Before the bullet, Jonah Mercer could shut down half the Baltimore waterfront with one phone call.

The sound of six crystal scotch glasses exploding across the Italian marble floor echoed through the vast foyer like gunshots.

Frank Dorsey had his weapon cleared from his leather holster before the last shard bounced against the baseboards. His body moved on instinct—trained by twenty years of military service and ten years guarding Baltimore’s most feared underworld figure.

Jonah Mercer’s customized power wheelchair hummed smoothly into the hallway doorway. His expression was cold enough to freeze water.

In the center of the mess stood Riley Quinn.

She was holding a cardboard tray that had split down the middle. She looked at her canvas tote, then down at the glittering galaxy of jagged leaded crystal surrounding her worn sneakers, and finally up at the two armed men staring at her.

"Well," Riley said, breaking the suffocating silence. "The good news is, I didn't drop the medication."

Frank slowly lowered his firearm, his face pinched in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind, lady? That was hand-cut Baccarat crystal from 1920."

"Why were six empty glasses sitting on top of the refrigerator in the first place?" Riley shot back, completely unbothered by the drawn gun. "Who stores antique glassware at ceiling height in a kitchen where nobody over five-foot-eight works?"

Frank opened his mouth to argue, but Jonah raised one gloved hand. The gesture was small, but the authority behind it silenced the room instantly.

Jonah rolled forward, the heavy rubber tires of his chair stopping just inches from the edge of the glass field. He looked down at the mess, then up at Riley. The shadow of his dark stubble highlighted the hard, sharp angles of his jawline.

"How much do you think those were worth, Ms. Quinn?" Jonah asked, his voice low and smooth as velvet over iron.

"Judging by the dramatic gasp from your bodyguard? Probably more than my car," Riley replied, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek, which only managed to smear a bit of newsprint across her skin. "Deduct it from my check. Add it to the bill for the ceiling lift strap I’m going to make you buy tomorrow."

Jonah didn't blink. "You think you're going to be here tomorrow?"

Riley sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "Mr. Mercer, we've been over this. I am the only person in a fifty-mile radius with a valid nursing license who doesn't look at you like you're a ticking bomb or a tragic museum exhibit. You fire me, and by six p.m. you’re going to be sitting in a pool of your own stubbornness while Frank tries to figure out how to stretch your hamstring muscles without snapping your femur."

Frank winced. Jonah’s dark gray eyes narrowed, pinpricks of intense heat flaring behind his cold gaze.

For six months, everyone in Jonah Mercer’s life had treated him like glass. His lieutenants spoke to him in hushed, careful tones. His legal team looked at his wheelchair with uncomfortable pity. His former rivals were already carving up his shipping docks on the Patapsco River, assuming the paralyzed lion was dead before his heart even stopped beating.

And here was a woman who looked at him like he was simply an annoying, overgrown patient who needed to do his range-of-motion exercises.

"Frank," Jonah said quietly, never breaking eye contact with Riley. "Clean this up."

"Boss?" Frank looked stunned. "She just destroyed—"

"Clean it up," Jonah repeated. "And bring Ms. Quinn a pair of non-slip shoes that don't look like they survived the war of 1812."

Jonah spun his chair around with a sharp flick of the control joystick and headed toward his ground-floor master suite. "Physical therapy is in ten minutes, Riley. Don't be late."

"I'm already in the room, Jonah!" she called after him. "That counts as on time!"

A faint, almost imperceptible twitch caught the corner of Jonah's mouth as he rolled away.

The master bedroom was less of a bedroom and more of a luxurious command bunker. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark Maryland pine woods, and a state-of-the-art rehabilitation area setup near the far wall. High-tech padded tables, electrical stimulation machines, and parallel bars dominated the room.

Ten minutes later, Riley stepped into the room holding a clipboard and a fresh blood pressure cuff. Her chaotic energy seemed to fill the dark, sterile space.

"Shirt off," she commanded neutrally, adjusting her pen behind her ear.

Jonah was sitting beside the padded therapy table. He raised a dark eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I need to check your skin integrity, check your pulmonary expansion, and do your upper body stretching. Unless you want to do therapy in a seven-hundred-dollar silk shirt and ruin it with sweat."

Jonah’s jaw tightened. "I don't need you fussing over me like an infant."

"I'm not fussing. I'm doing my job," she said, stepping up right into his personal space. She didn't hesitate. Her hands were warm, firm, and thoroughly professional as she reached for his top button.

Jonah caught her wrist. His grip was tight, his trembling fingers suddenly locked with surprising force. The air between them instantly turned electric. He was breathing slightly faster, his chest expanding under the dark fabric.

"Do not touch me like I'm helpless," he growled.

Riley didn't pull away. She looked down at his grip on her wrist, then up into his stormy eyes. Her gaze was completely steady.

"You're not helpless, Jonah. You're injured," she said softly, dropping the sarcastic front for the first time. "There is a massive difference. You can hate the bullet all you want. You can hate the chair. You can even hate me. But if you don't let me do my job, the muscles in your lower back will contract, your tendons will shorten, and you will lose what mobility you have left in your torso. Is that what you want? To surrender?"

Jonah stared at her. The challenge in her words struck deeper than any bullet ever could. His ego roared, but the raw truth in her hazel eyes held him fast.

Slowly, his fingers loosened around her wrist.

He unbuttoned his own shirt with sharp, deliberate motions, pulling his arms free and tossing the garment onto a nearby chair.

Riley kept her expression completely neutral, though her heart did a sudden, traitorous flip in her chest. Beneath his spinal cord injury, Jonah Mercer was built like a dark god carved from granite. Broad shoulders, thick chest muscles, and deep, powerful arms forged from years of weight training and street fights. But across his broad chest and running down his ribs were jagged, silvery lines of old battle scars—and right along his lower spine, a neat, surgical entry scar where the sniper’s 7.62 round had shattered his vertebrae.

Riley put on latex gloves and leaned in close. She checked his pressure points, her light, warm fingers tracing the contours of his spine and lower ribs with gentle precision.

Jonah clamped his teeth together, his jaw muscles flexing violently. He hated the sensation—or rather, the terrifying lack of sensation below his sternum, contrasted against the hyper-sensitive nerve fire along his shoulder blades.

"Skin looks good," Riley murmured, moving around to face him. "No redness over the ischial tuberosities. Good blood flow. Now, sit up straight. Let's do your trunk rotations."

She stood directly between his spread knees, placing one hand on his right shoulder and her other hand on his left side to guide his upper body through the movement.

Because Jonah lacked abdominal control, his upper body swayed toward her. For a split second, his face was buried against the side of her neck. He smelled her scent—fresh rain, cheap soap, and the faint, sweet warmth of vanilla.

Jonah’s hands instinctively flew up, gripping Riley’s hips to steady himself.

Neither of them moved for three long seconds. The heat radiating off Jonah’s bare skin was suffocating. Riley’s breath hitched in her throat, her hands remaining resting on his powerful shoulders.

"You're holding your breath," Riley whispered, her voice suddenly breathless.

Jonah lifted his head. His cold gray eyes were dark with an emotion he couldn't name. His grip on her hips was possessive, solid, and undeniably male.