They forced a homeless woman to marry a Mafia boss who had been unconscious for eight months.

Willa forgot how to breathe.

She stood frozen beside the desk, her heart dropping into her stomach.

Everett’s eyes were bloodshot, sharp as shattered glass, and completely focused. There was no cloudiness, no confusion, no lingering fog of a coma. He looked at her bruised arm, then at the shattered vase on the floor, and finally into her eyes.

His lips parted, dry and cracked.

"Willa..." his voice was a ruined, dusty whisper, dry from eight months of disuse, but the sheer command behind it made the room tremble.

Willa rushed to the bed, dropping to her knees, her hands hovering above his chest in shock. "Everett... oh my god... you’re awake. You’re really awake."

"The... water..." he rasped, his throat working heavily.

She grabbed a plastic cup of water from the table, holding the straw to his dry lips. He took two small, greedy swallows, his throat moving as he reclaimed control over his body.

He took a deep, ragged breath, his chest expanding as he looked up at the ceiling, testing his limbs. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his right arm off the mattress. His hand was shaking from muscle atrophy, but he reached out, his long fingers gently grasping her wrist—the exact spot where Sterling had bruised her moments ago.

His grip was surprisingly firm, warm, and alive.

"Did he... hurt you?" Everett rasped, his dark eyes locking onto hers with intense concern.

Willa swallowed hard, shaking her head. "I'm okay. I'm fine. Everett, you can't move too fast! Whitfield has been pumping you with synthetic neurotoxins for eight months! Your nervous system—"

"I know," Everett interrupted, his voice growing stronger with every breath, the gravelly rasps giving way to a deep, resonant baritone. "I heard... every word. Every injection. Every threat."

He looked down at his own hand holding hers.

"I heard you... every night, Willa."

Willa felt her face flush hot, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You... you heard me?"

"Day one," Everett whispered, a faint, razor-thin smile touching the corner of his cracked lips. "You told me... you wouldn't laugh at me. You said... the storm always passes."

He tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her slightly closer.

"I've been awake in the dark for eight months," Everett said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy velvet tone. "Listening to parasites divide my empire. Listening to my cousin plan my execution. The only thing that kept me sane... was the sound of your voice."

A heavy knock sounded on the outer wing doors. Petrov’s deep voice boomed from the hallway: "Hey! Keep it down in there!"

Everett’s eyes flicked toward the door, his expression instantly transforming into the terrifying, cold predator that had ruled Chicago’s underground for a decade.

"How long... until Whitfield gets here?" Everett asked quietly.

"Tonight at eight," Willa whispered hurriedly. "He’s bringing what Sterling called the 'final dosage'."