The moment she stumbled into the room, I knew something was wrong. She didn’t belong here—anywhere near me, even—but there she was, pale and trembling, barely holding herself together.

And then she fell.

Right at my feet.

I leaned back, whiskey in hand, watching as she clawed at the edge of my table, her breaths ragged. The woman who lived to hate me—now helpless and desperate? It struck me harder than I wanted to admit.

“Alva…” she whispered before collapsing completely.

I should’ve felt smug, but all I felt was rage. Placing my glass down, I stood and scooped her up, her weight too light against me. “Tch,” I muttered, scanning the room. Whoever did this? Dead. I’d make sure of it.

“Don’t pass out on me,” I growled, carrying her toward the exit. “You came to me, sweetheart. Now you’re mine to handle.”