Archer practically threw her into the cavernous back seat of the Escalade.

Alya scrambled against the premium leather, trying to catch her balance. Before she could sit up, Archer climbed in after her.

The heavy door slammed shut. The automatic locks engaged with a heavy, final thud.

The air inside the cabin was thick. It smelled of expensive cedar cologne, cold rain, and the metallic tang of Alya's blood.

"Drive," Archer commanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "Callum Jenkins's clinic. Now."

Marcus threw the SUV into drive, the tires gripping the wet road as they sped away from the accident.

Alya's chest tightened. She reached for the interior door handle, pulling on the chrome lever.

It didn't budge.

She pulled harder, panic flaring in her chest.

"The child locks are on," Archer said coldly.

Alya whipped her head around to glare at him. "Unlock this door. I just need a regular emergency room."

Archer didn't even look at her. He opened the climate-controlled compartment between the seats and pulled out a sterile medical towel.

He leaned across the console. His massive frame completely boxed her in.

Alya tried to press herself flat against the window, but Archer's left hand shot out. He gripped her chin, his long fingers pressing into her jawline, and forced her face toward him.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, trying to jerk her head away.

Archer's right hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her wet hair. He locked her skull in place.

"Hold still," he ordered.

He pressed the white towel firmly against the gash on her forehead.

Alya gasped at the sting. They were inches apart. She could see the dark red veins in the whites of his eyes. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

Her heart began to stutter. It was a dangerous, irregular rhythm.

She quickly pulled her coat sleeve down, covering the face of her smartwatch so he wouldn't see the flashing red warning light.

"Ten years," Alya spat, forcing a mocking smile to hide her physical pain. "And you're still a controlling bastard."

Archer's jaw ticked. He pressed the towel harder against her wound.

Alya sucked in a sharp breath, her face draining of the last bit of color.

"Shut your mouth, Alya," Archer warned, his voice so cold it felt like ice water pouring down her spine. "Before I shut it for you."

Alya swallowed hard. She clamped her lips shut, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

The SUV turned onto the quiet, tree-lined streets of Georgetown. The amber glow of the streetlights flickered across Archer's face.

His eyes acted like a scanner, taking in her hollow cheeks, her trembling shoulders, and her pale, cracked lips.

"What the hell did you do to yourself in London?" Archer asked. His tone was accusatory, laced with a dark, twisted anger. "You look like a corpse."

Alya's stomach clenched. She forced a hollow laugh.

"Journalism is a demanding field. I'm just tired."

Archer sneered. "Bullshit. Your breathing is shallow. You're shaking. You're sick."

Panic seized Alya's throat. He was too observant. He always had been.

"I need my phone," Alya deflected, reaching into her wet coat pocket. "I have to call the rental agency."

Archer's hand shot out. He snatched the phone right out of her fingers.

He pressed the power button, holding it down until the screen went black, and tossed it over the center console into the front seat.

"Give that back!" Alya yelled.

She lunged forward to grab it.

Archer caught her by the shoulders and shoved her backward. He followed her down, pinning her against the leather seat.

His chest pressed heavily against hers. The sheer physical dominance of his body made the world spin around her.

Alya's heart gave a violent, painful squeeze. A fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She clamped her teeth together to stop from crying out in agony.

Archer felt her violent trembling. He looked down at her face, misinterpreting her physical agony for pure terror.

A flicker of something complicated-guilt, rage, pain-crossed his dark eyes.

He slowly released her shoulders and pushed himself back into his own seat. But his eyes never left her face.

"Clear," Marcus announced from the front. "Clinic is two blocks away."

Archer reached up and adjusted his expensive platinum cufflinks. It was a calculated, predatory movement.

"You're in Washington now, Alya," Archer stated, his voice devoid of mercy. "Your life belongs to me."

The heavy Escalade rolled down the concrete ramp into the underground parking garage of the private clinic.

The front tires hit a thick yellow speed bump. The SUV bounced sharply.

Alya's weakened body swayed with the motion. She threw her right hand out to catch her balance, her palm slapping down hard on the leather center console.

Her fingers brushed against something hard and covered in soft fabric.

Alya looked down.

Sitting half-hidden under a manila folder with a classified seal, was a small, dark blue velvet ring box.

The air vanished from Alya's lungs.

The tabloid headlines she had read in London flashed behind her eyes like strobe lights. Archer Garcia to Marry Cecilia Decker. The Ultimate Political Alliance.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the center of her chest. It was a physical agony, identical to the phantom pain she felt the day she watched her father collapse on the floor of the safe house.

Alya yanked her hand back. Her fingertips were trembling so violently she had to curl them into a tight fist.

Archer noticed the sudden shift in her breathing. He followed her gaze down to the console.

He saw the velvet box.

Archer's entire body went rigid for a split second, a flash of something unreadable-panic? regret?-in his eyes before the mask of cold indifference slammed back into place. He didn't reach out to hide it, but the muscle in his jaw clenched. He left it sitting there, a silent, heavy weight between them.

He turned his head, his piercing gaze locking onto the side of Alya's face, waiting for her reaction.

Alya forced herself to look out the tinted window. She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. She used the physical sting to anchor her mind.

She would not break down. Not in front of the man who was marrying into the family that destroyed hers.

"Congratulations," Alya said. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a rusted tin can. "I read the news. A perfect political merger."

The words hung in the suffocating air of the cabin.

Archer's jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. The dark amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a volatile fury.

"Is that why you came back?" Archer asked, his voice a lethal whisper. "After ten years of hiding, did you really think you could return to this city and survive? With your body in this condition? You came back to D.C. to get yourself killed."

The word killed hit Alya like a physical blow to the stomach.

She whipped her head around, her eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless fire.

"My father was framed," Alya snarled, her voice shaking with rage. "And I am going to rip the floorboards out of this city until I prove it."

Archer leaned into her space. The scent of cedar and danger wrapped around her throat.

"The deep water in this town will crush your bones to dust, Alya," he warned.

Alya didn't back down. She met his stare, her chest heaving. "Then let me drown. It has nothing to do with you."

The metal security gate of the garage rolled up with a loud, grinding clatter. Harsh, fluorescent white lights flooded the dark cabin.

Alya squinted, turning her face away from the blinding glare. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the intense wave of dizziness washing over her brain.

The SUV jerked to a halt.

Marcus was out of the driver's seat in a flash, pulling open the rear door. The damp, cold air of the concrete garage rushed in.

Archer stepped out first. He stood on the concrete floor, looking down at her like a king observing a beggar.

He held out his large hand, the face of his Patek Philippe watch catching the harsh light.

"Get out," Archer ordered. "Or I will drag you out."

Alya gritted her teeth. She ignored his hand.

She gripped the door frame, her knuckles white, and forced her trembling legs to move. She stepped out of the high cabin, her heel hitting the concrete.

The moment her weight shifted, her knees completely gave out.

The world tilted sideways. Alya fell forward, the concrete floor rushing up to meet her face.

Before she could hit the ground, two massive arms wrapped around her waist. Archer caught her, pulling her limp, freezing body flush against his warm chest.

Alya felt herself being lifted off the ground. The world was a spinning blur of white lights and sterile walls.

Archer carried her through the back doors of the clinic and practically threw her onto the leather examination table in the private suite.

The door swung open. Dr. Callum Jenkins walked in, wearing a crisp white coat. He took one look at Archer's murderous expression and raised an eyebrow.

Callum snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He grabbed a gauze pad soaked in medical alcohol and pressed it to the cut on Alya's forehead.

Alya flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips.

Archer stood leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Do a full workup," Archer commanded, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Check her heart. Run her blood."

Alya's eyes snapped open. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"No!" Alya pushed herself up on her elbows. "It's just a scratch. I don't need a blood test."

Archer ignored her completely. He looked at Callum and gave a sharp nod.

Callum pulled a silver stethoscope from his neck and stepped closer to the table.

Alya's mind raced. If he listened to her chest, he would hear the massive, irreparable damage to her heart valves.

Callum pressed the cold metal disc against her chest, right over her heart.

Two seconds passed. Callum's hand froze.

His brow furrowed deeply. He moved the stethoscope slightly to the left, listening closer. He heard the chaotic, struggling rhythm. The severe murmur.

Callum pulled the earpieces out and looked down at Alya, his eyes full of clinical suspicion.

Before Callum could speak, Alya looked him dead in the eye.

"Viral myocarditis," Alya lied, her voice steady and loud. "I contracted it during a reporting embed in Syria three years ago. It left a slight arrhythmia."

She threw out the medical jargon like a shield, daring the doctor to question a war correspondent.

Callum looked skeptical. He turned his head toward Archer. "I should hook her up to the EKG monitor to be safe. That rhythm is..."

Alya gripped the edge of the paper-lined table. Her palms were slick with cold sweat.

Suddenly, a heavy vibration buzzed in the room.

Archer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted black phone. He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.

It was the secure line from the Pentagon.

Archer's gaze flickered from Alya's defiant face to Callum's concerned one. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, a silent message passing between the two men that he wasn't buying a word of her story. But the call couldn't wait. "I have to take this. Hook her up. Don't let her leave."

Archer turned on his heel and walked out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Alya sat up. The feigned weakness vanished from her eyes, replaced by a predatory sharpness.

She looked at Callum.

"If you tell him the truth about my heart," Alya said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I will publish the import manifests showing how this clinic smuggles unapproved anesthetics from Switzerland."

Callum froze, his hand hovering over the EKG machine.

He was a veteran of the D.C. elite, used to handling scandals, but the absolute certainty in Alya's eyes terrified him. She wasn't bluffing.

Callum slowly raised both his hands in the air, stepping back from the machine.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Archer walked back in, bringing a wave of cold air with him.

"Well?" Archer demanded.

Callum cleared his throat. He didn't look at Alya. "She has a mild concussion. Extreme fatigue. The arrhythmia is consistent with her old viral infection. I'll prescribe some standard painkillers."

Archer's eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between the two of them, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.

But he had no proof.

"Put your coat on," Archer ordered Alya.

An hour later, the black Escalade idled outside a modest apartment building in the Northwest quadrant.

Alya shoved her door open. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye. She walked straight into the freezing rain.

Inside the lobby, Ginger Battle was pacing the floor, chewing on her thumbnail.

When Ginger saw Alya walk through the glass doors with a bandage on her head, she gasped and ran forward, grabbing Alya's arm.

Ginger looked through the glass. She saw the terrifying silhouette of the Escalade, and the dark, imposing profile of the man in the back seat.

The lobby doors slid open. Marcus walked in.

He didn't look at Alya. He walked straight up to Ginger and handed her a thick, matte black business card with a gold-embossed crest.

"If she exhibits any medical anomalies, you call this number," Marcus stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

He turned and walked back into the rain.

Ginger stood frozen, staring at the card that represented the apex of Washington's dark power, her mouth hanging open.