The lead thug pressed a hand to his bleeding head. He squinted into the blinding light, his chest puffing up with liquid courage.
"Mind your own business, rich boy!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to mask his fear.
Andrew didn't blink. He raised his hand and slowly crushed the cherry of his cigar against the wet brick wall. The movement was elegant, but it radiated pure, suffocating violence.
He tilted his head a fraction of an inch.
From the shadows behind him, his executive assistant, Sam, stepped forward. Two massive men in tailored suits flanked him.
Sam didn't wait for an order. He moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the lead thug's arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved upward.
A loud, sickening pop echoed in the alley as the man's shoulder dislocated.
The thug dropped to his knees, screaming in agony.
The other two men sobered up instantly. They turned to run, but the bodyguards lunged. They grabbed the men by their cheap leather collars and slammed them face-first into the muddy pavement, pinning them down with their knees.
Andrew ignored the groans of pain. He stepped over the puddles, his expensive leather shoes making no sound. He stopped right in front of Alena.
Alena was curled into a tight ball next to the dumpster. She was shivering violently, her clothes soaked with freezing rain and mud. She slowly lifted her head.
Through her blurred vision, her eyes focused on the razor-sharp line of his jaw.
Andrew crouched down. He didn't care that the muddy water was soaking into the knees of his custom trousers. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto her trembling pupils.
He reached up and unbuttoned his black overcoat. He pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around Alena's shivering body.
The coat was heavy. It was warm from his body heat and smelled faintly of cedar and expensive tobacco.
The sudden rush of warmth, combined with the heavy crash of the alcohol, made Alena's brain short-circuit. Her survival instincts finally shut down.
She reached out with a freezing, shaking hand and grabbed the cuff of his white dress shirt. Her fingers dug into the fabric.
"Take me away," she whispered. Her voice was so fragile it barely carried over the rain.
Her eyes rolled back, and her body went completely limp.
Andrew caught her before she hit the ground. A dark, dangerous storm brewed in his eyes. He scooped her up into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.
He walked out of the alley. Sam was already standing on the curb, holding a massive black umbrella over the open rear door of the Maybach.
Andrew ducked inside, settling Alena onto the leather seat next to him. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain and the city.
The car was warm. Andrew pulled a thick cashmere blanket from the compartment and draped it over her legs.
He sat back and stared at her. Her face was pale, except for the angry red handprint swelling on her cheek. Her breathing was shallow.
He reached out. His long, rough fingers gently brushed against the corner of her mouth, wiping away a fresh drop of blood. His eyes darkened to pitch black.
From the front seat, Sam looked in the rearview mirror. "Hospital, sir?"
"The hotel," Andrew said. His voice was absolute ice.
The Maybach glided smoothly through the streets, pulling into the private underground garage of a hyper-luxury hotel overlooking Central Park.
They took the private VIP elevator straight to the top floor.
The doors opened directly into the penthouse. Andrew carried Alena down a long hallway lined with Persian rugs. He pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner on the master bedroom door.
He walked to the center of the room and gently laid her down on the massive king-size bed. He moved with a careful precision, as if she were made of thin glass.
Alena whimpered in her sleep. Her brow furrowed in distress. Her hands were locked in a death grip on the lapels of his black overcoat. Her knuckles were white.
Andrew reached down, trying to loosen her fingers so he could take the wet coat off her.
The second he pulled on the fabric, Alena thrashed her head side to side, letting out a panicked noise in the back of her throat.
Andrew stopped. He let out a slow breath. He sat on the edge of the mattress and let her hold onto his coat. He sat there in the dark, watching her chest rise and fall, for thirty full minutes.
When her breathing finally deepened into a real sleep, Andrew stood up.
He walked out to the living room and went straight to the wet bar. He poured two fingers of scotch and drank it in one swallow, letting the burn settle the violent rage in his blood.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam.
"Break both of their hands," Andrew said to the empty room. "Then throw them out of New York."
He ended the call and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared down at the glittering lights of Manhattan, his eyes burning with a possessive, calculated hunger.
Hours passed. The sun began to rise.
A sliver of morning light slipped through the smart blinds and hit the bed. Alena groaned. A massive headache pounded behind her eyes.
She slowly forced her eyelids open.
She stared at a vaulted ceiling she didn't recognize. The room smelled intensely of masculine cedar and clean linen. Her brain completely stalled.
She shot up into a sitting position. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her dirty dress, wrapped tightly in the black overcoat. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
At that exact moment, the frosted glass door of the master bathroom clicked open.
A cloud of steam rolled into the bedroom. Andrew stepped out. Water dripped from his wet hair down his chest. He was wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips.
