The darkness pulled at Alyson's mind, but the agonizing fire in her chest kept dragging her back to the freezing rain.
A pair of blinding headlights cut through the storm.
A custom black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a silent stop on the side of the road.
The heavy door swung open.
A pair of immaculate black leather dress shoes stepped directly into the deep, muddy puddle without a second of hesitation.
A tall, broad-shouldered man walked rapidly toward the ditch, the wind whipping the hem of his dark suit jacket around his legs.
His sharp gaze swept the wreckage, instantly spotting her mud-soaked handbag thrown a few feet away in the grass. He snatched it up, tossing it onto the leather seat of his car, before he dropped to one knee in the mud.
He didn't care about the dirt ruining his clothes as he slid his arms under Alyson's broken body and lifted her gently from the freezing water.
Alyson forced her eyes open a fraction of an inch.
Her vision was blurred by blood and rain.
She couldn't see his face, only the sharp, tense line of his jaw.
But as her face pressed against his chest, her lungs filled with a scent she hadn't smelled in years.
It was a deep, cold, intoxicating sandalwood.
"Hold on," the man whispered against her wet hair.
His low, raspy voice vibrated with a terrifying, suppressed rage.
The familiar scent wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, making her feel safe for the first time in three years.
She let her eyes close and surrendered to the darkness.
The man carried her to the back of the Rolls-Royce.
"Get to the best private hospital in Manhattan. Now," he ordered his assistant, Sam, his voice cold enough to freeze the rain.
Sam took one look at the bleeding woman in his boss's arms and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
Hours later, the sharp smell of antiseptic pulled Alyson back to consciousness.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the soft, warm light.
She was lying in a massive, luxurious VIP hospital room.
Her wet clothes were gone, replaced by a soft hospital gown. Her ribs were tightly bound, and an IV dripped clear fluid into her vein.
A nurse in blue scrubs walked in, checking the monitors.
"You're awake, Mrs. Holt. You are incredibly lucky," Nurse Jenkins smiled warmly.
Alyson's throat felt like sandpaper. "Who brought me here?"
Jenkins looked confused. "Wasn't it your husband? The tall gentleman. He told the admissions desk he was your husband when he carried you in. He paid for everything and brought in the top trauma team. He just stepped out to take a call."
Alyson's heart gave a violent, painful jolt against her broken ribs.
Her husband?
Did Kenton realize what he had done? Did he turn the car around and come back for her in the mud?
Just as the pathetic, desperate thought formed in her mind, her phone lit up on the bedside table.
The harsh ringtone shattered the quiet room.
The caller ID flashed with Kenton's name.
Alyson gritted her teeth against the pain in her arm and reached for the phone. She pressed answer.
Before she could speak, Kenton's furious voice blasted through the speaker.
"Alyson, where the hell are you?"
He didn't ask if she was alive.
"Chelsea's anxiety medication is in your purse. Get a cab and bring it to St. Jude Medical Center right now. She is having another episode."
The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured directly over Alyson's head.
The tiny flame of hope in her chest was snuffed out instantly, leaving nothing but cold, hard ash.
He didn't know she was hurt.
He wasn't the man who pulled her from the mud.
Alyson stared at the white ceiling, a slow, chilling smile spreading across her pale lips.
"Kenton," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I hope you and Chelsea rot together in hell."
She pulled the phone away from her ear, cutting off Kenton's angry shouting, and ended the call.
Her thumb moved over the screen, blocking his number permanently.
She dropped the phone onto the bed and closed her eyes.
The phantom smell of sandalwood lingered in her memory.
Who was the man in the rain?
