Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

A massive silhouette was curled up on the leather sofa in the corner of the room.

The man had his hands buried in his hair, gripping the strands as if trying to tear them from his scalp.

A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat. It sounded like a wounded, cornered animal.

Brea pressed her spine flat against the door, assessing the threat.

The low growling stopped abruptly. The man snapped his head up, staring directly into the shadows where she stood.

Before she could blink, he launched himself off the sofa with terrifying explosive power.

A large hand gripped her firmly. She was lifted slightly, struggling to breathe.

Her feet left the floor. The air was violently forced out of her lungs.

She clawed frantically at the massive hand crushing her windpipe, her fingertips brushing against the cold, heavy platinum of a bespoke cufflink. The sheer, overwhelming physical power and the faint, expensive scent of cedarwood told her this was no ordinary thug. She struggled to focus through the darkness.

Through the faint sliver of light bleeding in from the hallway, she saw his eyes. They were bloodshot, dilated, and completely unhinged.

As her vision began to blur with black spots, the ambient light briefly caught the sharp, aristocratic angle of his jawline and the ruthlessly cold features.

Her stomach dropped. She finally recognized the face from countless financial magazine covers in her past life. Jaxon Kensington. The tyrant of Wall Street.

The rumors of his severe, violent PTSD flashed through her mind.

Jaxon's fingers tightened. The thick veins on the back of his hand bulged.

Black spots danced at the edges of Brea's vision. The sensation of dying returned, suffocating and absolute.

She knew fighting back would only trigger a deeper violent response from a PTSD patient in a dissociative state.

She stopped kicking. Her arms felt like lead, but she forced them upward.

She opened her palms and gently pressed her warm, soft hands against Jaxon's rigid jawline.

Jaxon's massive frame flinched violently at the sudden, non-aggressive touch.

Brea fought through the crushing pain in her windpipe. She locked her clear, unwavering gaze onto his chaotic eyes.

She parted her lips and made a soft, rhythmic shushing sound.

"I can fix the pain in your head," she forced out in a raspy, barely audible whisper.

Jaxon's heavy, erratic breathing hitched. He froze.

The murderous intent in his eyes fractured. A flicker of confusion broke through the madness.

The iron grip around her throat loosened by a fraction of an inch.

Brea immediately grabbed his wrist, holding it in place as she sucked in a desperate, greedy lungful of air.

Jaxon let go completely. He stumbled backward, as if his strings had been cut.

He collapsed back onto the leather sofa, buried his face in his hands, and began to shake.

Brea slid down the wall. She hit the floor, coughing violently, her hands clutching her bruised neck as she watched the monster in the dark.

Brea leaned her head back against the wall, waiting for the coughing fit to pass.

She looked down at her right leg. The cheap denim was soaked through with dark, wet blood.

On the sofa, Jaxon sat up.