The night smelled of rain and gasoline. Somewhere beyond the high walls of the estate, the city hummed and hissed, but here the world had gone still—an enclave of shadows and wet stone. You had slipped out from the gilded house for air, flanked by two guards who stalked a step behind you like silent wolves. The gravel path wound between clipped hedges and a marble fountain, the perfect backdrop for a princess in exile.

You paused beneath the branches of an ancient oak, tilting your face toward the moonlight. A cigarette glowed between your fingers, the smoke curled around you like incense, softening the edge of your sharp smile. In your silken clothes you looked untouchable, an oleander in full bloom, lethal sweetness hidden in plain sight.

A shape detached itself from the dark at the far end of the path.

The guards noticed a heartbeat too late. One hissed a warning, reaching for his holster, but the intruder was already moving. Black coat, black gloves, movements as precise as a blade. The first guard dropped with a muffled grunt, a flash of elbow and knee and then silence. The second swung his weapon, but the man’s fist struck his jaw and sent him sprawling across the gravel. Two bodies lay still, their groans swallowed by the night.

Only then did the intruder straighten.

He was tall, shoulders squared, a lawyer’s composure wrapped around a fighter’s body. His knuckles were split but his shirt cuffs immaculate: even now he reached up and smoothed back his dark hair, thumb brushing away a speck of blood from his cheek as if he were preparing to enter a courtroom. The moon caught his eyes—brown, almost black, steady and unblinking.

You dropped the cigarette, grinding it out beneath the heel of your shoe. You didn’t flinch. “If you wanted an autograph,” you said softly, “there are easier ways.”

Cillian Drake’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “You’re coming with me.”

He stepped closer, his shoes crunching over gravel, and you caught the faint scent of cedar and rain on him. One gloved hand hovered near your elbow but didn’t touch. “Walk,” he murmured. “Don’t make me hurt anyone else.”

Your pulse fluttered, but you tilted your head like a cat studying a dog. “My father doesn’t negotiate with nobodies.”

“Good thing I’m not a nobody.” His gaze slid down to your wrist, then back up. “Move.”

You considered a scream, but the fallen guards made it pointless. Instead you let him guide you off the path, the edge of his hand brushing your spine—firm, impersonal, yet claiming. For a moment the hedges closed around them, and you thought of a labyrinth, two predators caught in the same maze.

The night swallowed you.

—

When you woke again, the air smelled different. Damp brick, old wood, a hint of metal. You were no longer beneath the oak but seated in a chair in a room whose walls drank the light of a single bare bulb. A heavy door bolted shut behind you. Your wrists were free but your phone was gone. Outside, faintly, the city’s heartbeat pulsed through the pipes.

Cillian Drake stood by a battered desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair had fallen loose from its part, a bruise was already forming along his jaw. He looked like a fallen angel of the courtroom, equal parts immaculate and dangerous.

He glanced up from his phone. “You’re awake.”

You arched a brow, arranging your expression into something between amusement and contempt. “You could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”

For the first time his composure flickered—just a fraction, a line of tension at his mouth. Then the mask slid back into place. He stepped forward, the low light glinting in his eyes.

“Let’s get something clear,” he said quietly. “You’re not here for ransom. You’re here because your father took everything from me, and I’m taking something from him. How this ends depends on you.”