The night wind screamed past Star's ears as she pushed the motorbike faster than it had any right to go.
The B1 Highway unspooled beneath her wheels like a black ribbon, the center lines blurring into a single continuous streak. She was breaking every speed limit Crestfall had ever posted, and a few that hadn't been invented yet. Her hair streamed behind her like a war banner, her leather jacket hugging her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the road ahead with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile.
This was, technically, the first time she'd ever ridden a motorbike.
Star was a fast learner. She always had been. Her brain caught up to new skills with the hungry efficiency of something that had been waiting its whole life to be useful. And right now, with Adrian's life hanging in the balance and rage burning like rocket fuel in her veins, she was learning very fast.
Seconds from the scene, she noticed a sleek SUV driving in the opposite direction. The driver had long hair tied in a ponytail, and as he passed her, she saw him raise his phone and snap a picture. The way he looked at her—slow, appreciative, possessive—made her skin crawl.
Pervert.
She filed it away and drove faster.
The scene exploded into view.
Adrian's car—overturned, crushed, its wheels still spinning uselessly against the night sky. Glass glittered across the asphalt like scattered diamonds. And standing in the grassy field beyond the shoulder, illuminated by the cold silver of the moon, was a group of men. Thugs. Professionals. One of them was holding a machine saw, its blade catching the moonlight and throwing it back in jagged pieces.
And Adrian—Adrian—was trying to stand. Trying to fight.
Star's vision went red.
Not metaphorically. Literally. A crimson haze descended over her sight, swallowing the moonlight and the road and everything except the burning, undeniable need to destroy. These were the kind of men who took what wasn't theirs. The kind of men who hurt people and laughed about it. The kind of men who had done this to her—left her pregnant with a child she couldn't abort, couldn't want, couldn't escape.
Now they were trying to take Adrian too.
No.
The thug with the gun fired at her. Star dodged—a fluid, instinctive movement that her body knew before her brain did—and returned fire.
She didn't miss.
The man crumpled, a perfect hole between his eyes. Before the others could process what was happening, she fired twice more. Two more bodies hit the dirt.
Silence.
And then—something flooded through her. A feeling she didn't recognize, rising up from somewhere deep and dark and hungry. It was consuming and electric and terrifyingly... good. She felt alive. She felt powerful. She felt like every suppressed rage, every swallowed scream, every moment of helplessness she'd ever endured was finally finding its release.
I've felt this before.
The thought surfaced unbidden, strange and unsettling.
There was no time to chase it. Adrian was swaying on his feet, his eyes unfocused, his body tilting sideways like a building about to collapse. Star lunged forward and caught him before he could hit the ground.
He was heavy. Very heavy. All muscle and height and dead weight. She lowered him carefully, her arms straining.
"Adrian." She tapped his cheek. Nothing. "Adrian!"
She pressed her hands against his chest—one, two, three compressions. She leaned forward, pinched his nose, and breathed into his mouth. Nothing. She slapped him.
His eyes flew open.
"What did you do?"
The words hit her like ice water. Adrian was staring at her—not with gratitude, not with relief, but with fear. His heart was visibly pounding beneath his shirt. His eyes darted to the bodies, then back to her face, then back to the bodies.
"I saved you?" Star's brow furrowed.
"You killed three people, Dad..." Adrian tried to stand, his words slurring, his hand pressed against his head like he was trying to hold his skull together.
Star's frown deepened. Dad?
She reached out and balanced him, helping him upright. He swayed like a tree in a storm, his eyes squinting against the moonlight. His glasses were gone—lost somewhere in the wreckage.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" She raised two fingers in front of his face.
Adrian squinted, his vision swimming. "Three."
He groaned, pressing his palm harder against his temple. The pressure did nothing to ease the anvil pounding behind his eyes.
"You're having a concussion," Star said, already maneuvering him toward the bike.
"You killed people." He kept saying it, the words slurring together like a broken record. "You killed... you killed people..."
Star glanced back at the mess of bodies. It wasn't a pretty picture. Three corpses sprawled in the grass, blood seeping into the soil, the machine saw still humming faintly where it had fallen. Adrian was the only witness to her crime—the only person who could point a finger and say she did it.
I have to convince him to forget this. Or at least... reframe it.
"Kefas is a killer..." Adrian lurched the words out, snapping her from her thoughts. "He killed... my dad... he killed everyone..."
Star strained under his weight, trying to get him to the bike. But Adrian was too heavy, too tall, too solid. Her strength gave out, and she tumbled backward onto the grass. Adrian fell right on top of her.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Adrian lifted his head. He looked at Star—really looked—and something shifted in his expression. His eyes cleared, the fog of confusion lifting like curtains being pulled back. He looked around at the overturned car, the motorcycle, the girl beneath him.
"Star?"
His voice was clear now. Present. Himself.
He stood up—balanced, steady, like the concussion had been a passing cloud. He reached down and helped Star to her feet, his fingers brushing the sand and grass from her hair with a tenderness that seemed almost absurd given the carnage surrounding them.
Then he pulled her into a hug. Tight. Desperate. The kind of hug you gave someone you thought you'd never see again.
Star stood frozen in his arms, confused by the sudden shift. One moment he'd been looking at her like a criminal. The next, he was holding her like a lifeline.
"What are we going to do?" Adrian asked as he gently released her and walked back toward the bodies.
His gaze fell on the gun lying beside one of the dead thugs—the one who'd fired at Star first. His expression changed. Deepened. Hardened into something Star had never seen on his face before.
Rage. Calculation.
"Where's your gun?" Adrian asked.
"What?!" Star's voice came out sharper than she intended.
It wasn't that she hadn't heard the question. It was the way he'd asked it—thoughtful, strategic, utterly unreadable.
This was Adrian Stark. The law man. The rule follower. The man who'd spent his entire career building things by the book. And now he was standing over three dead bodies, asking about her gun like he was planning something she couldn't yet see.
"Your gun—"
"No." Star cut him off, stepping back. "Those guys were going to kill you. And I will do it again, and again, to save you. So no—I'm not giving you my gun."
She turned to leave.
And Adrian caught her wrist.
Before she could process what was happening, he spun her around, caught her in his other arm as she tilted off-balance, and kissed her.
Star's mind went blank. The bodies, the blood, the machine saw still humming on the grass. All of it faded into static as Adrian's lips moved against hers with a fierce, possessive intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
"And I would do it for you," Adrian murmured against her mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. A smirk curved his lips—dangerous, knowing, nothing like the polished billionaire she'd met a year ago.
Star stared at him for half a heartbeat. Then she grabbed his collar and kissed him back—deeper, harder, with all the fear and rage and desperate relief of a night that had almost ended in tragedy.
In the bushes some meters away, Lucian sat in his car, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
He'd followed Star's tracker. Of course he had. He'd arrived just in time to see her dispatch three armed assassins with the cold precision of someone who'd been doing it for years. Pride had swelled in his chest—dangerous, complicated pride—and then Adrian had kissed her.
And she'd kissed him back.
Lucian raised his infrared binoculars one last time. He saw the way Star's body curved into Adrian's. The way Adrian's hands settled on her waist like they belonged there. The way they broke apart, breathless, and smiled at each other like the world wasn't littered with corpses at their feet.
His fist slammed against the brake. The engine roared to life. The headlights blazed through the darkness.
Star and Adrian broke apart, their breath catching in unison as headlights flooded the field.
"Oh, geeze." Star pressed a hand to her racing heart, squinting at the familiar car emerging from the bushes. Purple lights glowed by the side door—a star-shaped symbol she'd installed herself. "It's just Lucian."
But Adrian's expression had gone hard again. Cold.
"He's the one who rented these men to Kefas to kill me," Adrian sneered, watching the car disappear down the highway.
"What are you talking about?" Star turned to face him fully. "And who's Kefas?"
"Star." Adrian's voice was urgent now, his hands gripping her shoulders. "I know you think your friend is... well, your friend. But he's the crime lord. Lucian Throne. You have to believe me. When Kefas was here, he bragged about the best assassins Lucian could rent him." He gestured at the bodies. "These were Lucian's men. He sent them to kill me."
Star looked at the dead men. Three bodies, sprawled in the grass. They'd gone down with almost embarrassing ease.
"They didn't look very 'best' to me," she said casually.
She glanced back at Adrian. "And I believe you."
Adrian blinked, caught off guard by how quickly she'd accepted it. No denial. No defending Lucian. Just... belief.
"Come on." Star turned toward the scene, her expression shifting into something calculated. "Let's frame this Kefas."
Adrian's lips curled into a grin—slow, proud, and more than a little dangerous.
This woman, he thought. This incredible, terrifying woman.
"Let's," he said.
***
The Stark mansion was quiet as Star and Adrian slipped through the grand entrance, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. The servants who worked the late shift were still tidying up after dinner—polishing silverware, wiping down counters, moving with the silent efficiency of people who'd learned to be invisible. From somewhere in the upper living room, muffled voices drifted down—family members still awake, still talking, still weaving their webs of secrets.
Star didn't stop to listen. She was too tired. Too raw. Too aware of the blood she'd washed off her hands at a gas station bathroom on the way back, the water running pink before it ran clear.
They went straight to the ninth floor.
Dr. Mathews was already there, waiting with his leather bag and his professionally neutral expression. He'd been summoned the moment they were back on the road, and he'd arrived before them—as he always did. As he'd been doing for the Stark family for decades.
"Oh, what did you say happened?" Dr. Mathews asked, already guiding Adrian toward the examination bed.
"A truck threw me out of my car." Adrian winced as he sat down, his ribs protesting the movement. "I feel fine. I just needed you to confirm."
Dr. Mathews worked in silence for a few minutes, his hands steady and practiced as he examined the gash along Adrian's hairline, the bruising blooming across his shoulder, the various scrapes and cuts that decorated his skin like violent art.
"Well, you need a few stitches," the doctor said finally, reaching for his kit. "But considering what you described, you're remarkably lucky. No internal bleeding. No fractures that I can detect. Your concussion seems mild, though I'll want to monitor you for the next twenty-four hours."
Adrian nodded, barely listening. His eyes kept drifting to Star, who was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, her expression distant. She'd been quiet on the drive back. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant something was brewing beneath the surface.
After the stitches were done, Dr. Mathews turned to his bag and pulled out a document. A thick envelope, medical-looking.
Star straightened up. "Are those my results?"
"Yes." Dr. Mathews took a seat, his expression shifting into something more careful. More measured. The expression of a man about to deliver news he wished he didn't have to deliver. "I don't know why we missed it. Or maybe because it's still early."
Adrian's stomach dropped. He knew that expression. He'd seen it on Dr. Mathews's face before—when his father disappeared, when his grandmother had her heart scare, when the world was about to tilt on its axis.
"Oh my god. What's wrong?"
But Star's face hadn't changed. She was calm. Too calm.
"I'm pregnant."
The words left her mouth before Dr. Mathews could speak, flat and matter-of-fact. She leaned back against the wall, her arms still crossed, her expression unreadable.
Adrian's brain stopped working.
Pregnant.
The word echoed through his skull like a gunshot. His mind raced backward, flipping through every moment they'd shared—the kisses, the touches, the near-misses. Had they ever...? No. They hadn't. They'd come close, closer than close, but they'd never actually...
Then who—
"When I first got kidnapped, gang raped, and escaped." Star's voice was steady, but something flickered behind her eyes. Something fragile. "I ran massive tests on everything at Crestfall General. Using my blood, the doctor found out I was pregnant."
The room went very still.
Adrian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He wanted to ask who the father is—but the question died on his tongue before it could form. Because he already knew the answer. And asking it out loud would make him sound like the kind of man he'd spent his whole life trying not to be.
Obsessive. Possessive. The boyfriend who just found out his girlfriend cheated—except she didn't. She didn't cheat. She was—
God.
"It's for one of those who raped me." Star answered the question he couldn't ask, her voice dropping to something quieter. Smaller. "I don't know which one. I wasn't looking. Or counting. Or even looking at their faces."
She exhaled—a long, shaky breath that seemed to take something vital out of her. Her eyes glistened, and she blinked rapidly, as if she could force the tears back through sheer will.
"I don't even remember being raped."
The tears won.
They spilled down her cheeks in silent rivers, and Star's hand flew to her face as if she was surprised to find them there. A minute ago, she'd been feeling great—powerful, alive, triumphant—after killing three men who'd tried to hurt someone she cared about. Now her heart felt like it had grown extra muscles. Heavy. Too large for her chest. Every beat stretched her ribcage to its breaking point.
"Excuse me," she whispered, and slipped out the door.
The bench in the hallway was cold beneath her. Star sat with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, her tears falling faster than she could catch them. She tried to be quiet—the last thing she wanted was for Adrian to hear, for Dr. Mathews to witness, for anyone in this house of whispers to see her fall apart.
But the tears kept coming.
It's not a big deal, she told herself. Lots of women go through worse. Lots of women survive.
But being pregnant with a rapist's child wasn't something you just survived. It was an ancient, sharp knife being twisted every day for nine months—or maybe for the rest of your life. A constant reminder of that unfateful event. A living, breathing consequence of something she hadn't chosen. Something she couldn't remember. Something that had been done to her.
I'd hate the child, she realized, and the thought made her sob harder. I'd hate my own child because every time I looked at it, I'd see them.
And I'd hate myself for hating an innocent baby.
The door opened softly. Footsteps approached. Star stood up, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks still wet. Adrian stood before her, his expression unreadable—the kind of careful blankness that meant he was processing something too big to show.
He knows now, Star thought. He knows I'm carrying some monster's child. He knows I'm broken. Used. Damaged.
She straightened up, gathering the remnants of her dignity, and tied her long wavy hair behind her head with a decisive movement.
"Well. It's been nice being your... friend." The word felt wrong in her mouth, but she forced it out anyway. "I'm leaving."
She took one step before Adrian's hand caught her wrist.
"Where are you going?" His brow was furrowed, his grip gentle but firm.
"Home." Star's voice came out steadier than she felt. "Lucian must be really worried. And I have his business phone."
Adrian's expression flickered—something dark, something sharp—at the mention of Lucian's name. "You still want to hang out with that killer?"
The word hit like a slap. Killer. The same word Adrian had used earlier, staring at her with fear in his eyes. The same word that now applied to her as much as it applied to Lucian.
Star slowly—deliberately—removed her hand from his grasp.
"I'm a killer," she said softly.
Adrian's face crumpled with regret. "I didn't mean it like that."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. Careful. "Dr. Mathews can help. With your..." His eyes dropped to her stomach—still flat, still secret-keeping, still hiding the impossible truth.
Star's frown deepened. "Abortion is illegal in Crestfall."
"I know." Adrian's voice was barely above a whisper. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her folded arms, a touch so light she almost didn't feel it. "But it's your decision. And I'll be here for you, whatever your decision is. I'll support you."
His blue eyes met hers. And he meant it. She could see it in the steady set of his jaw, the openness of his expression, the complete absence of judgment. This was the man who'd painted her face with tenderness. The man who'd kissed her like the world was ending. The man who'd just watched her kill three people and hadn't run away.
He means it, she realized.
Star stood frozen, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. They'd just come up with a ridiculous plan to frame Kefas for the deaths she'd caused. If she could trust him with that—and she did—then maybe...
"Okay." The word came out stronger than she expected. "Let's do it."
Adrian exhaled, relief flickering across his features. "Dr. Mathews is going to get his supplies. He's been my doctor since I was a child, and he's loyal to just me. You can trust him."
Star glanced toward the elevator, where Dr. Mathews was already waiting. He had that expression—the same one she'd seen on the gateman earlier today. The expression of a loyal soldier. Someone who'd follow orders without question. Someone who kept secrets.
Maybe this house has a few good people in it after all.
"In the meantime..." Adrian's voice shifted, lightening in a way that made her suspicious. Before she could react, he bent down and swept her off her feet, lifting her into his arms like she weighed nothing at all.
"Whoa!" Star bit her lip, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. "What are you—"
"Let's shower," Adrian said, already carrying her toward the elevator.
He pressed the button for the seventh floor with his elbow, still holding her. Star opened her mouth to protest—to say something about boundaries, about not being ready, about the hundred reasons this was moving too fast—but the words died in her throat.
Because his arms were warm. And solid. And she was so, so tired of fighting.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto the seventh floor. Adrian carried her into his room and gently deposited her on the edge of his master bed. The sheets were cool beneath her hands. The room smelled like him—clean and faintly woodsy, with something else underneath that she couldn't name.
"I'll go first," Adrian said, already heading toward the bathroom.
Star sat on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge, her heart slowly returning to normal. The shower started running on the other side of the door. Steam began to curl beneath the frame.
She touched her stomach. Flat. Silent. Still hiding its secret.
He's still here, she thought. He knows everything, and he's still here.
When Adrian emerged—hair damp, towel slung low around his waist—he gestured toward the bathroom with a small smile. "Your turn."
Star slipped past him, careful not to brush against his bare chest, careful not to look too long at the way the water droplets still clung to his shoulders. They were close now, closer than they'd ever been, but they weren't that close. Not yet. The intimacy of a shared shower, of tangled limbs and no barriers—that was a line neither of them was ready to cross.
Not tonight.
Tonight was about survival. About trust. About the quiet understanding that whatever was growing between them—whatever this thing was that made him look at her like she was worth saving—was real enough to wait.
She closed the bathroom door and turned on the water. And as the steam filled the room and the heat soaked into her tired muscles, Star let herself believe—just for a moment—that maybe everything was going to be okay.