CAIN'S POV
Cain Harlow has made a career out of control.
Control over his empire. Control over his enemies. Control over the mask he wears every single day, the one that makes people see a ruthless businessman instead of the weapon he really is.
But watching Elara Monroe drip rainwater onto his marble floor, defiant and shaking and so goddamn beautiful it makes his chest ache—that control is slipping.
He's been watching her for six months. Ever since she started asking questions about her sister's disappearance, following leads that should have been cold, bribing his lower-level employees for information they didn't have. Most people give up after a few weeks. The grieving families, the desperate loved ones—they all eventually accept that some people stay lost.
Not Elara.
She kept digging. Kept pushing. And three months ago, when she got close enough to be dangerous, Cain had a choice: eliminate the threat, or see where she led him.
He chose wrong. Or right. He's still not sure which.
Because now she's here, in his penthouse, looking at him like he's both her salvation and her executioner, and Cain can't remember the last time someone looked at him and saw anything other than the monster he's worked so hard to become.
"The guest room is down the hall," he says, keeping his voice neutral. Professional. "Second door on the left. There are clothes in the closet that should fit."
Elara doesn't move. She's still clutching that damned folder, her knuckles white, water pooling at her feet. Her dark hair is plastered to her face, and there's a cut on her cheekbone that wasn't there in the surveillance photos from this morning. She must have scraped it climbing the fire escape.
His fire escape. His building. His city.
And now, apparently, his problem.
"Why do you have women's clothes in your guest room?" she asks. Her voice is steady, but Cain can hear the tremor underneath. Fear or adrenaline or both.
"Because I'm not an idiot," he says. "And this isn't the first time someone's shown up at my door wet and desperate."
"Comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." Cain shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over a chair. The penthouse is too warm after the rain outside, all glass walls and exposed brick and furniture that costs more than most people make in a year. He built this place to be a fortress. Right now, with Elara in it, it feels like a cage. "Go change. We'll talk after."
"We'll talk now."
He turns to look at her, really look at her, and feels something crack in his carefully constructed armor. She's terrified. He can see it in the way she holds herself, the slight tremor in her hands, the rapid pulse in her throat. But she's not running. Not breaking. Just standing there, soaked and bleeding and demanding answers from the most dangerous man in the city.
Brave or stupid. Cain still hasn't decided which.
"You want to talk now?" he asks quietly. "Fine. Your sister was taken by an organization called the Syndicate. They traffic in people—mostly women and girls, but not exclusively. They move their merchandise through a network of shell companies, offshore accounts, and legitimate businesses that provide cover. The folder you stole contains documentation of six months' worth of transactions, including three shipments that match the timeline of your sister's disappearance."
Elara's face goes pale. "Merchandise."
"That's what they call them. I call them victims." Cain moves to the bar and pours two fingers of whiskey, then thinks better of it and pours four. "The Syndicate operates in twelve cities across three continents. They're careful, connected, and extremely well-funded. Most of their victims are never recovered. Those who are—" He stops, takes a drink. "They're not the same people who were taken."
"You're saying my sister is—"
"I'm saying she might be alive. Might be. But Elara, you need to understand what that means." He turns back to her, and the look on her face makes him want to put his fist through something. "If she's alive, she's been in their hands for three years. Three years of—" He cuts himself off. She doesn't need the details. Not yet. "Even if we find her, she won't be the girl you remember."
"I don't care." Elara's voice breaks. "I just need her back."
And there it is. The desperation Cain has been waiting for, the breaking point where she'll agree to anything if it means saving her sister. This is where he's supposed to make his move, extract promises and favors and leverage for later.
Instead, he hears himself say: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." Cain sets down his glass. "I'll help you find her. No strings, no conditions. You want Maya back, we'll get her back."
Elara stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Why?"
Because three years ago, I watched your sister get dragged into a van while I was a block away, too far to stop it, and I've been living with that failure every day since. Because you remind me that there are still people in this world who fight for something other than power or money. Because when you looked at me in that alley, you weren't afraid—you were furious, and I haven't felt anything real in so long I forgot what it was like.
"Because I owe her," Cain says instead. "And because you found information I need."
It's not quite a lie.
Elara's jaw tightens. "The file."
"The file. Those transactions link back to a man named Viktor Kozlov. He's the Syndicate's regional director, the one who coordinates operations in this part of the country." Cain moves toward her slowly, giving her time to step back if she wants. She doesn't. "I've been trying to get concrete evidence on him for two years. You just handed it to me."
"So we help each other."
"Exactly."
"And then what? After we find Maya, after you take down Kozlov—what happens to me?"
The question catches him off guard. Not because he hasn't thought about it, but because she's asking. Most people don't want to know what comes after, too focused on surviving right now to worry about tomorrow.
"Then you walk away," Cain says. "You and your sister, safe and free. That's the deal."
"You expect me to believe you'll just let us go?"
"I expect you to believe I'm a lot of things, Elara, but I'm not a liar." He's close enough now to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, to count the freckles across her nose that the security cameras didn't catch. "When I make a promise, I keep it. So I'm promising you this: I will help you find your sister. I will keep you safe while we do it. And when it's over, you walk away clean."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You said you've been hunting them for ten years. That you've shut down their operations, freed victims." She tilts her head, studying him with an intensity that makes him want to look away. "Why? What did they take from you?"
Everything. Everyone. The last shred of the man I might have been.
"That's not part of our deal," Cain says.
"Then maybe we need a new deal." Elara takes a step closer, and Cain's breath catches. She's tiny compared to him, barely reaching his shoulder, but in this moment she feels enormous. "You want me to trust you? Give me a reason. Tell me why you care."
"I don't care." The words taste like ash. "I'm just doing a job."
"Liar."
His lips twitch despite himself. "You keep calling me that."
"Because you keep lying." She's so close now he can smell the rain in her hair, see the way her pulse hammers in her throat. "You don't spend ten years destroying an organization just because it's a job, Cain. You do it because it's personal. So tell me—what's your sister's name?"
The world goes silent.
For a moment, Cain can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except stare at this impossible woman who just reached into his chest and pulled out the one thing he never talks about.
"How did you—"
"Your reaction when I said Maya's name. The way you talked about failing her." Elara's voice is gentle now, understanding. "You're not trying to save my sister, Cain. You're trying to save yours."
He should deny it. Should put distance between them, rebuild the walls she just tore down with a few simple words. Should remember that letting people in is how you get destroyed.
Instead, he says: "Elena. Her name was Elena."
"Was?"
"I was twelve when they took her. Sixteen when I found out she was dead." The words come easier than they should, like lancing a wound that's been festering too long. "They killed her because she tried to escape. Made an example of her so the others wouldn't get ideas."
Elara's hand finds his before he realizes she's moved, her fingers cold and small against his palm. The touch is tentative, questioning, and Cain knows he should pull away. Knows that accepting comfort, accepting connection—it's weakness.
But he doesn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be. I'm not." He looks down at their joined hands, at the way her fingers fit against his like they were made to be there. "Her death is what made me into this. Into someone who can fight them, hurt them, make them pay for every life they've ruined." His gaze lifts to hers. "So no, I'm not trying to save my sister. She's gone. But maybe I can save yours."
"Maybe we both can."
The words hang in the air between them, a promise or a threat or both. Cain should let go of her hand now, should step back and reassert the boundaries that keep him safe. Should remember that she's a means to an end, a tool to bring down Kozlov and nothing more.
But when Elara looks up at him with those fierce eyes, when she squeezes his hand like she's holding onto a lifeline—Cain realizes with startling clarity that he's already lost.
She's not a tool. She's not a means to an end.
She's the first real thing he's felt in twenty years, and he's going to burn the world down to keep her safe.
"You should rest," he manages, pulling his hand free before he does something stupid like pull her closer. "Tomorrow's going to be difficult."
"What happens tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, I introduce you to my world." Cain turns away, needing distance, needing air. "The clubs, the contacts, the people who owe me favors. If Maya's still in the city, someone knows where. We just have to ask the right questions."
"And if she's not in the city?"
"Then we expand the search." He pauses at the window, looking out at the rain-soaked skyline. "I have resources, Elara. Money, connections, people who can find anyone anywhere. We will find her."
"You sound certain."
"I am certain." He glances back at her, and the determination in his expression must convince her because she nods slowly. "Now go. Change, sleep, eat something. You're no good to anyone exhausted and bleeding."
For a moment, he thinks she'll argue. But then she nods and heads toward the guest room, still clutching that folder like it's the most precious thing in the world.
It might be. For both of them.
She stops at the doorway and looks back. "Cain?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For telling me about Elena."
"Don't thank me yet," he says quietly. "You might regret it before this is over."
"I don't think I will."
She disappears into the guest room, and Cain is left alone with the rain and his whiskey and the uncomfortable realization that everything just changed.
He spent ten years building walls, creating distance, becoming the monster everyone thought he was. It was easier that way. Safer. Monsters don't feel, don't break, don't make mistakes.
But Elara Monroe walked into his life tonight and saw right through him. Saw the man beneath the monster, the boy who lost his sister, the part of him that's still bleeding after all these years.
And the worst part? He let her.
Cain drains his whiskey and pours another, trying to ignore the way his hand shook when she touched him. Trying to forget the softness in her voice when she said his name. Trying not to think about the fact that she's in his home now, sleeping in his guest room, trusting him to keep her safe.
Trusting him. As if he's someone who deserves trust.
He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Marcus, his head of security:
Run full background on Elara Monroe. I want everything—bank accounts, associates, every place she's lived, every person she's talked to in the past six months. And put surveillance on her apartment. If anyone shows interest, I want to know immediately.
The reply comes back in seconds: Already done. Sending files now.
Of course Marcus is ahead of him. The man's been working for Cain long enough to anticipate his paranoia.
The files appear on his screen—pages of documentation, surveillance photos, financial records. Cain scrolls through them mechanically, looking for red flags, for signs that Elara is more than she seems. Looking for a reason to push her away before she gets any closer.
He finds nothing. She's exactly who she appears to be: a journalist who barely makes rent, who spends every spare dollar on her investigation, who hasn't had a relationship last longer than three months because she's too focused on finding her sister. Who visits her parents' graves every week even though they've been dead for five years. Who volunteers at the community center where Maya used to tutor kids.
She's good. Pure. Everything Cain stopped being two decades ago.
And he's going to ruin her.
Not intentionally. He never intends to ruin anything. But destruction follows him like a shadow, and everyone who gets close eventually pays the price. His sister learned that. The few people he's tried to care about over the years learned that. Now Elara will learn it too.
But not yet. Not tonight.
Tonight, she's safe in his home. Tomorrow, they'll start hunting monsters together. And maybe—just maybe—Cain can keep her alive long enough to find her sister and walk away.
Even if it kills him to let her go.
He's still staring at her file when he hears the guest room door open. Elara appears in the hallway, swimming in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, her hair damp and face scrubbed clean. She looks younger without the hard edge of determination, more vulnerable.
More dangerous to his carefully constructed control.
"Can't sleep?" he asks.
"Too wired." She moves into the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood. "And hungry. You said something about eating?"
"Kitchen's that way." He gestures. "Help yourself to whatever."
She doesn't go to the kitchen. Instead, she sits on the couch across from him, tucking her feet under her like she's settling in for a conversation. "Tell me about Kozlov."
"Now?"
"Now. If we're doing this tomorrow, I need to know what we're walking into."
Cain studies her for a moment, then closes his laptop. "Viktor Kozlov. Fifty-three. Born in Moscow, immigrated twenty years ago. On paper, he's a legitimate businessman—imports, exports, real estate. Off paper, he's the Syndicate's regional director. He coordinates all trafficking operations within five hundred miles of this city."
"And you're just... letting him operate?"
"I'm gathering evidence," Cain corrects. "Kozlov is careful. He doesn't get his hands dirty directly, uses intermediaries and shell companies to insulate himself. If I move against him without ironclad proof, he walks and the whole network disappears underground for another decade. Your folder might finally give me what I need."
"So we use it as bait. Draw him out."
"No." The word is sharp, final. "We use it as leverage, but you stay far away from Kozlov. He's dangerous, Elara. Not like the small-time criminals you've been interviewing. He's the kind of man who would hurt you just to see what sounds you make."
She pales slightly but doesn't back down. "Then how do we—"
"We don't. I do." Cain leans forward, needing her to understand this. "You're the researcher, the strategist. I'm the weapon. That's how this works. You point me in the right direction, and I handle the rest."
"I'm not staying on the sidelines while you—"
"Yes, you are." His voice drops, goes cold. "Because if you don't, you die. And if you die, your sister stays lost forever. So you're going to stay safe, stay smart, and let me do what I do best."
They stare at each other across the coffee table, wills clashing, until finally Elara looks away.
"Fine," she mutters. "But I want updates. Every step of the way."
"Deal." Cain relaxes slightly, surprised she gave in that easily. Most people push harder. "Now go eat something before you pass out."
This time she does head to the kitchen, and Cain tries not to watch the way she moves through his space like she belongs there. Tries not to notice how right it feels having someone else in the penthouse, breaking up the silence he's lived in for years.
He's still trying not to notice when she comes back with a sandwich and curls up on the couch again, close enough that he can smell the soap from his guest bathroom on her skin.
"Tell me about the clubs," she says between bites.
"What about them?"
"You said you own six. That they're your front for gathering intelligence." She tilts her head. "How does that work?"
"People talk when they think they're safe. When they're drinking, socializing, doing business in private rooms they think are secure." Cain shrugs. "I provide the space. They provide the information."
"You're spying on your own customers."
"I'm protecting my city." The correction is automatic. "And yes, that means surveillance. Audio, video, data collection. Every conversation in every room is recorded, analyzed, cataloged. You'd be amazed what people confess when they think no one's listening."
Elara sets down her sandwich, suddenly looking less hungry. "That's..."
"Illegal? Unethical?" Cain's smile is sharp. "Welcome to my world, sweetheart. Nothing I do is particularly legal or ethical. But it's effective."
"And that's all that matters to you? Being effective?"
"Yes." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "Results matter. Methods don't."
"I don't believe that."
"You should." He stands, needing distance again. "You need to understand something, Elara. I'm not a good man. I'm not your hero. I've killed people, destroyed lives, done things that would keep you awake at night if you knew the details. The only reason I'm helping you is because it serves my purpose."
"To take down Kozlov."
"To take down all of them." Cain's voice goes hard. "Kozlov, the Syndicate, everyone who profits from human suffering. I don't care what it costs or who gets hurt along the way. So if you're looking for someone noble, someone redeemable—look elsewhere."
Elara stands too, and suddenly they're too close again, the space between them charged with something Cain doesn't want to name.
"You know what I think?" she says quietly.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"I think you work very hard to make people believe you're a monster. Because if they believe it, you don't have to feel guilty about the things you do. You can pretend it's just business, just strategy." She takes a step closer. "But I saw your face when you talked about Elena. I saw the guilt, the grief, the rage. Monsters don't feel those things, Cain. Men do."
"Then maybe I'm both."
"Maybe." Her hand lifts like she's going to touch him again, and every nerve in Cain's body screams at him to move away. "Or maybe you're just a man who's been alone for too long."
He catches her wrist before she can make contact, his grip firm but careful. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to save me. I'm not one of your stories, not a puzzle you can solve." His thumb presses against her pulse point, feeling it race. "You want my help finding Maya? Fine. But this—" He gestures between them. "This doesn't happen. Understand?"
For a moment, she just looks at him, and Cain can see her processing, analyzing, trying to understand what just shifted. Then she pulls her wrist free and steps back.
"Understood," she says coolly. "Purely business."
"Purely business."
"Good." She picks up her plate and heads back toward the guest room. "I'll see you in the morning then."
"Elara."
She pauses, looks back.
"Lock your door," Cain says. "Not because of me. Because I have enemies, and now that you're here, you're a target. If anyone gets past my security, I need you safe until I can reach you."
Something flickers in her expression—fear, maybe, or gratitude. "Okay."
"And Elara? Tomorrow's going to be hard. The clubs, the people we'll meet—it's not pretty. If you're going to back out, do it now."
"I'm not backing out." Her chin lifts, defiant again. "Whatever it takes to find Maya."
"Whatever it takes," Cain echoes.
She disappears into the guest room, and this time he hears the lock click.
Good. She's learning.
Cain returns to his laptop, pulling up the surveillance feeds from his clubs. Late Thursday night, they should be busy—the weekend crowd starting early, business deals happening in the VIP sections, information flowing like wine.
But he's not seeing any of it. All he can see is Elara's face when she said his name, the trust in her eyes despite everything he told her. The way she touched him like he was human instead of weapon.
Dangerous. So fucking dangerous.
His phone buzzes. Marcus.
Kozlov's moving tomorrow night. Shipment coming through the docks. Could be what we've been waiting for.
Cain's jaw tightens. Source?
The usual. Confirmed through three channels.
Then we move. Surveillance only—I want to know what's in that shipment before we act.
And the girl?
Cain glances toward the guest room, where a light still shows under the door.
She stays here. No exceptions.
Understood. I'll have a team on-site at 2200.
Cain sets down his phone and stares out at the city. Somewhere out there, Maya Monroe is alive or dead, free or captive, the same girl she was or something entirely different. And tomorrow, he and Elara will start the hunt to find her.
He should feel nothing about that. It's just another operation, another move in a game he's been playing for ten years.
But when he closes his eyes, all he sees is Elara's face. And for the first time in two decades, Cain Harlow is afraid.
Not of Kozlov. Not of the Syndicate. Not even of dying.
He's afraid of what he'll become if something happens to her.
The monster he's been pretending to be for twenty years might not be pretend anymore if he loses her before he's even had a chance to know her.
And that's the most terrifying thing of all.