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

The bedroom door burst open with a violent crack.

Wood splintered as two heavily armed men in black tactical gear stormed into the room, their assault rifles raised. Right behind them stood Julian Walsh—a sleek, smirking viper of a man wearing a cashmere coat over a blood-stained suit.

"Declan!" Julian sneered, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. "You've gotten soft, cousin! Hiding in your master suite while the city burns outside—"

Julian didn't get to finish his sentence.

Declan moved with terrifying, superhuman speed. He didn't draw his gun—he stepped directly inside the lead guard’s guard, grabbing the barrel of the assault rifle, twisting it violently until the man’s wrist snapped with a sickening CRACK.

Before the second guard could react, Declan pulled the first man forward as a human shield.

THUD! THUD!

Declan fired two silent rounds from his sidearm straight into the second guard's chest. The man dropped like a stone.

Julian’s smirk vanished instantly. Panic flooded his face as he reached for his own weapon.

Declan tossed the dying guard aside, stepped over the bodies, and drove his heavy boot directly into Julian’s chest. Julian crashed backward into the hallway wall, gasping for air as the breath was knocked out of his lungs.

Declan stepped out into the corridor, pressing the muzzle of his gun directly against Julian’s forehead.

"Did you really think twelve mercenaries were enough to take my house, Julian?" Declan asked quietly. His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

From the bed, I sat trembling, clutching the silk sheets against my collarbone. Through the open doorway, I could see the corridor filled with smoke, flashing red security lights, and the bodies of Julian’s men lying defeated on the carpet. Carter, Declan’s scar-faced chief of security, stepped out from the stairwell, holding a bloody tactical knife.

"The rest of them are dead or captured, boss," Carter reported, wiping his blade on a rag. "The house is secure."

Julian spat blood onto Declan’s polished leather shoes. "Kill me then, Declan! Do it! You're a monster anyway! You kill everything you touch—just like your father!"

Declan didn't pull the trigger. Instead, he smiled—a cold, terrifying gesture that sent chills down my spine.

"No, Julian," Declan murmured. "Death is too quick for treason. Carter, take him to the basement vault. Strip him of his rank, his money, and his titles. He stays in the dark until I decide what to do with him."

"Yes, boss," Carter growled, dragging the screaming Julian away down the hallway.

Declan stood alone in the hallway for a long moment, taking a slow, steady breath. Then he turned around and walked back into the bedroom, closing the heavy shattered door as best he could.

He walked over to the foot of the bed. His shirt was rumpled, a thin smudge of dark blood across his jaw, but his eyes were completely focused on me.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably. "No, Mr. Walsh."

He pulled a chair closer and sat down, studying my pale face. "My men looked into you while you were asleep, Nora Vance."

My heart stopped. "You searched my life?"

"I have to know who breathes the air in my house," Declan said simply. He pulled a thin manila folder from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the mattress. "Nora Vance. Twenty-four years old. Former nursing student. Your sister died six months ago from osteosarcoma. You work three jobs, sleeping less than three hours a night."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his silver eyes burning into mine.

"And you owe three thousand dollars a month to a scum named Riker."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back. I hated pity. I had lived on pity and scraps for two years, and it had saved neither my sister nor my pride.

"I pay my bills," I said defensively, my voice regaining a tiny thread of steel. "I don't steal. I don't ask for hand-outs. I was just cleaning your floor."

"Riker doesn't charge interest because he expects you to pay off the principal," Declan said coldly. "He charges interest to keep you as a slave until you break. You were going to die on my library floor tonight, Nora. From exhaustion."

"Then let me go back to work," I snapped, trying to swing my legs over the side of the bed. "I have a morning shift at six—"

"I bought your debt twenty minutes ago," Declan said quietly.

I froze. My foot hovered inches above the floor. "What?"

Declan pulled a thick leather wallet from his coat, drew out a single piece of paper, and held it up. It was the original promissory note I had signed in blood in Riker’s dim back-office two years ago.

"I transferred three hundred thousand dollars to Riker's account," Declan stated plainly. "Your debt with him is canceled. He no longer owns a single hair on your head."

I stared at the slip of paper, my head spinning. Free? Was I free?

"Why would you do that?" I choked out, a sob threatening to escape my throat. "I can't repay three hundred thousand dollars to you, Mr. Walsh! It would take me three lifetimes!"

Declan reached out, his warm, heavy hand resting on top of mine.

"You don't owe me money, Nora," Declan said softly, his voice dropping into a low, possessive frequency that made my skin tingle. "As of tonight, your contract as a night-cleaner is terminated. You are moving into this mansion permanently. You are my personal aide."