I collapsed while scrubbing blood off the floor of the most feared mafia boss in Grayhaven’s mansion.

The smell of copper and bleach was burned into the back of my throat.

At three in the morning, the rest of the world was asleep. But I was on my hands and knees on the cold Italian marble of the grand conservatory, scrubbing dark, sticky crimson out of the grooves between the stone. I didn’t ask whose blood it was. You didn’t ask questions in Grayhaven Estate if you wanted to keep breathing.

I had been awake for twenty-six hours straight. Before coming to this fortress of a mansion, I had spent eight hours flipping burgers at a roadside diner and six hours stocking shelves at a midnight warehouse. Three jobs. Seven days a week.

All for three thousand dollars a month.

That was the interest payment owed to Riker, the local loan shark who owned my life. The debt was supposed to save my little sister, Maya. It was supposed to buy her the experimental trial treatments for her bone cancer.

Maya died six months ago.

Her bed was empty, her laughter gone, but the debt remained. Riker didn't care about grief. He cared about cash. And if I missed a single payment, he promised he’d put me in the same dirt as my sister.

So I scrubbed. My hands were red, raw, and trembling from exhaustion. My eyes burned. My chest felt hollow, compressed under a weight so heavy I could barely draw air into my lungs.

Finished with the conservatory, I gathered my bucket and rags, dragging my feet toward the service exit. To get there, I had to pass through the lower library—a cavernous room lined with dark mahogany and floor-to-ceiling books.

The light was dim, cast only by the amber glow of the fireplace.

I didn't see the heavy crystal wine glass lying on the floor until my foot struck it.

CRACK.

The glass shattered against the edge of a marble side table. Sharp shards flew across the floor. In a panic, I gasped and tried to step backward, but my knees—weak from days of starvation and bone-deep fatigue—simply gave out.

I fell hard, my shoulder slamming against the floorboards. Pain flared through my arm, but it was the overwhelming, crushing darkness behind my eyes that frightened me more. My vision blurred. The ceiling began to spin in dizzying circles.

No... please... I have to finish my shift...

I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like lead. The shadows of the library collapsed over me, and everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn't on the cold floor of the library.

I was lying in an enormous, warm bed wrapped in sheets of spun silk. A roaring fire crackled in a grand stone fireplace nearby, casting flickering golden light across a room dominated by dark leather, brushed steel, and massive oak beams.

My mind scrambled to make sense of where I was. The guest wing? The master bedroom?

I shifted, feeling a heavy, warm presence beside me.

Sitting in a leather armchair pushed directly against the edge of the mattress was a man.

Declan Walsh.

My breath hitched in my throat. Every muscle in my body locked up with instant, terrifying panic.

Declan Walsh was the uncrowned king of Grayhaven. He was a shadow that governed the entire city's underworld—a man whose name was whispered with dread by politicians, police chiefs, and syndicate bosses alike. He was broad-shouldered, towering well over six feet, with a sharp, sculpted jawline dark with stubble, and eyes as cold and grey as a winter storm.

He was currently staring down at my hand.

I followed his gaze, and my blood ran cold.

My fingers were wrapped tightly around his right wrist. My pale, rough hands were clinging to his warm, pulse-throbbing skin like a lifeline. Even in my unconscious state, I had refused to let him go.

Declan didn't pull away. He didn't move. He just sat there in the quiet room, his storm-grey eyes locked onto mine.

"You're awake," his voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight down my spine.

"Mr... Mr. Walsh," I choked out, my voice raspy. I immediately tried to pull my hand back, horrified by my own audacity. "I'm—I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

His fingers twitched, catching my hand before I could pull it entirely away. His grip was surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands had ended dozens of lives.

"When my guards found you collapsed in the library, they were going to throw you in the back of a van," Declan said quietly, his gaze piercing right through me. "They thought you were an intruder or a drunk. I picked you up myself."

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. "You... carried me?"

"You weighed nothing," he replied, his jaw tightening slightly. "Like a ghost. I brought you up here to put you in bed and let the house doctor look at you. When I turned to leave... you grabbed my wrist."

I swallowed hard, humiliation burning my cheeks. "I'm sorry, sir. I was delirious. I'll leave right now—"

"I told my lieutenant I'd give you ten minutes," Declan interrupted, his thumb brushing slowly, almost unconsciously, across the back of my hand. "Ten minutes for the doctor to confirm you weren't dying of internal bleeding."

He paused, looking at our joined hands.

"That was four hours ago," he added softly.

I stared at him, completely speechless. Declan Walsh—the most feared, merciless man in the state—had sat in silence beside a nameless night-shift cleaner for four hours simply because she was holding his hand?

"Why?" I whispered.

Before Declan could answer, the heavy silence of the night was shattered.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Someone began frantically pounding on the thick oak bedroom door.

Declan’s posture transformed in a fraction of a second. The calm, quiet stranger vanished, replaced by the lethal predator. He didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits of silver ice. His left hand slipped inside his tailored jacket, his fingers resting on the custom grip of a silenced pistol concealed in a shoulder holster.

"Boss!" a muffled, panicked voice shouted from the hallway outside. "It's Carter! The perimeter was breached from the east wing! Julian brought men inside—they're coming up the main hall right now!"

Julian. Declan’s treacherous cousin and rival captain.

Declan slowly stood up from the armchair, releasing my hand. But he didn't look afraid. He looked like a demon waiting to welcome his enemies into hell.