The taxi dropped her at the corner of her street in Bushwick. The familiar sight of the graffiti-covered brick and the fire escapes zigzagging up the side of her building had never looked so good. She paid the driver with the last of her emergency cash, her body aching with deep exhaustion. All she wanted was to lock her door, take the hottest shower of her life, and sleep for a week.
She had taken two steps toward the entrance when a shadow fell over her. A black Maybach, silent as a shark, slid up to the curb, blocking her path. The engine was a barely audible hum.
The back window lowered with a soft whir. Chloe saw a man's profile—a sharp jaw, a straight nose, an air of cold, bored authority. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe watch gleamed in the dim morning light.
It was the watch from last night. The watch she remembered tracing with a clumsy, drugged finger.
The blood in her veins turned to ice. She didn't hesitate. She spun around and ran.
She didn't get far. The passenger door flew open and a man in a black suit, built like a refrigerator, intercepted her with terrifying ease. His hand clamped around her upper arm, his grip like a steel vise.
The back door opened and Clayton Rhodes unfolded himself from the car. He was even taller than she remembered. His presence sucked all the air out of the grimy street. He moved with a languid grace that hid the power coiled in his frame.
He stopped in front of her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "My things," he said, his voice a low, chillingly calm rumble, "are never allowed to run away on their own."
Before she could scream, she was bundled into the back of the Maybach. The heavy door thudded shut, and the lock clicked with a horrible finality. The thick, soundproof glass rose, sealing her inside a silent, leather-scented cage. The world outside vanished.
"Who the hell are you?" she spat, her voice shaking with rage. "What do you want from me?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and gripped her chin, his fingers cool and firm, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and they held a glint of cruel amusement.
"You forgot me already?" he mocked. "That's not the impression you gave me last night."
"I was drugged," she shot back, the words tasting like acid.
"Oh?" He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "So, without the drugs, you wouldn't have climbed into my bed?" His gaze flickered down her body, insolent and possessive. His voice dropped, becoming a silken, dangerous whisper. "Or is that the same move you used on my nephew, Nathaniel?"
The name hit her like a punch. Nathaniel. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, her mind reeling, unable to process the connection.
He savored her shock, a predator enjoying its prey's terror. "Let me guess," he continued, his thumb stroking her jawline in a gesture that was anything but gentle. "You thought you'd get close to me, become my little secret while you were planning to marry into the family? You have quite the appetite, Miss Murphy."
The raw, calculated humiliation of his words lit a fire in her veins. All the fear, the violation, the rage of the past twelve hours coalesced into a single, explosive point. With a guttural cry, she swung her hand and slapped him across the face with all the strength she had.
The crack of the impact echoed in the silent car.
His head snapped to the side. For a beat, there was absolute stillness. Then, slowly, he turned back to face her. A red mark was already blooming on his cheek. But his eyes... his eyes weren't angry. They were brighter, sharper, filled with a terrifying, predatory excitement.
"Good," he murmured, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his lips. He touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth. "You have claws. I like that."
He leaned closer, his presence filling the space, overwhelming. But before he could close the distance, his phone buzzed on the console between them.
He glanced at the screen. With his eyes still locked on hers, he tapped the speakerphone icon.
Nathaniel's warm, familiar voice filled the car. "Uncle Clayton? Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk to you about some of the details for my engagement party with Hillary."
Chloe's body went rigid. Her blood ran cold. She stared at Clayton, her eyes wide with panic, silently begging him not to speak, not to give her away.
A wicked, terrible smile played on Clayton's lips. He was enjoying this. Every second of her terror.
"I'm in the middle of something," he said into the phone, his voice smooth as silk. "I'll call you back."
Before he hung up, he deliberately moved the phone closer to her face, holding it just inches from her lips.
To keep from making a sound, to keep Nathaniel from hearing her ragged breathing, Chloe bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting blood. Her entire body trembled violently, trapped between the man who had stolen her past and the man who was trying to steal her future.
Clayton ended the call, his eyes feasting on her panicked, tear-streaked face. He tossed the phone aside.
"Want him to know you're in my car right now?" he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Under my protection? What do you think he'd make of that, Chloe? What do you think your family would say?"
A sob broke from her throat. She shook her head, tears streaming down her face.
He didn't touch her. He just watched, his gaze a slow, deliberate pressure. "Then I suggest you calm down," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "And stop pretending you have a choice. You're in my world now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."
His words hung in the air, a threat and a promise rolled into one. She was trapped. Not by his hands, but by the sheer, suffocating weight of his will. She closed her eyes, her body trembling with the effort of staying still, of not screaming. The tears kept falling, hot and silent, and he let them.
