Chapter 1
The low, steady hum of the Boeing 777 engine vibrated through the soles of my sneakers, but it did absolutely nothing to soothe the frantic racing of my thoughts.
I stared out the tiny window, watching thick gray clouds swallow the Atlantic as the pilot’s British accent droned over the intercom, announcing our descent into London Heathrow. In my ears, a smooth, robotic voice from a meditation podcast lectured me about finding inner peace and letting go of control.
I scoffed softly, hitting pause on my phone. What a joke. Peace was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now.
The reality of the last twenty-four hours crashed over me in a suffocating wave. I had been abruptly pulled from my pre-med classes at NYU under a cloud of tight security and suspicious circumstances—things I could barely bring myself to think about, let alone figure out how to fix. I loved medicine. I wanted to save lives, to be in an ER, to actually make something of myself. But right now? My entire future was completely up in the air, and my life felt like a total train wreck.
To make matters worse, my father was still treating me like a helpless piece of cargo.
My phone buzzed in my hand, a text lighting up the screen from the one man nobody in the underworld dared to say no to.
Dad: The flight has landed. A driver is waiting for you at arrivals. He will take you directly to Christian’s estate. I expect you to follow his rules, Alina. Your safety is not a negotiation. I will call you when I can.
I stared at the words, my jaw clenching. Christian Vance. I didn’t even really know the man. He was my father’s top enforcer and childhood best friend, but he was never a talker when I was growing up. To me, he had always been this looming, silent shadow who showed up at our house in expensive tailored suits just to whisper in dark corners with my dad. I was twenty-two years old. I could easily stay at our own London estate by myself, but my father was completely paranoid about his enemies using me as leverage while he handled a crisis overseas.
So now, I was officially being passed off to a lethal babysitter.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to fire back. I don’t want to go there. I want to go to my own room. I don’t need a guard. But I knew better. Arguing with Marcus Torres was a dead end that only left you bruised.
I sighed, typing a single, bitter word: OK.
Once the plane finally gated, I grabbed my carry-on and joined the sea of exhausted passengers shuffling through customs. I looked like a total zombie, but I honestly couldn’t care less. I was wearing a simple pair of fitted jeans and a massive, oversized charcoal sweater that completely swallowed my hands, the knit collar slipping slightly off my bare shoulder. My long, wavy brown hair was thrown into a loose, messy braid resting over my chest, a few strands framing my face. I was completely, utterly done with this day, and ready to just disappear.
I pulled my luggage off the carousel, took a deep, shaky breath, and headed toward the arrivals gate.
The driver wasn’t hard to spot. He stood near the exit, a stocky man in a sharp black suit holding a crisp white sign with Miss Torres printed on it in neat, block letters. He didn’t smile, just gave a curt nod when I approached.“Miss Torres. This way, please.”
He took my suitcase without asking, his movements efficient and impersonal. I followed him out into the damp, cool London air, the heavy scent of jet fuel and wet pavement a sharp, grounded change from the recycled cabin atmosphere. A sleek, black sedan waited at the curb. He opened the rear door for me, and I slid in, the leather cool against my skin.
The drive was a blur of gray skies and unfamiliar streets. Leaving London for NYU had been one of my only real victories—a chance to leave behind the suffocating weight of my father’s empire in the hopes of starting a better life. But now, the underworld was pulling me right back into its cold arms.
I glanced at the driver in the rearview mirror. “How far is it to Christian Vance’s place?”
“Forty minutes, Miss.” His tone was flat, purely professional.
I let out a slow breath, sinking deeper into the seat. Forty minutes to mentally prepare for being under the roof of a man who terrified my father’s fiercest rivals.
I set the phone down and closed my eyes, exhaustion finally pulling at my body. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the steady purr of the tires on the tarmac lulled me into a shallow sleep.
When I blinked awake, the car had slowed. Rolling hills stretched out beyond the windows, the occasional brick estate nestled among the heavy greenery of the English countryside. The road narrowed, winding between ancient hedgerows and stone fences. Then, at the top of a gentle slope, a massive, ivy-covered stone estate came into view.
The sedan smoothly purred to a halt right in front of the grand, arched double doors. The driver was out of his seat in an instant, opening my door. I slid out on my own, ignoring his offered hand, and tugged at my clothes against the damp air that instantly bit at my bare skin. I looked up at the towering stone structure, my heart doing a nervous little flutter against my ribs that I actively tried to suppress.
Before I could even reach for my bag, one of the massive front doors swung open.
And there he was.
Christian Vance stood at the top of the stone steps, looking less like a temporary guardian and more like a dark king surveying his kingdom. He was absolutely massive—towering at 6′3" with broad shoulders that completely filled out the frame of the doorway. He was wearing a dark charcoal tailored suit, but the jacket was unbuttoned, his tie was completely gone, and the top buttons of his white dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled up past his thick, veiny forearms, exposing the dark edges of intricate tattoos and a few prominent, faded scars.
He didn’t smile. His piercing, icy silver-gray eyes locked directly onto mine, heavy and intensely focused as he slowly descended the stairs. The sheer power radiating off him made the air feel thick.“Alina,” Christian rasped. His low, gravelly baritone cut through the quiet afternoon, the sound a physical thing that scraped right against my nerves. He stopped just a couple of feet away, completely blotting out the sky above me. His eyes tracked the messy braid over my shoulder, dropped to my bare collarbone, and then snapped back to my face. “Your father said you were stubborn, but neglecting to text him that you arrived safely before falling asleep in my car? Not a great start.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, tilting my chin up to look him dead in the eye despite the height difference between us. I forced a small, defiant smirk onto my face.
“I’m twenty-two, Christian,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline drumming in my chest. “I think I can manage a forty-minute drive without a supervisor. Nice to see you too, by the way.”
Christian’s jaw tightened, a sharp muscle flexing under his dark five o’clock shadow as his silver eyes narrowed.
“Just show me to my room, will you?” I sighed heavily.
“Not until we go over the rules.”
“Rules?” I repeated, letting the word hang in the damp air between us. A cold drop of rain landed on my cheek, but I refused to flinch. “I thought this was a safe house, not a prison.”
“It becomes a prison if you make it one.” He didn’t move an inch, his massive frame completely blocking my path to the grand entrance. “First rule. You check in. With me. Not your father. Me. When you leave this property, when you return. A text will suffice. Failure to do so results in a revocation of privileges.”
“Privileges?” I scoffed, the sound brittle. “I’m not a child. I don’t need rules, and I don’t see why I can’t just go to our house. I don’t need a babysitter.”
His face didn’t change, but something cold and dark flickered behind those silver eyes. “You need protection. That’s why you’re here. Whether you like it or not.”
I stepped forward, getting close enough to detect the faint, rich scent of whiskey on his breath. “And if I don’t like it? If I decide to leave?”
Something shifted in his expression—a dangerous challenge. “Then you’d be putting yourself at risk. And I’d have to tell your father that his daughter isn’t as capable of taking care of herself as she thinks she is.”
The words hit like a slap. I knew the underworld threats were real, which only made my frustration burn hotter. I hated being trapped. I hated being someone’s responsibility.
I rolled my eyes. “Continue.”
He didn’t flinch at the sarcasm. “Second rule. No unauthorized visitors. No leaving the grounds after dark without permission. No social media posts revealing your location.” He continued before I could open my mouth to argue, his voice steady and unyielding. “Third rule. You’re to stay on the property unless you have my express approval. Your father has enemies, and I won’t have you used as leverage.”
“Great,” I muttered, crossing my arms tighter. “So I’m basically a prisoner.”
“You’re safe,” he corrected. There was something in his tone—not sympathy, exactly, but a kind of weary, intense understanding that caught me off guard. “That’s the point.”
“I was perfectly fine in New York,” I lied, looking away. “Can I go inside now?”
“No, you cannot. Not until we’re done here.”
I glared back up at him, but he didn’t waver. He was an unmovable wall of authority standing between me and the door.
Fine. I folded my arms tighter. “What else?”
“Fourth rule.” His voice dropped lower, steady and dark. “You don’t wander the house alone at night. If you need something, you call me.”
I scoffed. “So now I’m not even allowed to walk around my own temporary home without an escort?”
“It’s not your home.”
I smacked my lips, completely irritated. “Fine, then I’m not listening to that rule. Punish me, what do I care?”
His eyes flashed, a spark of something dangerous and primitive igniting in the silver. For a second, I thought he’d finally snap—yell, threaten, show the side of him that handled my father’s business. Instead, Christian Vance took one slow, deliberate step closer, until the damp chill of the London air was completely replaced by the intense heat radiating from his body. The scent of him—whiskey, expensive soap, and raw, masculine power—wrapped around me, crowding my senses.
“Punish you?” he repeated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that literally vibrated in my own chest. “Is that what you’re asking for, Alina?”
My breath hitched. My clinical, pre-med brain instantly noted the spike in my own heart rate, my pulse thrumming wildly in my throat. That wasn’t what I’d meant. Not at all. But the way he said my name—rough, dark, like a promise and a warning all at once—sent an unexpected wave of heat pooling straight into my stomach. I forced myself to hold his heavy gaze, refusing to let him see how much his proximity shook me.
“I meant, do whatever your twisted little mind thinks is a consequence,” I said, keeping my words sharp and steady. “I don’t care. I’m not a child. You don’t scare me.”
Christian’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was sharper, predatory—more like the baring of teeth.
I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, masking the flutter in my ribs. “Now, can I please go to my room?”
His eyes flickered with something entirely unreadable before he finally stepped back, gesturing toward the open doors with a slow sweep of his hand. “After you.”
Caught off guard by the sudden retreat, I hesitated for a fraction of a second. I had expected him to keep standing in my way, to make me fight for every inch of space. With a scowl, I brushed past him. The soft knit of my oversized sweater caught briefly against the crisp fabric of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and the fleeting contact sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I ignored it, stomping up the steps and into the house.
The interior was a sudden shock of warmth and light after the damp gloom outside. A vast, high-ceilinged foyer opened before me, lined with polished dark wood floors and stone walls softened by thick, expensive rugs. A grand staircase swept up to a second-floor balcony. It was beautiful, immaculate, and utterly cold.
Christian’s footsteps were completely silent behind me, but I could feel him there—a dark, solid presence looming at my back.
“Your room is on the second floor,” he said, his voice echoing softly in the vast space.
I nodded stiffly, already moving toward the stairs. I didn’t wait for him to guide me, refusing to appear lost or dependent. My fingers brushed against the polished banister as I climbed, the wood warm beneath my touch. He followed, his heavy aura tracking my movements.
“Which one?” I asked, stopping at the top of the landing. The long corridor stretched in both directions, lined with heavy oak doors.
“Left. Last door.”
I followed his instructions, my sneakers muffled by the plush carpet. The door stood slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, stepping inside.
The room was huge, easily three times the size of my dorm room back in New York. A massive four-poster bed with dark velvet hangings dominated the space. A fireplace sat cold and empty on one wall, and a pair of elegant French doors led out to a small stone balcony overlooking the expansive back gardens. It was beautiful, impersonal, and felt exactly like a gilded cage.
Christian’s massive shadow fell across the threshold, but he didn’t enter. He leaned one broad shoulder against the doorframe, filling the space entirely. “Bathroom’s through there. The closet is empty. Your luggage will be brought up.”
I sighed, stepping further into the room. “Well, it’s lovely,” I said flatly, my voice dripping with forced politeness. “A real prison fit for a princess.”
Christian’s silver eyes narrowed slightly at the sarcasm, but he refused to rise to the bait. “It’s secure. That’s what matters.”
I rolled my eyes, walking over to the French doors and pushing them open. A gust of damp, cool evening air rolled in, carrying the smell of rain-soaked grass and distant woodsmoke. I leaned against the balcony’s stone railing, staring out at the darkening sky, annoyed by how beautiful the sight actually was.
“So, am I allowed to leave this room at all, or is it a straight-up cell?” I asked, my fingers curling around the cold stone. The wind tugged at my messy braid, loosening a few brown strands across my face.
Christian chuckled—a low, rough, gravelly sound that sent an unexpected shiver traveling straight down my spine. “It’s not a cell, Alina. It’s a room.” He pushed off the doorframe, finally stepping into my space. His presence instantly dominated the entire area, making the massive room feel incredibly small. “You can leave it whenever you like. Just don’t wander where you shouldn’t.”
I glanced over my shoulder, arching a brown eyebrow. “And where exactly shouldn’t I wander? Everywhere?”
Christian stopped just a few inches behind me. The cool wind sweeping across the balcony was completely overridden by the sheer, overwhelming heat radiating off his body. He didn’t look out at the gardens. His intense, silver-gray eyes were fixed entirely on the back of my neck, watching the way the breeze stirred my hair.
“My private wing on the third floor is entirely off-limits,” Christian rumbled, his deep baritone vibrating right against my shoulder blades. He took one more slow, deliberate step, deliberately crowding me against the cold stone railing until I could hear the faint, crisp rustle of his shirt sleeve right next to my ear. “The basement levels are locked for a reason. And the front gates don’t open unless I give the command.”
I squeezed the stone railing tightly, my knuckles turning white. I refused to let him see how much his proximity was making my pulse thrum. I turned around slowly, forcing myself to lean back against the balcony edge so I could look up at him. Our faces were dangerously close—close enough that I could see the precise silver flecks in his dark eyes and the strict, unyielding set of his jaw.
“So basically, I can wander between my bedroom and the kitchen,” I said, arching an eyebrow, my voice dripping with bratty sarcasm. “How thrilling. Should I schedule an appointment with you if I want to sit in the living room, Mr. Vance?”
Christian’s eyes darkened, dropping down to my lips for a split second before snapping back up to hold my gaze with a terrifyingly heavy focus. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping the stone railing right next to my hip, completely trapping me between his massive frame and the drop behind me.
He leaned in just an inch closer, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Keep testing me with that smart mouth, Alina,” he rasped, a dangerous, low warning slicing through the damp air. “And you’ll find out exactly how strict my scheduling can get.”
He held my gaze for one long, breathless second, letting the threat hang heavy between us, before he finally straightened up to his full height. He looked down his nose at me, his expression turning cold and professional once again.
“Your luggage is being brought up now,” he said flatly, stepping back into the bedroom. “Unpack. Get some rest. Dinner is at eight downstairs, and I expect you to be at the table. Cleaned up, and on time.”
He turned on his heel, his dark shadow sweeping across the plush carpet as he walked toward the door, leaving me alone on the balcony with my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.
I lingered on the balcony for a few more moments, staring at the empty doorway where he had just been. The chill of the damp air still bit at my skin, but it did little to cool the sudden, intense heat that had spread through my body, pooling low in my stomach. I wrapped my arms around myself, more to steady my shaking hands than for warmth, and exhaled a slow, shaky breath.
When I finally turned back into the room, it felt even larger and emptier than before. My eyes flicked to the closed door, then to the massive, inviting bed. My muscles ached from the international flight, exhaustion pressing down on me, but my mind was buzzing, far too wired to just lie down.
I needed to move. To do something. Anything.
I strode across the room, pushing the French doors open wider to let in more of the evening breeze. The gardens below were darkening, the manicured hedges and flower beds emerging from the gloom as twilight deepened. I wondered what lay beyond the property lines, what kind of world existed outside this gilded cage Christian Vance had decided to trap me in.
A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I turned sharply, expecting to see that massive frame again, but it was just one of the estate staff—a quiet, unobtrusive man in a crisp uniform, carrying my suitcase. He set it down by the closet door, his eyes never meeting mine before he quietly stepped back out.
