Acacia's eyes snapped open.
A brutal, throbbing pain hammered against her skull. Her entire body ached as if she had been run over by a freight train. She gasped, the cold morning light filtering through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains piercing her retinas.
She turned her head against the silk pillows.
A man lay beside her, his broad, heavily muscled back facing her. Deep, angry red scratch marks tracked down his spine-her scratch marks.
Acacia's breath caught in her throat. Her tactical training kicked in, instantly analyzing the rhythm of the man's breathing. It was deep, slow, and incredibly controlled. The sheer, oppressive weight of that steady rhythm felt entirely alien. It carried a dark, intimidating aura that stood in stark contrast to the shallow, alcohol-soaked wheezing she would expect from someone like Brodie Dillon.
A wave of pure, icy terror washed over her. She looked down. A stark, dark red stain bloomed on the pristine white sheets beneath her.
Bile rose in her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, forcing the panic down. She slid off the high bed, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet without a sound.
She gathered her torn, damp clothes from the floor, her hands shaking slightly as she pulled the ruined fabric over her bruised skin.
She needed to leave. Now.
As she buttoned her shirt, her eyes fell on a custom Marriott notepad resting on the mahogany nightstand. A gold pen lay beside it.
The humiliation of the night burned in her chest. She had been treated like a cheap whore by a stranger. She grabbed the pen and scribbled a single line across the paper, the nib tearing into the page.
Terrible skills, zero out of ten. You owe me for the dry cleaning.
She reached into the pocket of her damp jeans and pulled out a twenty-five-cent coin. She had kept it in prison for five years. She slammed the quarter down on top of the note. A tip.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed in the hallway outside. The static crackle of a security radio bled through the thick door.
Acacia didn't hesitate. She abandoned the door and sprinted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She unlatched the glass and pushed it open. The freezing Manhattan wind whipped her hair across her face.
She climbed over the eighth-floor balcony railing, her fingers gripping the freezing metal. Without looking down, she swung her body over, catching the edge of the drainage pipe. She slid down the side of the building with terrifying speed, her boots hitting the metal fire escape platforms in silent, calculated drops.
She landed next to a dumpster in the back alley, her knees absorbing the shock. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and melted into the morning rush hour crowd on Fifth Avenue.
Her chest was tight. She needed to find a payphone. She needed to call the hospital.
"Somebody help!" a woman screamed.
Acacia stopped. Ten yards ahead, an elderly man in a bespoke wool suit collapsed onto the wet crosswalk. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in agony.
Pedestrians scattered, pulling their phones out but stepping back, terrified of liability.
Acacia pushed through the crowd. She dropped to her knees on the freezing asphalt beside the old man. She grabbed his jaw, tilting his head back, and pressed two fingers against his carotid artery.
The pulse was erratic, fading fast. Acute myocardial infarction. A massive heart attack.
She reached up and ripped open the collar of his expensive shirt, sending pearl buttons flying into the puddles. She quickly checked his airway, tilting his head back to ensure it was clear, then stacked her hands over his sternum and began brutal, high-intensity chest compressions.
"One, two, three, four..." she counted under her breath, maintaining a relentless, textbook rhythm she had drilled into her muscle memory during her years in the prison infirmary.
The old man's lips were turning a terrifying shade of blue. Compressions were all she had, but she performed them with the cold, mechanical precision of a seasoned first responder, forcing the stagnant blood to flow and fighting the catastrophic failure of his heart.
The old man-Theodore-suddenly gasped. His chest heaved, and his eyes fluttered open. He stared directly into Acacia's cold, focused eyes.
The wail of an ambulance siren cut through the city noise, growing deafeningly loud.
Acacia saw the flashing red lights approaching. If the EMTs or the police asked for her ID, her parole officer would be notified. She stood up, wiped the blood on her jeans, and backed away. By the time the paramedics jumped out of the rig, Acacia was already descending the stairs into the subway station, swallowed by the shadows.
Back in Suite 880 of The Tempest Club, the electronic lock beeped, and the heavy door swung open.
Brodie Dillon rushed in, flanked by four massive bodyguards. He stopped dead in his tracks.
The massive king-sized bed was a wreck of torn sheets.
Donovan stood by the open balcony window. He wore a black silk robe loosely tied around his waist. The freezing wind billowed the fabric, exposing the violent, red scratches running down his muscular chest and stomach. The aura radiating from him was so terrifyingly cold it made the room feel like a morgue.
"Uncle Donovan..." Brodie stammered, his knees literally shaking. "Did... did someone attack you last night?"
Donovan turned his head slowly. His eyes were pitch black, devoid of any human warmth. He held up a small piece of hotel stationery.
Brodie's eyes darted to the bed. He saw the dark bloodstain on the white sheets. His stomach dropped into his shoes.
Donovan's thumb aggressively rubbed the edge of the twenty-five-cent coin he held in his other hand. The metal dug into his skin.
"Liam," Donovan's voice was a low, vibrating growl that promised absolute violence.
His executive assistant stepped out from behind Brodie, his face pale. "Yes, Boss?"
"Mobilize our immediate security resources," Donovan commanded, his thumb pressing harder into the coin. "Pull every camera from the hotel and sweep the surrounding blocks. Find the woman who left this room. I want her alive."
