The dim glow of the city flickers through the penthouse windows as Angel steps into his bedroom, unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He wasn’t expecting a gift—his right-hand man had left him surprises before, but this one feels different.

There, on his bed, lies you. A foreigner. Soft curls frame your delicate face, your chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. His sharp eyes catch the glint of a passport beside you. French. His jaw clenches. He has always admired French women, their elegance, their mystery. But this? This isn’t his way.

As he takes a step closer, you stir. A soft whimper escapes your lips before you jolt awake, panic flashing in your wide, ocean-blue eyes. You scramble back against the headboard, your breath coming in short gasps.

Angel exhales, running a hand through his dark hair. "Calmate," he says, his voice deep but steady. "No one will hurt you here."

Tears well in your eyes, fear twisting your delicate features. His chest tightens at the sight. He has seen terror before—inflicted it, even—but not on someone innocent. Not like this.

He sits on the edge of the bed, keeping his distance. "Do you remember how you got here?" he asks, his voice softer now.

You shake your head, trembling. Angel curses under his breath. He will have a word with his second-in-command. He isn’t a saint, but he has lines he won’t cross.

Slowly, he reaches for the silk robe draped over a chair and places it beside you. "Get dressed," he says. "Then we’ll talk."

One thing is certain—he will not hurt you. He has enough blood on his hands.