ELARA'S POV
Elara doesn't sleep.
She lies in the guest bed—which is more comfortable than her entire apartment—and stares at the ceiling, replaying every moment since Cain Harlow stepped out of that car. The way he looked at her, the things he said, the gentleness in his voice when he talked about his sister.
The warning in his eyes when he told her not to try to save him.
Too late for that.
She's spent three years investigating criminals, interviewing victims, documenting the worst humanity has to offer. She knows monsters when she sees them. She's stared into their eyes, heard their justifications, watched them smile while describing atrocities.
Cain Harlow isn't that.
Oh, he's dangerous. Possibly the most dangerous man she's ever met. But he's not a monster. Monsters don't spend ten years fighting a network that most people don't even believe exists. Monsters don't look gutted when they talk about failing to save someone. Monsters don't offer to help find a missing girl with no strings attached.
Unless those strings are just too subtle to see yet.
Elara sits up, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. 4:47 AM. Still dark outside, rain still drumming against the windows. She should try to sleep, but her mind won't stop racing.
She pulls up her research notes instead, scrolling through everything she's compiled on Cain Harlow over the past six months:
Age: 32
Net worth: Estimated $2-3 billion
Known businesses: Harlow Enterprises (parent company), six nightclubs, multiple properties, investment portfolio
Criminal record: None
Allegations: Too many to count, none ever proven
Known associates: Politicians, crime bosses, celebrities, everyone who's anyone in the city
Personal life: No long-term relationships, no family, completely private
The facts paint a picture of a man who's either incredibly clean or incredibly good at covering his tracks. Elara always assumed the latter. Now she knows it's both.
He runs an empire built on secrets and surveillance, trading information like currency, keeping everyone in his debt. He's untouchable because he knows where all the bodies are buried—sometimes literally.
And he just invited her into the heart of that empire.
Elara swings her legs out of bed and pads to the door, listening. The penthouse is silent except for the rain. Is Cain asleep? Does he sleep at all, or does he spend his nights monitoring feeds, planning moves, hunting monsters?
She opens her door quietly and peers into the hallway. Dark. Empty.
She should go back to bed. Should stay out of his business, respect his privacy, follow the rules.
Instead, she moves down the hall toward the living room.
Cain is standing at the windows, silhouetted against the city lights, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. He doesn't turn when she approaches, but his shoulders tense.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asks.
"I don't sleep much." He glances back at her, and in the dim light his face looks harsh, angular. Tired. "You should be resting."
"Should be. Not going to." Elara moves to stand beside him, looking out at the rain-soaked skyline. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"That this was a mistake."
Her stomach drops. "Helping me?"
"Bringing you here." His jaw tightens. "Letting you see—" He stops himself. "You should be home. Safe. Far away from all of this."
"I haven't been safe since Maya disappeared," Elara says quietly. "And I stopped being home the day she didn't come back. So stop trying to protect me from the truth, Cain. I can handle it."
"Can you?" He turns to face her fully, and there's something raw in his expression. "Can you handle watching me interrogate people who won't talk willingly? Can you handle learning what's been done to your sister for three years? Can you handle the fact that even if we find her, she might not want to be found?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means some victims don't survive what's done to them. Not physically—mentally. Emotionally. They break, Elara. They become someone else entirely. Someone who doesn't remember who they were before. Someone who's afraid of freedom because captivity is all they know." His voice is rough, and she realizes he's not talking about Maya anymore. He's talking about Elena. "And there's no fixing that. No making it okay. You just have to watch them exist in whatever shape they're in and try not to remember who they used to be."
Elara's throat closes. "Is that what happened to your sister?"
"I don't know. I never found her body, never got to see what they did to her. She was just—gone." He turns back to the window. "Maybe that's better. Not knowing. Keeping the memory of who she was instead of seeing what they turned her into."
"Or maybe it's worse," Elara says. "Not knowing if she suffered. If she's still out there somewhere. If you could have saved her if you'd just looked harder."
Cain is silent for a long moment. Then: "Is that what you tell yourself? That you didn't look hard enough?"
"Every single day."
"Then we're both idiots." His lips quirk in something that's not quite a smile. "Carrying guilt that isn't ours to carry."
"Maybe. Or maybe guilt is all we have left of them. The only way we can prove we still care."
"That's a depressing thought."
"Welcome to my life."
This time Cain does smile, brief and genuine. "You're very honest. It's refreshing."
"Refreshing or dangerous?"
"Both." He studies her face like he's memorizing it. "Most people lie to me. Tell me what they think I want to hear. You just say what you're thinking."
"Is that a problem?"
"It should be." His gaze drops to her lips, then away. "But it's not."
The air between them shifts, charges with something electric. Elara knows she should step back, maintain distance, remember that he literally told her last night that nothing could happen between them.
But standing here in the pre-dawn darkness, watching this powerful man look at her like she's something precious and terrifying—all she wants is to close the distance.
"Cain—"
"Don't." His voice is rough. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"Yes, I do." His hand lifts, hesitates, then cups her jaw. The touch is gentle, reverent, completely at odds with the predator she saw last night. "And the answer is no."
"I didn't ask a question."
"You didn't have to." His thumb traces her cheekbone, avoiding the cut there. "I can see it in your eyes. The same thing I'm feeling. The same dangerous, stupid thing that's going to get one or both of us killed if we're not careful."
Her heart hammers against her ribs. "Then let's be careful."
"I don't know how to be careful with you." His forehead drops to hers, and Elara forgets how to breathe. "I don't know how to be anything with you except completely consumed."
"Maybe that's okay."
"It's not." But he doesn't pull away. "You need to understand something, Elara. I'm not good at this—at people, at caring, at anything that isn't strategy and violence. Everyone I've ever cared about has ended up hurt or dead or wishing they'd never met me. I can't—" His voice cracks. "I can't do that to you too."
"What if I'm willing to risk it?"
"I'm not." Finally, he steps back, and the loss of his warmth feels like a physical blow. "We find Maya. We take down Kozlov. And then you walk away and never look back. That's the only ending to this story that doesn't destroy you."
"And what about you?"
"I was already destroyed a long time ago." He moves toward the kitchen, needing distance. "There's coffee. I'll make breakfast, then we need to go over the plan for tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Kozlov's moving a shipment through the docks. I have surveillance scheduled." He pulls out a pan, his movements mechanical. "You'll stay here while I handle it."
"Like hell I will."
"Elara—"
"No." She follows him into the kitchen, anger replacing the softer emotions of a moment ago. "You don't get to kiss me—"
"I didn't kiss you."
"You wanted to. Same thing." She plants her hands on the counter. "And you don't get to do that and then shut me out. If there's a shipment tonight, I'm coming. Maya could be in it."
"She won't be."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." Cain cracks eggs into the pan with more force than necessary. "Kozlov doesn't move merchandise through this port anymore. Not since I started watching it. This is weapons or drugs or money—something else entirely. Your sister is somewhere else."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. But I will." He looks at her over his shoulder. "Trust me, Elara. Just this once, trust that I know what I'm doing."
She wants to argue. Wants to demand he take her, let her help, stop treating her like she's fragile. But there's something in his expression—exhaustion and determination and a hint of desperation—that makes her pause.
"Fine," she says quietly. "But you bring me something. Information, evidence, anything that gets us closer to Maya. Deal?"
"Deal."
They eat in silence, the tension from earlier still simmering under the surface. Elara tries not to watch the way Cain moves, the controlled grace that speaks of violence held in check. Tries not to think about how his hand felt against her face, how close they came to crossing a line that probably shouldn't be crossed.
Tries not to want it anyway.
After breakfast, Cain spreads out documents on the dining table—maps, photos, transaction records. "This is everything we know about Kozlov's operation. Warehouses here, here, and here." He points to locations marked in red. "Known associates, shell companies, properties registered under fake names. Your folder confirmed three addresses we weren't sure about. That's huge."
Elara leans over the table, studying the pattern. "These locations—they're all within ten miles of the original disappearance sites."
"Noticed that, did you?"
"Hard not to." She traces the route with her finger. "They grab victims from low-income neighborhoods, transport them to warehouses near the docks for processing, then move them offshore through shipping containers."
"Exactly. Which means—"
"If Maya's still in the city, she'd be at one of these processing centers." Elara's pulse quickens. "We need to check them. All of them."
"Already did. Six months ago." Cain's expression is grim. "They were empty. Cleared out after a raid in another city spooked them."
"Then where—"
"That's what we're going to find out." He pulls up a photo on his phone and slides it across the table. "Recognize him?"
Elara studies the image—a man in his fifties, expensive suit, cold eyes. "No. Should I?"
"That's Kozlov. Taken two weeks ago at one of my clubs. He thinks I'm just another businessman he can network with. Doesn't know I've been building a case against him for years." Cain's smile is sharp. "Tonight's surveillance is part of that. Every shipment we document, every transaction we record—it's all evidence. When we finally move against him, I want it airtight."
"How long will that take?"
"Weeks. Maybe months."
"I don't have months!" Elara's voice rises. "Maya's been missing for three years, Cain. Every day that passes—"
"I know." His hand covers hers, stopping her spiral. "I know, Elara. But if we move too fast, he'll disappear and we'll never find Maya. If we're patient, if we do this right—we get both. Kozlov in prison and your sister home safe."
She wants to believe him. Wants to trust that patience will pay off. But three years of searching has taught her that waiting only means more time for things to go wrong.
"Okay," she says finally. "We do it your way. For now."
"For now," Cain agrees.
The day passes slowly. Cain makes calls, reviews surveillance footage, coordinates with his security team. Elara reads through documents until her eyes blur, looking for patterns, for clues, for anything that might tell her where Maya is.
By evening, she's exhausted and wired, pacing the living room while Cain prepares to leave.
He's changed into all black—tactical gear that makes him look like exactly what he is. A weapon. Dangerous and controlled and ready for violence.
"I'll have my phone," he says, checking his weapon one last time. "You need anything, you call Marcus. He's stationed downstairs with a full security team."
"I'll be fine."
"Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except Marcus—he'll identify himself with a code phrase." Cain meets her eyes. "I'm serious, Elara. Kozlov doesn't know you're here yet, but if he finds out—"
"I get it. I'll be careful." She crosses her arms. "You be careful too."
"Always am."
"Liar."
His lips twitch. "You really need to stop calling me that."
"You really need to stop lying."
They stare at each other, and for a moment Elara thinks he might kiss her goodbye. Might ignore all his warnings and cross the line they've been dancing around all day.
Instead, he touches her cheek—brief, gentle—and then he's gone.
The penthouse feels enormous without him. Empty. Elara locks the door like he instructed, then returns to the documents, trying to focus.
But all she can think about is Cain at the docks, watching criminals move illegal cargo, one wrong move away from disaster. All she can think about is Maya, somewhere in this city or beyond, waiting to be found.
All she can think about is the way Cain looked at her this morning like she was something worth protecting, even from himself.
Her phone buzzes. Unknown number.
She almost doesn't answer. But something—instinct or desperation—makes her pick up.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then breathing.
"Who is this?" Elara demands.
More breathing. Then a voice, young and scared and so familiar it stops her heart:
"El?"
The world tilts.
"Maya?" Her voice breaks. "Maya, is that you?"
"El, I don't have much time. They'll notice the phone is missing—" The voice cuts off, muffled sounds in the background. Then: "I'm alive. I'm in the city. I can't tell you where but—" Another sound, closer this time. Fear in her voice. "I have to go. Don't come looking for me, El. It's too dangerous. Just—just know I'm alive, okay? I'm—"
The line goes dead.
Elara stands frozen, phone clutched in her shaking hand, Maya's voice echoing in her ears.
Alive. She's alive. After three years of not knowing, of fearing the worst—Maya is alive.
And she's in danger.
Elara's fingers fly across her phone, trying to call back. The number doesn't exist. Of course it doesn't. It was probably a burner phone, stolen or borrowed, immediately destroyed.
But Maya called. Maya found a way to reach her.
Which means Maya wants to be found.
Elara grabs her coat, her keys, the folder of evidence. She should wait for Cain. Should call Marcus. Should do the smart, safe thing.
But Maya is alive and scared and out there somewhere, and Elara has spent three years searching. She's not waiting anymore.
She's halfway to the door when she hears the lock click.
Someone's coming in.
Elara freezes, heart hammering. Did Cain come back? Did Marcus—
The door opens, and a man steps inside. Not Cain. Not Marcus.
Someone else entirely.
He smiles at her, cold and predatory. "Elara Monroe. We've been looking for you."
And she realizes with terrifying clarity that this isn't a rescue.
It's a trap.