Morning sunlight sliced through the broken blinds, stabbing into the dim bedroom.

A low, guttural sound of pain came from the bed.

Donat's eyes snapped open. There was no grogginess. He woke up like a cornered leopard, his senses instantly dialing up to maximum.

He moved his arms. The plastic zip ties bit viciously into his wrists.

He jerked his hands upward. The rusted iron headboard shrieked, the entire bed frame violently shaking against the wall.

Elsie jolted awake in her chair. The baseball bat slipped in her sweaty palms as she leaped to her feet.

Donat turned his head. His eyes locked onto hers.

The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. The sheer, predatory aggression in his gaze made Elsie's lungs seize.

"Where the hell am I?" he demanded. His voice was weak, but the authority in it was absolute.

Elsie swallowed hard. She gripped the bat tighter, holding it like a shield. "You owe me five million dollars."

Donat's dark brows pulled together. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, violent confusion.

"Who am I?" he asked.

Elsie froze. "Don't play games with me." She raised the bat an inch higher.

Donat squeezed his eyes shut. A muscle feathered in his jaw. His breathing turned rapid, panicked. He wasn't looking at her anymore; he was looking inward, finding nothing but a blinding, tearing white void.

He was genuinely terrified.

Elsie lowered the bat slowly. Her mind raced. He had amnesia. The five million dollars was slipping through her fingers.

She needed to anchor him. She needed him to trust her.

She took a deep breath, walked to the edge of the bed, and looked down at him.

"I'm your wife," she lied, her voice remarkably steady. "You were mugged last night."

Donat stopped breathing. He opened his eyes and stared at her.

Then, a harsh, mocking laugh scraped out of his throat.

His eyes slowly dragged over her faded flannel pajamas, the peeling paint on the walls, and the water stains on the ceiling.

"I have a Patek Philippe on my wrist," he said, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. "It costs more than this entire building. You think I'd marry a woman who lives in a slum?"

Heat flared in Elsie's cheeks. Her pride stung sharply. "You bought that before the bankruptcy," she snapped back. "We're broke now."

Donat's eyes went dead.

Before Elsie could blink, he twisted his body. His muscles bunched under his skin. With a terrifying burst of raw, brutal strength, he yanked his arms forward. The rusted iron bed frame shrieked in protest, the metal joints bending and warping violently under his immense power, but the pipe didn't break. Instead, the sheer, violent friction and his unnatural strength caused the thick plastic zip tie to snap with a sharp, sickening crack. The massive exertion instantly tore his wound open, but he didn't stop.

Elsie screamed.

Donat lunged. He sat up, dragging the broken half of the plastic tie with him, and his large hand wrapped around her throat.

He pulled her down. Her knees hit the mattress.

Their faces were inches apart. He inhaled sharply, his nose brushing her cheek.

"Cheap vanilla," he whispered, his voice a dangerous rumble against her lips. "If you're my wife, kiss me. Prove it."

Elsie's entire body went rigid. His breath was hot against her mouth. The sheer, overpowering scent of male sweat and cedarwood paralyzed her.

He leaned closer. His lips were a millimeter from hers.

Panic exploded in her chest. She shoved her hand downward, pressing her palm directly against the bloody gauze on his abdomen.

Donat let out a sharp hiss. His grip on her throat vanished.

Elsie scrambled backward, falling off the bed and hitting the hardwood floor hard.

"I lied!" she screamed, her chest heaving. "I don't know you! I just want the five million!"

Donat leaned back against the broken headboard, clutching his bleeding stomach. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his calculating brain processed the truth.

He didn't know who he was, but his survival instincts were screaming. He was bleeding out in a stranger's apartment. There were people out there who wanted him dead.

He looked at the terrified woman on the floor.

"The five million stands," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion, cold as a boardroom negotiation. "But you provide absolute sanctuary."

Elsie stared at him. She slowly reached into her pocket, pulled out the scissors, and crawled back to the bed.

With a sharp snap, she cut the remaining zip tie. The devil was now off his leash.

Donat shifted his weight, attempting to swing his legs over the edge of the mattress.

A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as the torn muscles in his abdomen stretched.

He looked down at his legs. His custom-tailored trousers were ruined, stiff with dried mud and his own coagulated blood. His upper lip curled in profound disgust.

"Get me clean clothes," he ordered, not even looking at Elsie.

Elsie's jaw tightened. She rolled her eyes, marched over to the small, rickety closet, and yanked open the bottom drawer.

She pulled out a pair of faded, gray Walmart sweatpants that belonged to her ex-husband. They were pilling at the thighs. She tossed them onto the bed.

Donat stared at the gray fabric. He reached out, pinching the waistband between two fingers as if holding a dead rat.

"I am not wearing this garbage," he said flatly. "Go buy silk."

Elsie crossed her arms over her chest. "You're a fugitive bleeding on my mattress. You don't get to demand silk."

Donat glared at her. He dropped the sweatpants and reached for his leather belt.

His fingers were pale, trembling slightly from the blood loss. He fumbled with the heavy silver buckle. The metal pin slipped, jamming tightly into the leather notch.

He yanked at it. It didn't budge.

"Fuck," he muttered, frustration radiating from his rigid shoulders.

He looked up. His dark eyes pinned Elsie to the spot. He gave a sharp tilt of his head, a silent, arrogant command for her to approach.

Elsie's face flooded with heat. She took a step back. "I am not taking your pants off."

Donat's lips curved into a wicked, mocking smirk. "Are you a puritan, or just terrified of what you might see?"

The insult hit its mark. Elsie's temper flared, burning away her embarrassment. She stomped over to the bed, leaning over his lap.

She grabbed the cold metal buckle with both hands. She yanked hard.

Because of the angle, her face was hovering directly over his exposed stomach. Her warm breath puffed rhythmically against his bare, taut skin.

Donat's abdominal muscles violently contracted. His Adam's apple bobbed. The air between them suddenly felt thick, heavy with an electric tension.

Elsie's knuckles accidentally brushed against the warm skin just below his navel.

A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. She flinched.

With a loud click, the buckle finally gave way.

Elsie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She grabbed the waistband of his ruined trousers and gave a hard, downward yank, pulling them down to his knees.

Donat watched the bright red flush spreading down her neck. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest.

Elsie snatched her hands back, humiliated. She spun around to walk away.

Her heel came down hard on the slick, severed piece of plastic zip tie she had left on the floor.

Her foot shot out from under her.

Elsie twisted her torso violently to catch her balance. A blinding spike of pain erupted in her lower back-an old injury from carrying heavy trays.

She cried out, her legs giving out completely. She fell backward, straight toward the bed.

Donat's arms shot out on pure reflex.

He caught her.

Elsie crashed heavily against him. Her face buried directly into the hard, warm expanse of his bare chest. Her hands instinctively clamped down on his broad shoulders.

They were pressed together seamlessly. His bare thighs bracketed her hips.

Donat ignored the burning pain in his gut. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Lonely single mother?" he whispered, his voice thick with amusement. "Couldn't wait?"

Elsie's entire body burned with mortification. She planted her hands on his chest, ready to shove herself off and scream at him.

The sound of metal grinding against metal echoed in the small apartment.

The front door unlocked.

Mrs. Brenda pushed the door open, balancing a steaming glass dish in her hands. "Elsie, honey, I brought you some-"

Brenda stopped dead in the doorway.

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she stared at the bed. Elsie straddling a half-naked, incredibly built man whose pants were around his knees.

Brenda's mouth fell open.

The glass dish of lasagna tilted dangerously in Brenda's hands. She sucked in a massive, theatrical gasp.

Elsie scrambled off Donat as if his skin were made of acid. Her face was so red it looked bruised.

"Brenda! It's-it's not what it looks like!" Elsie stammered, frantically waving her hands.

Donat didn't flinch. He calmly reached down, pulled the gray fleece blanket up over his waist, and leaned back against the broken headboard. He looked at the plump woman in the doorway with lazy, unapologetic eyes.

Brenda slapped a hand over her eyes, but her fingers were spread wide open. A massive grin stretched across her face.

"Oh, honey!" Brenda squealed. "I didn't see a thing! I am just so happy you finally moved on from that deadbeat ex of yours!"

Elsie practically sprinted across the room. She grabbed Brenda's thick arm, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Brenda, please. You can't tell anyone about this. Please."

Brenda patted Elsie's hand, her eyes darting past Elsie's shoulder to stare at Donat's chest. "My lips are sealed, sweetie. Absolutely sealed."

She set the lasagna on the small dining table, humming a cheerful country tune, and backed out of the apartment. The deadbolt clicked loudly as she locked them in.

Elsie pressed her back against the door and slid down to the floor. She buried her face in her hands and let out a long, pathetic groan.

From the bedroom, a deep, rumbling laugh echoed. Donat was enjoying this.

Elsie grabbed a throw pillow from the floor and hurled it violently at the bedroom door. "You're a bastard!"

At 3:00 PM, the rumble of the yellow school bus sounded from the street below.

The front door burst open. Seven-year-old Ethan ran in, his oversized backpack bouncing against his spine.

He stopped, his nose twitching. "Lasagna!"

He dropped his bag and ran toward the kitchen, but the sound of movement in the bedroom caught his attention.

Ethan pushed the half-open door wider.

He froze.

Donat was sitting up in bed. He looked at the small boy. Donat's jaw tightened, his entire posture stiffening with immediate, instinctual repulsion. He did not like children.

Elsie walked out of the kitchen with a glass of water. She saw Ethan standing in the doorway and her heart stopped.

She rushed forward, grabbing Ethan's shoulder to pull him away.

Ethan pointed a small finger at the bed. He looked up at Elsie, his voice loud and clear. "Mom, is this my new dad?"

Elsie felt the blood drain from her face. "What? Who told you that?"

"Mrs. Brenda," Ethan said innocently. "She told everyone in the lobby that you have a really handsome boyfriend living here and he's gonna be my stepdad."

Elsie thought she might actually vomit. Brenda's "sealed lips" hadn't lasted three hours.

Donat's cold eyes narrowed. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a chilling calculation.

"If the whole building is talking about a new man in your apartment," Donat said, his voice cutting through Elsie's panic like a scalpel, "the people looking for me will hear about it."

He looked at Elsie. "A single woman hiding a wounded man is a target. A mother living with her new boyfriend is invisible."

Elsie shook her head frantically. "No. I am not bringing my son into this lie. It's dangerous."

Donat leaned forward, his eyes black and merciless. "If you don't do this, the men who shot me will kick that door down tomorrow, and they will kill all three of us."

Elsie looked at Ethan, who was staring at Donat with wide, curious eyes. Her chest tightened painfully. She closed her eyes, the defeat tasting bitter on her tongue.

"Fine," she whispered.

Donat turned his gaze to Ethan. He forced the corners of his mouth up into a stiff, terrifying approximation of a smile.

Ethan wasn't scared. He walked right up to the bed, reached out, and tapped the glass of the Patek Philippe on Donat's wrist.

"Cool watch," Ethan said.

Donat stared at the small finger touching his two-hundred-thousand-dollar timepiece, and for the first time, he looked entirely out of his depth.