragged herself over to the small, single sofa in the corner of the room. She collapsed onto the cushions, pulling a thin fleece blanket up to her chin. Within seconds, the exhaustion pulled her under.

It was past midnight when a faint scratching sound broke the dead silence of the estate.

The brass doorknob of the hospital room turned. The metal ground together with a slow, agonizing squeak.

Arletta snapped awake. Her eyes opened in the pitch black. Her muscles locked tight, instantly shifting into the hyper-aware state of a hunted animal.

The door cracked open. The heavy, sour stench of bourbon flooded the room. Kyler squeezed through the gap, his body swaying heavily.

He had lost face during the day. Now, fueled by liquid courage, he was back to take his anger out on the helpless country girl.

He stumbled blindly toward the sofa, his breathing loud and wet.

Arletta kept her eyes shut. She didn't move her body, but her right hand slid silently under the blanket. Her fingers wrapped around a specialized, ultra-thin nerve-blocking needle in her kit-the one used for deep tissue anesthesia.

Kyler lunged. He threw his heavy body onto the sofa, his hands clawing wildly at the collar of her shirt.

Arletta let out a piercing, terrified scream. She twisted her hips and slid out from under him like water.

Kyler grabbed empty air. His momentum carried him forward, and his chest slammed hard into the wooden armrest of the sofa. He grunted in pain, his lower back completely exposed.

In the split second they crossed paths, Arletta swiftly inserted the needle into a key pressure point in his lower back, causing immediate but temporary paralysis. She yanked it out before he could even register the prick.

Kyler's lower half died instantly.

His legs turned to jelly. He slid off the sofa and collapsed onto the rug in a heavy, useless heap. He couldn't move a single muscle below his waist.

Arletta scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. She slammed her palm against the red panic button on the wall.

A deafening siren ripped through the east wing. The estate's security system flared to life, bathing the room in flashing strobe lights.

Kyler realized his legs were gone. Panic seized his throat. He thought he was paralyzed for life. He opened his mouth and let out a high-pitched, hysterical wail like a slaughtered pig.

The door burst open. Two armed security guards and Evelyn charged into the room.

The overhead lights flicked on, blindingly bright.

They saw Kyler, a sobbing, paralyzed mess on the floor. And in the corner, Arletta was curled into a tight ball, her clothes rumpled, her hands covering her face as she shook uncontrollably.

"He-he was drunk!" Arletta wailed, her voice cracking. "He broke in! He said he was going to kill me!"

The guards looked at each other, completely bewildered. They grabbed Kyler by the arms and dragged his dead weight out of the room.

Evelyn stood in the doorway, her face pale and tight. She knew this couldn't be covered up. The old man was going to hear about this.

The morning sun poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room, but the air inside felt like a freezer.

Arletta sat at the very end of the long mahogany table. Her head hung low. Her fingers nervously picked at the linen napkin in her lap. Her eyes were swollen red, puffy from crying.

Dori Patton, Josue's stepmother, sat to the right of the head chair. She held a bone china coffee cup, glaring daggers at Arletta over the rim.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of a wooden cane echoed from the hallway. Cornelius, the patriarch of the Mcconnell family, walked into the room. His face was carved from stone.

Everyone at the table stood up instantly. No one breathed until Cornelius lowered himself into the head chair.

Cornelius's sharp, hawk-like eyes swept the room. He picked up his solid silver butter knife and slammed it flat against the table. The crack made everyone jump.

"Explain the alarms in the east wing," Cornelius demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Why is my estate being run like a cheap downtown nightclub?"

Dori slammed her cup down. "It's this uneducated girl, Cornelius," she spat, pointing a manicured finger at Arletta. "She has no idea how to behave. Kyler was sleepwalking, and she panicked like a lunatic and triggered the alarms."

Arletta violently flinched. Her hand jerked, knocking her silver fork off the table. It hit her bone china plate with a loud, piercing clatter that cut Dori off completely.

Arletta looked up at Cornelius like a terrified deer caught in headlights. Tears instantly spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks.

"M-Mr. Kyler smelled like liquor, sir," Arletta stammered, her voice thick with tears. "He fell on me in the dark. He said he was going to throw me out the window."

She kept her eyes wide and innocent. She purposely changed Kyler's sexual assault into a threat of physical violence, playing the part of a naive girl who didn't even understand what a man in her bed meant.

Cornelius's eyebrows pulled together. He knew exactly what kind of degenerate Kyler was. Arletta's terrified, confused explanation fit perfectly.

Dori's face turned red. "He was drunk and walked into the wrong room! That's all!"

Cornelius let out a harsh, barking laugh. "He walked into the wrong room, and he was so intoxicated his legs gave out and he couldn't stand up? Is that what you're telling me?"

Dori opened her mouth, but no words came out. She ground her teeth together, swallowing her rage.

Cornelius turned his piercing gaze to Arletta. He stared at her, trying to find a crack in her story.

Arletta didn't look away. She stared back at him, her eyes swimming with pure, unadulterated fear and a desperate need for his protection.

Cornelius looked away. He decided she was exactly what she appeared to be: a harmless, pathetic shield for his grandson. His disgust for Kyler deepened.

"Kyler's trust fund allocations are suspended for three months," Cornelius announced to the room. "He is grounded to the west wing for a week."

Dori's knuckles turned stark white as she gripped her napkin. She looked like she wanted to murder someone, but she bowed her head. "Yes, Cornelius."

Cornelius stood up. He looked at Evelyn. "Assign two personal maids to Arletta. They will stand guard outside the room at night."

It sounded like protection, but Arletta knew it was Cornelius officially recognizing her place in the house.

The meeting dismissed. As Dori walked past Arletta's chair, she leaned down. "You're going to pay for this, you little rat," she hissed.

Arletta shrank back into her chair, trembling until the room was completely empty.

Once the doors closed, Arletta stopped shaking. She picked up her napkin and elegantly dabbed the tears from her eyes. Her gaze turned ice-cold.

She had tested the waters. Cornelius cared about order. Dori wanted the money.

She stood up, smoothed out her cheap shirt, and walked toward the stairs. She needed to wake Josue up.

As she turned the corner, she didn't see Fernanda standing in the shadows of the second-floor landing, staring at her back with pure, toxic hatred.