The arrow hit before I even heard it coming.
One second, I was standing on the balcony, staring at the most breathtaking view of the city I'd ever seen—glittering lights scattered like broken glass across the darkness. The next, a sharp thunk split the air, and a black-feathered arrow buried itself into the wooden beam inches from my head.
The shaft quivered. A folded note was tied to it with red string.
My scream caught in my throat.
"Get down!"
Strong hands shoved me sideways. I hit the floor hard, my duffel bag skidding across polished marble. Above me, a figure moved—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes dark with fury.
Professor Maxwell.
My professor. The man who'd suspended me less than twenty-four hours ago.
And he was shirtless, water still dripping down his chest from a shower, his hair damp and clinging to his temples.
"Stay down," he growled, his voice a blade cutting through my shock.
He moved fast—too fast—ripping the arrow free and scanning the darkness beyond the balcony. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his body coiled like a predator ready to strike.
I pressed my back against the wall, my heart slamming so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.
What the hell is happening?
Maxwell's eyes flicked to me, sharp and cold. "Did you bring someone here?"
"What? No!" My voice cracked. "I don't even know what's—"
"Then why," he cut me off, his voice low and lethal, "are you in my apartment, Mia?"
My apartment.
The words hit like ice water.
"This is—" I choked on the realization. "This is your place?"
His gaze dragged over me slowly, deliberate, before returning to the shadows beyond the balcony. He didn't answer.
I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaking. "I didn't know! I swear, I was just—there was an ad online. An affordable apartment. I needed somewhere to stay after..." My voice faltered. "After I got evicted."
Maxwell's jaw ticked. For a moment, I thought he'd throw me out right then and there.
Then his eyes dropped to the arrow in his hand.
The note.
He unfolded it slowly, his expression darkening with every second. Whatever was written there made something dangerous flash across his face—something that looked almost like fear.
"Professor?" I whispered.
"Don't call me that here." His voice was rough, barely controlled.
He crumpled the note in his fist and turned toward the interior of the mansion. "Stay here. Don't move. Don't touch anything."
"Wait—what's going on? Who shot that—"
But he was already gone, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.
I stood frozen, my pulse thundering in my ears. The balcony doors swayed in the night breeze, the city lights below flickering like distant stars. The arrow lay discarded on the floor, the red string still trailing from it.
My hands trembled as I knelt and picked up the crumpled note Maxwell had dropped.
The ink was bold. Angry. Threatening.
He's not who you think he is.
My breath stuttered.
He's not who you think he is.
What did that mean? Who was Professor Maxwell really? And why would someone try to kill him?
Or me?
I was still staring at the note when the sound of shattering glass exploded from somewhere deeper in the house.
A shout. A crash. Then silence.
"Professor?" I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.
Nothing.
"Maxwell!"
My feet moved before my brain caught up. I ran through the massive foyer, past rooms filled with expensive furniture and art I couldn't even name. The hallways were too long, too dark, and every shadow felt like it was watching me.
Finally, I found him.
He was leaning against a doorframe, his hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and wet, staining his skin.
"Oh my God—" I rushed forward, but he held up his other hand, stopping me.
"I told you to stay on the balcony." His voice was rough, strained.
"You're bleeding!" I ignored his order, closing the distance between us. "What happened? Did they—did someone—"
"It's nothing." He tried to brush past me, but his step faltered.
I caught his arm. "It's not nothing. Sit down."
For a moment, he looked ready to argue. Then, with a rough sigh, Maxwell lowered himself onto a leather sofa, his jaw tight with pain.
"You need a hospital," I said, my voice shaking.
"No hospitals." His tone was final. "No cops. No one can know about this."
"But—"
"No one." His eyes locked on mine, dark and unyielding. "Do you understand me?"
I swallowed hard. "I don't understand any of this."
"You don't need to." He pressed harder against the wound, blood still seeping through. "You just need to leave. Now. Before this gets worse."
My chest tightened. "I don't have anywhere to go."
"Not my problem."
The coldness in his voice stung worse than any slap. But I couldn't leave—not like this. Not when he was bleeding out in front of me.
I dropped my duffel bag and dug through it with trembling hands. My fingers closed around the small first-aid kit I'd carried since my mother's accident. I hadn't used it in years, but I'd kept it. Just in case.
"Take off your shirt," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
Maxwell's brows arched. "Excuse me?"
"You'll bleed through it. Unless you want to pass out on your designer rug, just—" Heat flooded my face. "Just let me help."
He studied me for a long, unreadable moment. Then, slowly, he peeled away the ruined fabric.
My breath caught.
Broad shoulders. Hard lines of muscle. The sharp edge of his collarbone streaked with blood. A jagged cut across his ribs, still bleeding.
"Focus," I muttered to myself, kneeling in front of him.
I pressed gauze to the wound. He hissed at the sting, his jaw flexing, but he didn't pull away.
"You're reckless," I whispered.
"And you're stubborn," he shot back, his voice rough.
Our eyes met. The room felt suddenly too small, the air charged, my breath tangled with his.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
"Because someone has to." My tone softened. "You can't keep pretending you don't need anyone."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—something almost human. Then his walls slammed back into place.
I taped the bandage tight across his ribs, my fingers brushing his skin. Heat sparked where we touched, making my pulse skip.
When I leaned back, Maxwell's gaze snapped to mine.
"You can't stay here." His voice was firm, final.
My chest tightened. "Why not?"
"Because it's dangerous." He gripped my wrist suddenly, hard enough to make me flinch. "You don't understand what you've walked into. This life… it will destroy you."
"But you're the one bleeding because of it," I snapped, my voice cracking. "If it's so dangerous, why are you still here?"
His silence was colder than any answer.
I pulled my wrist free, frustration boiling over. "Fine. I'll leave. I'll figure something out. I always do."
I spun too quickly, my elbow colliding with a glass case on the side table.
The shattering was deafening.
I froze, staring at the shards of what had once been an ornate vase—delicate, ancient, beautiful.
Maxwell's eyes widened. Then hardened to steel.
"What the fuck have you done?"
"I—I didn't mean—" My voice shook. "I'll pay for it. I swear."
"Do you even know what you just broke?" His tone was low, lethal.
I shook my head, panic rising.
"That vase was worth five million dollars." Each word dropped like a blade. He stood, towering over me. "Do you have five million to pay for it?"
My stomach dropped. "N-no…"
"Then when," he pressed, stepping closer, "do you plan to make your payment?"
My breath hitched. I was cornered. Caged.
"Please… don't call the cops. I don't have that kind of money. I'll do anything. I'll work for you, just… please."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. It never touched his eyes.
"What an interesting offer."
He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"Alright, Mia. From this moment forward, you're mine. My personal slave. Until I decide otherwise."
My blood boiled. "Are you fucking kidding me? That's not fair!"
"Do you want me to call the cops?" His voice was silk over steel. "Or are you making the payment now?"
The words died in my throat. I had no money. No home. Nowhere else to go.
And he knew it.
"Fine," I whispered, the word sharp and broken. "I'll be your personal slave."
Maxwell's smirk deepened.
"Good girl."