The mansion sat on the edge of the lagoon like a fortress carved from black glass and steel. Elara stepped out of the Maybach and felt the humid night air wrap around her like a warning. Logan didn't speak as he led her inside. Marble floors, modern art that probably cost more than her entire life, and a silence so heavy it pressed on her chest.
"Master suite is this way," he said, voice clipped.
She followed him up the floating staircase, heels clicking too loudly. The bedroom was bigger than her old apartment. A king-sized bed dominated the center, sheets black as midnight. One wall was glass overlooking the water; the other held a hidden panel that Logan pressed. It slid open to reveal a walk-in closet already stocked with clothes in her size.
"Bathroom's through there. Shower, tub, whatever you need." He shrugged off his jacket, and Elara's mouth went dry. The dress shirt clung to his back, muscles shifting as he moved. When he turned, she saw the faint outline of something metallic under the fabric—dog tags? No… something else.
He caught her staring. "Rule two. No questions."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He stepped closer, crowding her space until her back hit the glass wall. "You're wondering what I am. What those scars are. Why my eyes look like they want to eat you alive."
Elara's pulse thundered. "Maybe I am."
Logan's hand came up, hovering an inch from her cheek. She could feel the heat rolling off him. For a second his fingers trembled, and she swore she heard a faint metallic snikt—like something sharp sliding into place.
Then he dropped his hand and stepped back like she'd burned him.
"Get some sleep," he growled. "Tomorrow the press wants photos of the happy newlyweds."
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Elara sank onto the bed, legs shaking. She changed into the silk slip that had been laid out for her and crawled under covers that smelled like him—sandalwood and wild rain. Sleep took forever to come.
At 3:17 a.m. she woke to a sound like tearing metal.
She slipped out of bed and padded down the hallway. The door to Logan's private study was ajar. Inside, the lights were off, but moonlight spilled across the floor. Logan stood at the window, shirt off, back to her. Sweat glistened on his skin. Three long, bloody gashes ran from his shoulder blade to his hip—fresh, deep.
Before her eyes, the wounds knit themselves closed. Skin smoothed over like time-lapse footage. The blood vanished. All that remained were faint pink lines that faded even as she watched.
Logan's head snapped toward the door. Their eyes locked.
"Elara," he said, voice dangerous. "Go back to bed."
She didn't move. "What the hell are you?"
He crossed the room in two strides, slamming the door behind her so they were trapped together in the dark. His bare chest brushed her silk slip. She could feel his heart hammering—fast, feral.
"I told you," he rasped, "no questions."
"Then stop bleeding all over your expensive floors and maybe I will."
A low, broken sound escaped his throat—half laugh, half growl. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. "You have no idea what you just walked into."
Outside, headlights swept across the driveway. Another black SUV. Same one from earlier.
Logan's head whipped toward the window. His eyes glowed faintly gold in the dark.
"Stay here," he ordered.
But Elara was already moving toward the glass, heart in her throat.