Alexia pushed open the glass door of a greasy corner diner. A rusted bell clanked above her head. The heavy scent of cheap frying oil and burnt coffee assaulted her nose.
She walked up to the sticky laminate counter. "Please," she whispered to the waitress with heavily tattooed arms. "Can I use your landline? I'll buy a black coffee."
The waitress took one look at Alexia's pale, tear-streaked face and slid a grease-stained rotary phone across the counter.
Alexia took a deep breath. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the Manhattan number she knew by heart.
The line rang. Each dial tone felt like a needle in her brain.
The call connected. Holmes Fowler's voice vibrated through the earpiece-low, dark, and heavy with an oppressive weight. "Four hours. Your phone has been off for four hours."
Alexia's heart seized. She gripped the coiled phone cord so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I... I was at the NYU library," she stammered, forcing the lie out. "My battery died."
Dead silence echoed on the other end. Only the sound of his slow, measured breathing traveled through the wire, stripping away her pathetic defense.
A few seconds later, Holmes let out a low, humorless laugh. His voice dropped to a terrifying calm. "Stay exactly where you are."
The line went dead.
Panic spiked in Alexia's chest. She shoved the phone back to the waitress, grabbed the scalding mug of black coffee, and took a frantic gulp. The liquid burned her tongue, but she didn't care.
Every instinct screamed at her to run. She dropped two quarters on the counter, pushed through the diner doors, and power-walked down the sidewalk, trying to blend into the sparse Brooklyn crowd.
She didn't make it half a block.
A pitch-black Maybach tore around the corner like a phantom. The tires shrieked against the asphalt as it slammed on the brakes, cutting off her path completely.
Pedestrians stopped and stared. The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly.
Holmes Fowler sat in the shadows of the backseat. His face was a mask of lethal fury.
His eyes locked onto her. The sheer force of his Alpha presence sucked the oxygen out of the street. Alexia's legs turned to jelly.
The passenger door popped open. A massive bodyguard stepped out, his face completely blank. He extended an arm toward the open back door, blocking her only escape route.
Alexia bit her lower lip, tasting the copper from earlier. She moved like a mechanical doll, dragging her feet across the pavement, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.
The heavy door slammed shut. The noise of the city vanished.
The air pressure inside the cabin was suffocating. Holmes sat with his long legs crossed, staring down at her with absolute zero temperature in his eyes.
Alexia pressed her back against the opposite door, trying to put as much leather between them as possible.
Holmes moved. His hand shot out like a steel trap, wrapping around her wrist. He yanked her across the seat, pulling her hard against his chest.
His long fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His sharp gaze dissected her pale skin and her swollen, red eyes.
"The library?" Holmes sneered. He rattled off the exact address of the Brooklyn precinct, the street corner where she argued with Karson, and the diner she just left. Down to the exact minute.
Alexia's eyes widened in pure horror.
She realized it then. The phone he had given her. It wasn't just a gift. He had installed a military-grade GPS tracker in it. Even dead, it pinged her last location.
A violent shiver racked her spine. The absolute control he had over her made her sick to her stomach. She thrashed against him, trying to rip her wrist out of his grip.
His fingers tightened, bruising her skin.
Holmes leaned down. His warm breath brushed against her ear. "Never lie to me again, Alexia," he whispered, the soft tone making the threat infinitely more dangerous.
Tears spilled over her eyelashes. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, refusing to look at the monster holding her captive.
The Maybach glided through the Manhattan traffic, descending into the private underground garage of the penthouse building.
Before the car even fully stopped, Holmes dragged her out by the wrist. He marched toward the private elevator, his long strides forcing her to stumble and jog just to keep up.
The elevator shot up to the top floor. The doors parted. Holmes half-carried, half-dragged her into the massive living room she had fled that morning.
Mabel stood near the foyer. Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of Alexia being hauled in, but she quickly bowed her head.
"Get out. Everyone," Holmes barked.
Within seconds, the staff vanished. The living room was dead silent, thick with explosive tension.
Holmes shoved her backward. Alexia fell onto the plush velvet sofa. Before she could sit up, he planted both hands on the backrest on either side of her head, caging her in.
Alexia looked up at the man who controlled her entire existence. The humiliation of the morning and the terror of the afternoon collided, dragging her down into a bottomless pit of despair.
