A RICH WOMAN PAID ME $5,000 TO KISS A STRANGER—THEN I DISCOVERED HE WAS THE CITY'S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS. I only wanted enough money to fix my little sister's teeth and keep us from being evicted. The woman who dared me thought she'd found the perfect way to humiliate him, and I was desperate enough to help. But when his guards dragged me toward the exit, he suddenly called my name—and everything changed.

The safehouse was a fortified brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, hidden behind an unassuming ivy-covered facade.

Within forty minutes of the ambush, a Greer syndicate trauma surgeon had stitched Ryan’s flank under local anesthesia, administered antibiotics, and declared that the bullet had miraculously missed his spleen by half an inch.

By three in the morning, the doctor and the armed guards had retreated to the lower level, leaving Ryan and me alone in the dimly lit second-floor bedroom.

Ryan was propped up against a mountain of pillows, his torso wrapped in tight medical bandages. The room smelled of antiseptic and rain. Outside, thunder rumbled over the city, shaking the glass windowpanes.

I sat on the edge of the mattress with a basin of warm water and a soft washcloth, gently wiping away the traces of soot and dried blood from his collarbones and muscular arms.

Neither of us had spoken for an hour. The brush of the damp cloth against his skin was the only sound between the distant rumbles of thunder.

"You should be resting with Sadie," Ryan said softly, his voice gravelly from exhaustion. "Victor moved her here under heavy escort. She’s asleep in the next room. She didn't see anything."

"I know," I whispered, dipping the cloth back into the water, wringing it out. "I checked on her. Tony is sitting outside her door with a shotgun. She thinks this is an adventure sleepover."

I brought the cloth back to his chest, gently cleaning the skin near the edge of the white bandages.

Suddenly, Ryan’s hand shot out, catching my wrist.

I froze.

His grip wasn't weak from blood loss. It was firm, warm, and trembling with a raw, electric need that made my breath catch in my throat.

"Why didn't you run, Diane?" he murmured, his storm-gray eyes boring into mine with devastating intensity. "In that alley. You could have slipped out through the back while Victor and I held them off. You could have taken the money in your trust and vanished."

"I don't leave people behind," I said, my voice barely audible over the patter of rain against the glass.

"I am a killer, Diane," Ryan whispered, pulling my hand slowly, inexorably toward his chest, placing my open palm directly over his beating heart. His heart was hammering like a war drum beneath my fingertips. "I run syndicates. I order executions. I am the villain in every story your father ever read to you."

"My father loved you," I said, tears shining in my eyes. "And you protected me. You protected Sadie. Tonight... you put your body between me and a hail of bullets without hesitating for a single second."

I leaned in closer, my free hand coming up to cup his rugged, stubbled cheek.

"You're not a monster to me, Ryan. Not anymore."

Ryan let out a low, ragged groan from the depths of his chest.

Before I could breathe, his hand tangled into the hair at the nape of my neck. Ignoring the searing pain in his wounded side, he pulled me down, and his mouth crashed against mine.

The kiss was nothing like the desperate, trembling peck in the St. Regis ballroom.

It was a torrential downpour of fire and passion that had been restrained for weeks. It was hungry, possessive, and devastatingly tender. I gasped against his lips, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing mine with a dark, commanding rhythm that made my entire body turn to liquid fire.

I clutched his broad shoulders, careful not to jostle his bandage, pressing myself against him as if I could absorb his pain into my own bones. Every wall of defense I had built around my heart—every rule of our fake contract, every boundary of safety—crumbled into dust.

"Diane," he growled against my lips, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against mine as we parted for air. "This isn't business. It was never business. The moment you walked up to me in that red dress, looking like an angel daring to challenge the devil... I was yours."

"Ryan," I whispered, kissing his scarred jaw, his cheek, his bruised lips. "I love you. God help me, I love you."

Ryan pulled me up onto the bed, wrapping his uninjured arm around my waist, holding me against his chest as if I were the rarest, most fragile treasure on earth.

"No more contracts," Ryan swore into my hair, his voice vibrating with absolute, sacred resolve. "When Marcus Voss is dead, you're not walking away with five million dollars. You're staying right here. As my wife. As my queen."

I buried my face in his neck, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart, and for the first time since my parents died, I felt completely, unshakably safe.