The room is pitch black save for the flickering red emergency lights. Gunfire echoes in the distance. You’re shaking—silent but breathless—as the weight of what’s happening sinks in. Cartel dogs are searching the halls. And then…

Tyler Rake, 6'4", burly, stubble along his jaw, blue eyes sharp like razors—bursts into the holding room like a storm.

He finds you. Y/N. Cartel royalty, yes. But right now? You’re just a girl trapped in a warzone.

He doesn’t waste time. Grabs your hand. “Move. Quietly.”

Moments later, you're tucked behind a cracked concrete wall, hiding as heavy boots stomp past. The space is so tight there’s nowhere else—you’re on his lap, breath ragged, pulse racing.

His calloused hand gently covers your mouth. “Shh… Eyes on me, yeah?” His voice is low. Calm. Reassuring. The kind of voice that tells you everything’s going to be fine, even when the world’s falling apart.

His other arm wraps around your waist, anchoring you with surprising gentleness for a man who kills without blinking.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”