Bound By Blood To The Mafia King

2:00 AM.

The master bedroom of the penthouse was pitch black, save for the faint, neon glow of the city bleeding through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

In the center of the room sat a massive King-size bed.

Getting into this bed had been a calculated battle. Earlier, she had clutched her head, claiming the blood loss made her too dizzy to be left alone in a guest room, terrified she would pass out and die without anyone noticing. Alex had weighed the risk of losing his sister's only blood supply against his intense disgust. He had reluctantly agreed, but set a brutal boundary. Now, Alex lay on the far left side. Ashlyn lay on the far right. Between them was a vast expanse of empty mattress, a physical boundary neither had crossed.

Alex was asleep, but it was the shallow, hyper-vigilant sleep of a man who lived with a target on his back. His breathing was slow and even, but the muscles in his arms and chest were micro-tensed, ready to explode into violence at the slightest noise.

Ashlyn lay perfectly still, her eyes wide open in the dark.

Her brain was running at maximum capacity. She was connecting the coordinates of Pier 44 to the shell corporations owned by the Decker family. If Alex hit that casino, he would unknowingly sever a major cash flow for her enemies.

She finished her mental calculations. It was time for the final move of the night. She needed to test exactly how far Alex's physical boundaries had eroded.

She closed her eyes and began to manipulate her own physiology. She forced her breathing to become shallow and erratic. She made her chest heave. She clenched her muscles until a thin layer of cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

She gripped the silk bedsheets in her fists, twisting the fabric until her knuckles ached.

Then, she let out a blood-curdling, desperate scream.

"No! Don't let it fall! Please!"

It was a calculated trigger. The "Metroplex Tower Collapse." The tragedy from three years ago where her fake profile claimed her beloved older brother-her first love-had been crushed to death. It was the cornerstone of her fabricated PTSD.

The second the scream ripped through the air, Alex violently snapped awake.

Pure survival instinct took over. His right hand shot toward the nightstand, his fingers instinctively wrapping around the cold, textured grip of his loaded Glock 19 secured in its quick-draw holster.

He flipped up into a crouch on the mattress, the gun raised, the muzzle sweeping the dark corners of the room in a fluid, lethal arc. He checked the door. The windows. Clear.

His eyes snapped to the other side of the bed.

Ashlyn was curled into a tight fetal position. Her whole body was shaking violently. Tears were streaming down her face, catching the faint neon light. She was gasping for air, trapped in a nightmare.

Alex slowly lowered the gun. He let out a harsh breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He remembered her background check. The building collapse. The trauma.

He slid the gun back under the pillow. His voice was gruff, trying to cut through her panic.

"Ashlyn. Wake up. You're dreaming."

Ashlyn didn't stop. She played the role of a drowning victim desperate for a lifeline. She scrambled across the massive bed, crossing the invisible boundary line.

She threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped fiercely around his lean, hard waist. She buried her wet, tear-stained face directly into his bare chest.

Alex's entire body seized. His muscles locked up, turning as hard as granite. He hated being touched. He hated losing control. And he especially hated being touched by a woman he had sworn was nothing but a transaction.

He brought his large hands up, grabbing her shoulders. His grip was brutal, his fingers digging into her collarbones. He tried to physically rip her off his body.

But Ashlyn clung to him with terrifying strength. She buried her face deeper into his sternum. Her tears soaked into his skin, running down the hard lines of his abs.

"Please," she sobbed, her voice cracking, sounding utterly broken and hollow. "Please don't push me away. It's so cold. I'm so scared."

The words hit Alex like a physical blow.

He felt her skin against his. She was freezing. The blood loss had left her body temperature dangerously low. She felt like a block of ice clinging to him for survival.

His hands, still gripping her shoulders to push her away, froze.

He remembered the sight of her pale face on the terrace, forcing down the bloody meat just to stay alive.

For a full minute, the only sounds in the dark bedroom were her muffled sobs and his heavy, ragged breathing. The internal war tore at his chest.

Finally, Alex let out a low, defeated curse.

He let go of her shoulders. He didn't push her away.

Instead, he fell back onto the pillows, dragging her with him. He reached down with one hand and grabbed the heavy down comforter, pulling it up and wrapping it tightly around both of them, sealing her freezing body against his burning heat.

His large, calloused hand moved to her back. He pressed her firmly against his chest, his palm resting awkwardly between her shoulder blades. He patted her twice-a stiff, unnatural gesture of comfort from a man who only knew violence.

Wrapped in his arms, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart, Ashlyn's fake trembling slowly subsided.

Hidden in the dark, pressed against his chest where he couldn't see her face, Ashlyn slowly opened her eyes.

There were no tears left. There was no fear. Her eyes were completely dry, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid.

She felt his hand resting protectively on her back.

The beast had compromised. He had sworn he would never touch her, never care for her, and yet here he was, shielding her from a fake nightmare.

Helga Caldwell smiled in the dark. The fortress was hers.