Nova's POV
Nova Ashford, the man says again, stepping into my dark apartment. We need to talk.
I don't think. I just move.
My hand closes around the laptop on my couch. I throw it at his head and run.
The laptop crashes into him. He grunts, stumbles. I sprint for my door, but he's fast—his hand catches my arm.
Training from Lex kicks in. I twist, drop my weight, slip free. My elbow slams into something soft. He curses.
I'm out the door, racing down the hallway.
Stop! he shouts behind me. I'm trying to help
I don't stop. Everyone who says they want to help me ends up destroying me instead.
The elevator is too slow, too trapped. I hit the stairwell door hard, flying through it. My feet pound on the stairs.
Down. I need to go down. Get outside. Find people. Find help.
But I hear voices below me. Men talking. Coming up.
The other two from outside. They're already in the building.
I freeze on the landing between floors seven and eight. Below me, footsteps climbing. Behind me, the man from my apartment.
Trapped.
Then I remember, Lex's voice in my head from all those self-defense lessons: When they expect you to run down, go up. Always do what they don't expect.
I reverse direction, racing upward.
She's going up! someone yells below.
I take stairs two at a time, lungs burning. Ninth floor. Tenth. My legs scream but I don't stop.
Behind me, the footsteps follow. Not running. Just walking steady, like they know I can't escape.
That makes it worse somehow. They're not even rushing. They're confident.
Eleventh floor. Twelfth.
My phone is in my apartment. My keys. My wallet. Everything I need to survive is eight floors below me, and I'm running in the opposite direction wearing pajamas and socks.
Stupid. This is so stupid.
But what choice do I have?
Thirteenth floor. The stairwell is getting darker. The emergency lights are spaced farther apart up here.
I hear them below. Steady footsteps. Taking their time.
We're not going to hurt you, Ms. Ashford, one calls up. His voice is calm, professional. Mr. Harrington just wants to talk.
Liar. Julian doesn't send armed men at midnight to talk. He sends them to make problems disappear.
To make me disappear.
Fourteenth floor. My side aches. My socks are sliding on the smooth stairs. I'm going to fall. I'm going to trip and they're going to catch me and—
Fifteenth floor.
I slam through the stairwell door into the hallway. Dead end. This is the top floor.
One door. Only one. The penthouse.
Him.
The mysterious neighbor I've been too aware of for eight months.
The footsteps in the stairwell are getting closer. I hear them clearly now. Multiple sets. Coming faster.
I have maybe thirty seconds.
I run to the penthouse door and pound on it with both fists.
Help! Please! Someone help me!
Nothing.
I pound harder, screaming. Please! They're going to kill me! Please open the door!
The stairwell door behind me starts to open.
Please, I sob, hitting the penthouse door over and over. Please, please, please—
The penthouse door swings open so fast I almost fall inside.
And there he is.
Oh God.
Up close, he's devastating.
Tall—even taller than I thought, well over six feet. Broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. Dark hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. And his eyes—pale gray-blue like a winter storm, sharp and intelligent and currently locked onto me with laser focus.
He's wearing black tactical gear with weapons strapped to his chest, looking every inch the dangerous predator I glimpsed from afar.
But it's his face that steals my breath. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. A mouth that should be cruel but somehow isn't.
Beautiful. Lethally, impossibly beautiful.
Inside, he says. One word. A command, not a request.
His voice is deep, smooth like expensive whiskey, and it does something to my nervous system that has nothing to do with fear.
I stumble through the doorway. He catches my arm, steadying me with a strong hand, then moves me behind him in one smooth motion.
Even terrified, I notice the wall of muscle his back presents. The controlled power in every movement.
Stop it. Focus. Men with guns. Dying. Not the time.
The three men from the stairwell appear in the hallway. They stop when they see the penthouse door open.
When they see him.
This is a private matter, one says to my neighbor. We just need to speak with Ms. Ashford.
No. My neighbor's voice is ice. Pure ice. You don't.
Sir, we don't want trouble—
Then leave. Now.
One of the men reaches for something under his jacket.
My neighbor moves so fast I barely see it. One second he's standing still. The next, his hand is on a gun at his side.
I wouldn't, he says quietly.
The deadly calm in his voice makes my skin prickle.
The men freeze.
This building has thirty-seven security cameras, my neighbor continues in that lethal tone. Twelve backup power systems. Biometric locks on every door. And every single system reports directly to me.
One of the men's eyes widen slightly. You're—
Leaving, my neighbor finishes. All of you. Right now. Or I activate a lockdown protocol that seals this building and alerts the police. Your choice. You have ten seconds.
The men exchange glances. Some silent communication passes between them.
Then they back toward the stairwell.
This isn't over, one says.
It is for tonight. My neighbor doesn't move, doesn't lower his weapon until they disappear into the stairwell.
Then he pulls me fully inside, slams the door, and I hear multiple locks engaging. Electronic beeps. Mechanical bolts sliding into place.
The door is now sealed like a vault.
I stand there shaking, trying to catch my breath, trying to process what just happened.
He saved me. This stranger. This ghost. This dangerously attractive man I've been half-fascinated by for months.
He finally turns to look at me.
Up close, those pale eyes are even more intense. They sweep over me—assessing, checking for injuries maybe—and everywhere his gaze touches, I feel it like a physical caress.
Nova Ashford, he says. Not a question. He knows exactly who I am.
His voice does that thing again—sends warmth curling through my belly despite the fear.
How do you know my name? My voice comes out as a whisper.
Because I've been protecting you for eight months.
I stare at him, brain struggling to process. What?
He walks to a wall of computer screens I didn't notice before, and I watch the fluid way he moves—predatory grace, controlled power.
My apartment appears on one screen. My bedroom on another. The hallway outside my door. The building entrance.
Cameras everywhere.
Watching me.
Who are you? I demand, fear and something else—something heated and unwanted—warring inside me.
He turns, and those winter-storm eyes lock onto mine.
Caspian Mercer, he says. And those men who just tried to kill you? That was the fourth attempt on your life.
My legs give out.
He catches me before I hit the floor, strong arms pulling me against his chest.
And oh God.
He's solid muscle beneath the tactical gear, radiating heat that seeps through my thin pajamas. I catch his scent—something dark and clean, like cedar and winter nights—and it shouldn't affect me when I'm terrified, but my body registers it anyway.
Strong. Male. Safe. Dangerously safe.
His heart pounds steadily beneath my cheek. One arm bands around my waist, the other cradles the back of my head, and the gesture is both protective and somehow intimate.
Easy, he murmurs, and the rumble of his voice against my ear makes me shiver. I've got you.
I should pull away. Should be demanding answers, not noticing how perfectly I fit against him.
But I'm shaking too hard, and he's warm, and for eight months I've been so cold and alone and,
What do you mean fourth? I whisper against his shoulder.
His arms tighten around me fractionally.
We have a lot to talk about, Nova. But first— He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his expression deadly serious. —you need to understand something. Those men will be back. With more people. Better weapons. They won't stop until you're dead.
This close, I can see the individual lashes framing his pale eyes. The faint scar along his jaw. The intensity burning in his gaze as he looks at me.
Why? My voice breaks. Why does Julian want me dead so badly?
Because, Caspian says quietly, and the way he says my ex's name—with pure contempt—makes something fierce spark in my chest, you're the only person who can prove he stole two billion dollars. And in three days, he's selling your work to a Russian crime syndicate. After that deal closes, your testimony becomes worthless.
The room spins.
Three days? I repeat numbly.
Three days, Caspian confirms, one hand still resting on my waist. Which means we have seventy-two hours to keep you alive and destroy him.
He releases me—and I immediately miss his warmth—then walks back to his computers.
Wait, I say, wrapping my arms around myself. How do you know all this? How long have you been watching me?
Caspian doesn't turn around, but I see his shoulders tense.
Since the day you moved in eight months ago. His voice is careful. Controlled. I know everything about you, Nova. Your routines. Your fears. Your nightmares at 3:07 AM. The way you list prime numbers when you're anxious.
My blood runs cold.
That's—that's stalking.
That's survival, he corrects, finally looking at me over his shoulder. The intensity in his gaze pins me in place. Without me, you'd already be dead four times over.
On his screens, I watch the three men exit the building. Getting into a black SUV. Making phone calls.
Calling for backup.
They're regrouping, Caspian says calmly, tracking their movements. They'll be back within the hour. Probably with ten to fifteen more men.
What? Panic claws at my chest. We need to call the police
The police can't protect you from a Russian syndicate. Caspian turns to face me fully, and the movement is pure predatory grace. But I can.
How?
His smile is cold and absolutely terrifying—and God help me, even that's attractive on him.
Because I'm very good at eliminating threats. And Nova? His eyes burn into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. I decided eight months ago that you're mine to protect. No one touches what's mine.
The possessive way he says mine should scare me.
Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and I realize with dawning horror that I'm in serious trouble.
Because the most dangerous man I've ever met just claimed me as his.
And part of me—the broken, desperate part that's been alone for too long—wants to let him.