I am a remarkably light sleeper. Years of dodging assassination attempts and rival cartel hits have trained my brain to never fully shut down. So, when the first whimpering sob breaks the silence of the room at 3:14 AM, I am instantly, completely awake.
I turn my head on the pillow.
Sybil is thrashing violently on the other side of the bed. The duvet is tangled around her legs. Her hands are curled into tight fists, punching blindly at the air, her face twisted in an expression of sheer, agonizing terror.
"No," she sobs, the sound completely broken, a child trapped in a nightmare. "Please, stop. Don't lock the door. Please!"
It’s her father. The memories from the medical files flash vividly in my mind. The dark closets. The isolation as a punishment for crying. The complete, systematic destruction of her psychological safety.
A dark, murderous rage erupts in my chest. Arthur Vance is a dead man. The four million dollars means absolutely nothing. I will carve his heart out with a rusted blade for putting that look on her face.
She screams—a raw, visceral sound of absolute panic—and bolts upright in the bed, her eyes flying open. But she isn't awake. She is caught in the blinding, suffocating grip of a severe night terror. She gasps for air, her chest heaving violently, her hands clawing desperately at her own throat as if she is being strangled.
I move with lethal speed. I cross the distance between us, my large hands catching her flailing wrists before she can hurt herself.
"Sybil," I bark, my voice sharp and commanding, trying to cut through the thick fog of her panic.
She fights me like a wildcat, her small body thrashing against my iron grip. "Let me out! Let me out!" she screams, tears streaming down her face, entirely unaware of where she is or who is holding her.
"Sybil, open your eyes!" I release her wrists and instantly wrap my arms entirely around her, pulling her thrashing body flush against my chest. I lock my legs around hers, completely immobilizing her, using my sheer mass and weight to ground her.
Deep pressure therapy. The notes from her therapist, page forty-two of the dossier.
She screams into my chest, a muffled, agonizing sound, but I do not let go. I hold her with an unyielding, crushing grip, completely enveloping her in my heat and my strength.
"You are safe," I say, my voice dropping into a low, rumbling frequency that vibrates directly into her chest. I press my lips to the top of her head, burying my face in her damp hair. "You are in my bed. You are in my home. He cannot touch you here. I will kill anyone who tries."
She continues to sob violently, her body shaking so hard it vibrates my own bones, but the thrashing slowly begins to subside. The heavy, immovable weight of my arms around her creates a physical boundary that her panicked brain desperately needs to anchor itself.
"Listen to my heart, little bird," I murmur, taking a slow, exaggeratedly deep breath, forcing my chest to expand entirely against hers. "Match my breathing. In. Out."
I repeat the cycle, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head, pressing her ear directly over my steady, rhythmic heartbeat. It takes ten agonizing minutes. Ten minutes of holding a shattered girl while the darkest, most violent parts of my soul vow to burn Chicago to the ground for what was done to her.
Slowly, the frantic, jagged rhythm of her breathing begins to sync with mine. The rigid tension bleeds out of her muscles. She collapses against me, entirely limp, her tears soaking the skin of my chest.
She is awake now. And she realizes exactly whose arms she is in.
I wait for the flinch. I wait for her to scramble away from me, horrified that the monster of the Syndicate is holding her like a precious, fragile glass ornament.
But she doesn't move.
The cognitive dissonance completely breaks her. The man who orchestrated her captivity, the man who terrified her into submission hours earlier, is the only human being on the planet who knows exactly how to stop the darkness from swallowing her alive.
She lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and incredibly, she curls her small fingers into the fabric of my boxer briefs, anchoring herself to my waist. She buries her face deeper into my neck.
A profound, territorial possessiveness locks around my heart. I tighten my grip on her, pulling her so close there is absolutely zero space between our bodies. I do not let her go back to her side of the bed. I keep her trapped securely in my arms, listening as her breathing evens out into the soft, deep rhythm of true sleep.
The storm rages on outside, but inside the cage, she is finally quiet.
Mine.The ancient, feral word hums in my blood.
The peace lasts exactly until 6:00 AM.
The harsh, intrusive buzz of the secure intercom on the bedside table shatters the silence.
Sybil whimpers softly in her sleep, burying her face further into my chest. I keep one arm securely clamped around her waist and reach out with my other hand, pressing the illuminated green button. Only one person has the clearance to bypass the security protocols and buzz the penthouse directly.
"Speak," I growl, my voice a lethal, sleep-rough rasp.
