The pressure in the room was precise. He knew exactly how to apply it to keep her conscious but terrified.
Cleora's vision blurred at the edges, a terrifying reminder of the death she had just escaped. She couldn't die again. Not now. Not when she had a second chance.
She forced her eyes to focus on his torso. A jagged cut ran along his left ribs. Blood was seeping into the white towel.
"Your side," she rasped. Her voice was barely a whisper. "You're bleeding out. If you don't compress that, you'll go into shock in five minutes."
Clemente's eyes narrowed. His posture didn't change, but a flicker of something-annoyance, perhaps even respect-crossed his face.
It was the opening she needed.
"The kit," she choked out, pointing a shaking finger toward the emergency box on the shelf near the bathroom. "Let me."
Before he could answer, a heavy thud sounded against the corridor door. Then the beep of an electronic key card.
"Security check," a muffled voice called out. The lock mechanism whirred.
Clemente's body tensed. He looked at the door, then back at her. His men by the door straightened, their hands moving inside their jackets.
"No," Cleora whispered. "A scene will bring everyone. The captain. The press."
She grabbed his wrist. It was a gamble. A massive one.
She pulled him toward the bed. "Get in."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then understood. He slid under the duvet. Cleora scrambled in beside him. She yanked the sheet up to their chins, then messily pulled the strap of her silk nightgown down her shoulder. She ruffled her hair, making it look wild.
The door swung open. The beam of a flashlight cut through the dim room, sweeping across the floor and landing on the bed.
Cleora screamed.
"Get out!" She shrieked, channeling every ounce of entitlement she had learned from watching her stepmother. "Who gave you the right to barge in here?"
The security guard froze. He saw the tangled limbs, the bare shoulders, the suggestion of intimacy. He saw a man's broad back shielding the woman.
"I... Ma'am, we heard a noise," the guard stammered, averting his eyes. "We were just checking-"
"You're interrupting!" Cleora yelled, throwing a pillow at the door. "Get out before I have your job!"
The guard backed away, face red. "Sorry. My apologies."
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned to the room, heavy and suffocating.
Cleora exhaled, her body sagging against the mattress. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
A cool, metallic object was pressed against her waist.
She looked down. It wasn't a blade. It was the edge of Clemente's phone. He had an article displayed on the screen: a profile of the Hart family, with her picture circled in red.
"Resourceful," he said. His voice was devoid of gratitude. "But that doesn't tell me why a Hart heiress is hiding in my room."
"I'm the woman saving your life," Cleora said, her voice steadying. She pushed the phone away with two fingers. It was insane, but she felt a strange calm. "Now let me sew you up."
She got out of bed, retrieved the first aid kit, and returned. Clemente watched her every move. He didn't flinch when she cleaned the wound with alcohol. He didn't make a sound when she threaded the needle.
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency. In her past life, she had treated her own injuries to avoid the family doctor who reported everything to Trent.
"You have good hands," Clemente noted, watching her tie the final knot.
"Survival skills," she muttered. She packed the kit away. "You should leave. Before they come back."
Clemente sat up. He grabbed her left hand. His thumb brushed over the ruby signet ring on her finger. It was the Hart family crest, her mother's heirloom.
He pulled.
"Hey!" Cleora tried to yank her hand back, but his grip was unyielding. He slid the ring off her finger.
"Collateral," he said, slipping the ring into his pocket. "And insurance. You know I was here. You know I was hurt. If that information leaks, I know who to come for."
"That was my mother's," Cleora said, anger finally piercing her fear.
"Then you'll want it back." Clemente stood. He moved to the desk and scribbled a number on a notepad. "Call this when you're back in New York."
He walked toward the balcony door. He paused, looking back at her. His expression was calculating, as if weighing one final variable.
"A word of advice," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "In my world, there are no coincidences. Find out why you were in my room. Fast."
Then he was gone, melting into the night over the balcony railing with the silent grace of a shadow, leaving her alone with the lingering scent of antiseptic and the chilling weight of his warning.
