The bass thumped in Elle's chest, syncing with her heartbeat. She danced, letting the music wash away the thinking part of her brain. Men approached, drawn like moths to the silver flame of her dress. She pushed them away with a smile, spinning out of reach.

She felt free. Or at least, she was acting free.

Up on the mezzanine, Hunt hadn't blinked in five minutes. He tracked her movement through the crowd.

He saw Lance Ford weaving through the dancers, two cocktails in his hands.

Hunt set his glass down on the table with a thack.

Lance intercepted Elle near the edge of the dance floor. He said something. Elle shook her head, turning away.

Lance persisted. He stepped into her path. As a waiter squeezed past them with a tray of sparklers, creating a distraction, Lance's hand hovered over the drink in his left hand.

It was a subtle movement. A flick of the wrist. A pinch of white powder falling into the glass.

From the floor, it was invisible.

From the balcony, it was clear as day.

Hunt's blood turned to ice. He shoved the table aside, ignoring the crash of glassware.

"Noble?" one of the bankers shouted.

Hunt vaulted over the back of the booth and sprinted for the stairs.

Downstairs, Elle was thirsty. The dancing had left her parched.

Lance smiled apologetically. "My bad. Just let me buy you a water. Or this... lemonade?"

He held out the drink.

Elle hesitated. She looked for Bree, but the crowd had swallowed her. She was hot, tired, and her throat was dry.

"Fine," she said. "Thanks."

She took the glass. She drank half of it in one long swallow.

Three minutes later, the world tilted.

The lights started to smear, turning into long, neon ribbons. Her knees felt like they were made of cotton.

"Whoa there," Lance's voice sounded distorted, like he was speaking underwater. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "You had too much. Let's get you some air."

"No," Elle mumbled. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. "Bree..."

"Bree's outside," Lance lied smoothly. He started dragging her toward the side exit, the one that led to the attached hotel elevators.

Elle tried to dig her heels in, but her legs wouldn't obey. Panic flared in her chest, cold and sharp, but she couldn't scream. Her voice was a whisper.

"Stop..."

Lance pushed the door open. The hallway was quieter. The elevator bank was just ahead.

"Almost there, sweetheart," Lance grunted, shifting his grip to haul her dead weight.

He reached for the elevator button.

A hand clamped onto his wrist. A hand that felt like a steel vice.

Lance spun around.

Hunt Noble stood there. His chest was heaving, his tie gone, his eyes black holes of rage.

"Let. Her. Go."

Lance tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak. "Hunt? Hey. She's wasted. She asked me to take her upstairs. Don't be a cockblock."

Elle lifted her head. Through the blur, she saw a dark figure. A familiar scent-sandalwood and cold air-hit her.

"Help..." she whimpered.

The sound snapped the last thread of Hunt's control.

He didn't speak. He pulled back his fist and drove it into the center of Lance's face.

There was a wet, sickening crunch of cartilage.

Lance dropped Elle. He flew backward, slamming into the elevator doors, blood exploding from his nose.

Lance hit the floor, clutching his face, howling. Blood sprayed across the pristine carpet of the hallway.

The music from the club was muffled here, but the screams of the few people in the corridor were sharp.

Hunt didn't stop. He stepped over Elle, grabbed Lance by the lapels of his expensive jacket, and hauled him up. He slammed a fist into Lance's ribs, then another into his jaw.

"You touched her," Hunt snarled. Crack. "You drugged her." Crack.

"Hunt!"

The shout came from Carlyn. She had just burst through the doors, phone in hand. Her face was pale.

"I called 911!" she screamed. "They're putting the club on lockdown!"

Hunt dropped Lance. The man crumpled into a heap, sobbing.

Hunt turned to Elle. She was slumped against the wall, her eyes rolling back in her head. She was clawing at the neck of her dress, her skin flushed a deep, unnatural red.

"Hot," she moaned. "So hot."

Hunt scooped her up. She was limp, burning up.

He kicked the elevator button. The doors slid open. He carried her inside, pressing the button for the penthouse suite-Noble Media kept a permanent room here.

"I'm suing you!" Lance gargled from the floor, spitting blood. "I'll take everything!"

The doors closed, shutting out his voice.

Inside the elevator, Elle writhed in Hunt's arms. "You...?" she whispered, her voice a raw thread of sound. Her hand came up, tracing his jawline with a strange, searching familiarity. "You came back?"

Hunt stiffened.

Who the hell was she calling for?

Jealousy, sharp and irrational, pierced through his panic. Even now, drugged and helpless, she was calling for someone else.

"It's Hunt," he said roughly. "Look at me."

She blinked, her eyes unfocused. "No... the light... it's warm..."

The elevator dinged. Hunt carried her down the hall and kicked the suite door open. He went straight to the bathroom.

He turned the shower on cold.

He stepped in, shoes and all, still holding her. The icy water hit them like a shock wave.

Elle screamed. She thrashed, trying to escape the cold.

"Shh," Hunt held her tighter, pressing her face into his wet shirt. "You need to cool down. The drug... it's overheating your system."

The water soaked his suit, ruining the Italian wool. He didn't care.

Elle stopped fighting. She shivered, clinging to him. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her body against his. Her lips found his neck.

"Please," she sobbed. "Make it stop. Help me."

Her hands were everywhere, pulling at his wet clothes, desperate.

Hunt groaned. He was a man. A man who had been obsessed with this woman for three years. Her body against his was electric.

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back an inch. "Elle. Who am I?"

She looked at him, water streaming down her face, mascara running in dark rivers.

"Hunt," she whispered. "You're Hunt."

He broke.

He kissed her. It was fierce, possessive, claiming. He backed her against the shower tiles.

BANG.

The suite door exploded inward.

"POLICE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

Boots thundered on the floor.

Hunt spun around, shielding Elle's body with his own.

Three police officers stood in the bathroom doorway, service weapons drawn and pointed directly at his chest.

"Step away from the female!" the lead officer bellowed.

Hunt stared down the barrel of the pistol. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes.

"She's sick," Hunt barked. "She was drugged."

"Hands on your head! Now!"

An officer rushed forward, grabbing Hunt's arm and twisting it behind his back. The force slammed him into the tiled wall.

"Get off me!" Hunt roared.

Another officer threw a towel around Elle. She was sliding down the wall, shaking violently.

"Don't hurt him," she slurred, reaching out a trembling hand toward Hunt. "I want him..."

The female officer guiding her away exchanged a look with her partner. Stockholm syndrome, the look said. Or trauma bond.

The handcuffs clicked around Hunt's wrists. The metal was cold, biting into his skin.

"Do you know who I am?" Hunt demanded as they shoved him out of the bathroom.

"Yeah," the officer said, pushing him toward the door. "You're the guy facing a felony sexual assault charge."

They marched him down the hallway. Lance was being loaded onto a stretcher, his face a ruin of bandages and blood.

When Lance saw Hunt, he pointed a shaking finger. "That's him! He attacked me! He stole her!"

Carlyn was screaming at a sergeant near the elevators. "He saved her! Check the cameras!"

"Ma'am, stay back!"

Hunt was shoved into a squad car. The flashing lights painted the street in chaotic bursts of red and blue. Paparazzi swarmed the barricades, cameras clicking like a thousand insects.

Hunt ducked his head, but he knew they got the shot. Hunt Noble, in cuffs, wet and disheveled.

At the 19th Precinct, they put him in an interrogation room. It smelled of stale coffee and fear.

Detective Miller tossed a folder onto the metal table. Photos of Lance's face.

"You did a number on him, Mr. Noble."

"He drugged her," Hunt said calmly. "Check the glass. Check her blood."

"We are. But right now, I have a billionaire beating a man to a pulp and dragging a woman into a hotel room."

"I was helping her."

"That's not what Mr. Ford says."

The door opened. Preston walked in, flanked by three men in sharp suits. The Noble Media legal shark tank.

"My client will not be answering any more questions," the lead lawyer said. "And if you don't un-cuff him in the next thirty seconds, I will have this precinct sued into the stone age for unlawful arrest."

Ten minutes later, the door flew open again. Chief Sterling, the head of the precinct, rushed in. He was wearing a pajama top under his trench coat.

"Uncuff him! Jesus Christ, Miller, are you insane?"

Sterling fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking. "Mr. Noble, I am so sorry. A terrible misunderstanding."

Hunt rubbed his wrists. Red marks encircled them.

"Where is she?" Hunt asked. His voice was quiet, dangerous.

"Ms. Allison is in the infirmary. The drug screen confirmed Rohypnol."

Hunt stood up. "I want Ford destroyed. I want him to rot."

"We're processing the warrant now," Sterling promised, sweating.

Hunt walked out.

Elle was sitting on a bench in the hallway, wrapped in a grey police blanket. She was asleep, her head lolling against the wall.

Hunt stopped. The anger that had been fueling him evaporated, leaving only a dull ache in his chest.

He walked over and picked her up. She weighed nothing.

She mumbled something in her sleep, a soft, broken sound, a name he couldn't quite catch that sounded like a plea.

Hunt's jaw tightened.

He carried her out the back exit to the waiting black SUV.