ELARA'S POV
Elara wakes to sunlight and the feeling of being watched.
She blinks against the brightness streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, momentarily disoriented. This isn't her apartment. The bed is too soft, the sheets too expensive, the arm wrapped around her waist too strong.
Then memory floods back. The warehouse. The kiss. Falling asleep in Cain's arms.
She turns her head slowly and finds him already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her with an intensity that should probably scare her but doesn't.
"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning." His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture so gentle it makes her chest ache. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got kidnapped, almost died, killed someone, and then made out with the most dangerous man in the city." She manages a small smile. "So, you know. Friday."
His lips twitch. "It's Saturday."
"Even better." She shifts closer, drawn by the warmth of him. "Did you sleep at all?"
"A few hours. More than I usually get." His thumb traces idle patterns on her shoulder. "You talk in your sleep."
Elara's eyes widen. "I do not."
"You do. Something about Maya and chocolate cake and someone named Mrs. Peterson."
"Oh God." She covers her face with her hands. "Mrs. Peterson was our neighbor. She used to make Maya chocolate cake every birthday."
"Used to?"
"She died two years ago. Heart attack." Elara drops her hands. "I was dreaming about Maya's last birthday before she disappeared. Mrs. Peterson brought over the biggest cake, and Maya got frosting everywhere, and we laughed until we cried." Her voice catches. "I'd forgotten that. How happy we were."
Cain pulls her closer, and she lets herself bury her face in his chest. He smells like soap and something darker, masculine. Safe, despite everything he is.
"We're going to get her back," he says quietly. "And then you can make her chocolate cake every year for the rest of her life."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
They lie there for another moment, the city waking up beyond the windows, before reality intrudes. Cain's phone buzzes on the nightstand—once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
"That's Marcus," he says, reaching for it. "Hold on."
Elara watches as his expression shifts from soft to hard in seconds, the businessman-slash-warlord taking over. He sits up, already typing a response.
"What is it?" she asks.
"Kozlov's plane never took off. Mechanical failure kept him grounded long enough for Marcus to move in." Cain's smile is sharp, predatory. "We have him."
Elara's heart leaps. "Where?"
"Private detention facility. One of mine. He's being very uncooperative." Cain stands, already pulling on clothes from the day before. "Which is fine. I have ways of making people talk."
Something in his tone makes Elara's stomach clench. "Cain—"
"Don't." He turns to face her, and his eyes are cold now. Dangerous. "Don't ask me to be gentle with him, Elara. Not after what he's done."
"I'm not. I'm just—" She sits up, pulling the sheet around herself. "I want to be there. When you question him."
"No."
"Yes." She stands too, meeting his gaze. "He has information about Maya. I need to hear it."
"What you need is to stay safe while I handle this."
"We're past that, Cain. We decided last night—together. Remember?"
He's quiet for a long moment, jaw tight, clearly at war with himself. Finally: "Fine. But you stay behind me. You don't speak unless I tell you to. And if things get—" He pauses, searching for the right word. "—difficult, you leave. Understood?"
"What kind of difficult?"
"The kind where you don't want to see what I'm capable of."
A chill runs down her spine, but Elara nods. "Understood."
They dress quickly—Cain in fresh clothes from his closet, Elara in borrowed items that are too big but serviceable. In the kitchen, there's coffee and breakfast waiting, prepared by staff Elara never sees but who apparently anticipate every need.
"Eat," Cain orders, sliding a plate toward her. "You'll need your strength."
"Are you always this bossy in the morning?"
"Only when I'm trying to keep someone alive." But there's a hint of warmth in his voice, a crack in the armor. "And you have a habit of not taking care of yourself."
"Pot, meet kettle."
He actually smiles at that, brief but genuine. They eat in companionable silence, and Elara tries not to think about how domestic this feels. How right.
How temporary it might be.
Marcus arrives thirty minutes later, tactical gear replaced by a suit that doesn't quite hide the weapon at his hip. He nods at Elara with something that might be respect.
"Miss Monroe. Glad to see you're okay."
"Thanks to your team." She stands, setting down her coffee. "And you can call me Elara."
"Elara." He glances at Cain. "Boss, we need to move. Kozlov's lawyer is already making noise about unlawful detention."
"His lawyer can make all the noise he wants. We're not in the city limits, which means—"
"—which means you're operating in a legal gray area," Elara finishes. "Off the books, no official jurisdiction."
Both men look at her. Marcus with surprise, Cain with something that looks like pride.
"Exactly," Cain says. "Which gives us time, but not much. Let's go."
The drive takes them out of the city, into the industrial wasteland where legitimate business fades into shadow operations. Cain's "private detention facility" turns out to be a converted warehouse, heavily secured, with guards at every entrance.
Inside, it's clinical. White walls, bright lights, the kind of place that could be a hospital or a nightmare depending on perspective.
Kozlov is in a room at the end of a long corridor, handcuffed to a table, looking considerably less polished than he did at the warehouse. His expensive suit is rumpled, there's a bruise forming on his jaw, and his eyes track Cain with undisguised hatred.
"Harlow." His accent is thicker now, stress leaching away the careful polish. "This is kidnapping. Unlawful imprisonment. I'll have your head for this."
"Get in line." Cain pulls out a chair and sits, casual as if they're discussing the weather. "You and I need to have a conversation, Viktor. About Maya Monroe."
"I don't know any Maya Monroe."
"Liar." Cain pulls out a phone—the one Marcus recovered from the warehouse. "Your associate's texts say different. Two months ago, you personally confirmed that 'the Monroe acquisition' was performing well. Want to try again?"
Kozlov's eyes flick to Elara, and something ugly crosses his face. "Ah. The sister. Come to beg for your sibling back?"
"Come to find out where you're keeping her," Elara says, stepping forward despite Cain's warning hand on her arm. "Dubai. That's what you said. Which facility?"
"You think I'm going to tell you?" Kozlov laughs, sharp and bitter. "Even if you kill me—and you won't, because you're not that stupid—I'll never tell you where she is. She's worth too much."
"Everything has a price." Cain's voice is dangerously quiet. "Name yours."
"My freedom. Full immunity. And you stop interfering with Syndicate operations." Kozlov leans back in his chair. "That's my price for the location."
"Unacceptable."
"Then we have nothing to discuss." Kozlov's smile is cold. "Go ahead, Harlow. Do your worst. I've survived worse than you."
"Have you?"
The question hangs in the air. Then Cain stands, movements precise and controlled, and walks to a cabinet on the far wall. He opens it to reveal various tools—some medical, some very much not.
Elara's stomach turns. "Cain—"
"Leave, Elara."
"No."
"I'm not asking." He doesn't turn around, just continues studying the contents of the cabinet. "What I'm about to do—you don't need to see this."
"If you're doing it to find my sister, I'm staying."
"Elara." Now he does turn, and the look in his eyes makes her breath catch. There's no warmth there anymore. No humanity. Just cold calculation and the promise of violence. "I told you I was a monster. This is what I meant. Last chance to walk away."
She should. Every sane part of her knows she should leave this room, wait outside, let Cain do whatever dark thing he's planning. But Maya is out there, suffering, and if watching Cain become a monster is what it takes—
"I'm staying," she says firmly.
Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or resignation. Then the mask slips back into place, and he turns to Kozlov.
"Your choice," he says quietly. "Tell me where Maya Monroe is, and this goes easy. Stay silent, and—" He picks up a syringe, checking the contents. "Well. Let's just say you'll talk eventually. Everyone does."
"What is that?" Kozlov's bravado slips slightly.
"Truth serum is such a crude term. Let's call it a chemical persuasion." Cain moves closer, syringe in hand. "It won't kill you. Probably. But it will make you very, very uncomfortable if you try to resist."
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?" Cain's smile is terrible. "You know my reputation, Viktor. You know what I've done. Do you really think I'm bluffing?"
For the first time, fear flashes in Kozlov's eyes. "You can't—the lawyer—"
"Your lawyer is currently being delayed by a traffic situation. Very unfortunate. By the time he gets here, we'll be done." Cain crouches beside Kozlov's chair, eye level. "So I'm going to ask one more time. Where. Is. Maya. Monroe."
Kozlov's jaw clenches. "Go to hell."
"Already there." Cain stands and reaches for Kozlov's arm.
"Wait!" The word bursts out of Elara before she can stop herself. Both men turn to look at her, and she forces herself to step forward. "Viktor. Please. She's my sister. My only family. Whatever they're paying you, whatever protection you think you have—it's not worth this. Just tell us where she is."
"And then what?" Kozlov's laugh is bitter. "You think Harlow will let me go? He'll kill me the moment I'm not useful."
"No." Elara looks at Cain. "He won't. Because I won't let him."
"Elara—" Cain's voice holds a warning.
"No. We do this my way." She turns back to Kozlov. "Tell me where Maya is. In exchange, I'll personally ensure you get a deal. Witness protection, immunity, whatever it takes. You testify against the Syndicate, help us bring down the whole network, and you get to live."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." She pulls out her phone. "I have contacts at the FBI. People who've been trying to crack this case for years. You give them the Syndicate, you walk away clean."
Kozlov studies her face, looking for the lie. Elara holds his gaze, letting him see the truth. She'll do whatever it takes—make any deal, tell any lie—if it means getting Maya back.
Finally, Kozlov's shoulders slump. "The Golden Palace. Dubai Marina. Penthouse level." His voice is defeated. "She's been there for two years. High-end clientele only."
Elara's knees nearly buckle. Two years. Maya's been in one place for two years, and Elara was chasing shadows on the wrong continent.
"How do we get to her?" Cain asks, still holding the syringe.
"You don't. The security is impossible. Biometric access, armed guards, cameras everywhere. Even if you get in, you'll never get out alive." Kozlov's smile is bitter. "That's the point. The girls don't leave until they're too broken to be profitable. Then they disappear."
"I need details. Floor plans, security rotations, access codes—"
"I don't have that. I'm just the regional director. Operations overseas are handled by others." He pauses. "But there's someone who might help. Irina Volkov. She used to work at the Palace, managed the girls before she got out. She knows everything about that place."
"Where is she?"
"New York. Owns a nightclub in Manhattan. Goes by the name 'Eden.'" Kozlov meets Elara's eyes. "She escaped three years ago. If anyone can get your sister out, it's her."
Cain pulls out his phone, already typing. "Marcus, I need full background on Irina Volkov, also known as Eden. Manhattan nightclub owner. Everything you can find in the next hour."
He ends the call and looks at Kozlov. "If you're lying to us—"
"I'm not. You think I want to die?" Kozlov's laugh is hollow. "I just want to survive this. That's all anyone wants in the end."
Elara wants to feel sorry for him. Wants to believe that somewhere under the monster, there's a person who had choices and made bad ones. But all she can think about is Maya in that penthouse, serving "high-end clientele," being trafficked by the man sitting in front of her.
"Get him out of my sight," Cain says to Marcus, who's appeared in the doorway. "Hold him until we verify the information. If it's good, we'll talk about deals. If it's not—"
"It is," Kozlov says quickly. "It's all true. I swear."
They watch as Marcus escorts Kozlov out, then they're alone in the sterile white room. Elara feels like she's going to be sick.
"Dubai," she whispers. "She's been in Dubai this whole time."
"Not this whole time. Kozlov said two years." Cain's hand finds her shoulder, steadying her. "Which means we can find her, Elara. We finally know where she is."
"And getting her out is impossible."
"Nothing's impossible. Just difficult." He turns her to face him. "We'll find this Irina, get the information we need, and we'll plan an extraction. I have resources in Dubai, people I can call."
"This is going to be expensive."
"I don't care about the cost."
"Dangerous."
"I don't care about that either." His hands frame her face. "I care about getting your sister back. Whatever it takes."
Elara's eyes burn with tears she refuses to shed. "Why? Why are you doing all this?"
"Because I failed Elena. I won't fail you too." He presses his forehead to hers. "And because somewhere along the way, you became more important to me than anything else."
The words steal her breath. "Cain—"
"I know it's too soon. I know I'm probably the last person you should care about. But Elara, I—" He stops, jaw clenching like the words are being torn from him. "I need you safe. I need you happy. And if that means flying halfway around the world to rescue your sister, then that's what we do."
She kisses him. Hard, desperate, pouring every emotion she can't name into it. When they break apart, they're both breathing hard.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Don't thank me yet. We still have work to do." But his arms tighten around her. "Starting with a trip to New York."
"When?"
"Tonight. I'll have a jet ready by six." He pulls back, all business again. "Pack light. We'll be in and out in twenty-four hours. Find Irina, get the intel, get back here and plan the Dubai operation."
"And Kozlov?"
"Stays in custody until we verify everything. If he's telling the truth, I'll honor your deal. Witness protection, testimony, the works." His expression hardens. "But if he lied, if this is some kind of trap—"
"Then we deal with it together." Elara takes his hand. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."
"Together," Cain echoes.
They leave the detention facility hand in hand, and Elara tries not to think about how natural it feels. How right. She's known this man for barely forty-eight hours, and already he's become essential. Necessary.
Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence.
The drive back to the penthouse is quiet, both of them lost in thought. Elara stares out the window and imagines Maya in that Dubai penthouse. Is she scared? Angry? Has she given up hope, or does some part of her still believe Elara is looking?
"What are you thinking?" Cain asks.
"That I'm three years too late. That even if we get her out, she'll never be the same."
"Probably not." He doesn't sugarcoat it, doesn't offer false comfort. "But she'll be free. And alive. That's what matters."
"Is it enough?"
"It has to be." His hand finds hers. "Because it's all we can give her."
Back at the penthouse, Elara packs while Cain makes arrangements. Private jet, hotel in Manhattan, meeting with Irina scheduled through back channels. He moves through it all with practiced efficiency, a man used to controlling every variable.
Elara watches him pace the living room, phone pressed to his ear, and realizes with startling clarity that she's falling for him. This brutal, damaged, impossible man who kills without hesitation and holds her like she's precious. Who promised to find her sister and is moving heaven and earth to keep that promise.
She should be terrified. Should recognize this for what it is—Stockholm syndrome, trauma bonding, whatever psychological term explains why she's developing feelings for someone so dangerous.
Instead, she just feels certain. Like everything in her life has been leading to this moment, this man, this choice.
"Ready?" Cain appears in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder.
"As I'll ever be." She picks up her bag. "Let's go find Irina Volkov."
"And then?"
"And then we bring Maya home."
The flight to New York takes three hours. Cain works the entire time, reviewing floor plans and security protocols on his laptop. Elara tries to distract herself with the documents Kozlov provided, but her mind keeps wandering.
Two years. Maya's been in that place for two years. What has she endured? What has it cost her?
"Stop," Cain says without looking up.
"Stop what?"
"Torturing yourself with questions you can't answer." He closes his laptop and turns to face her. "I can practically hear you thinking."
"I can't help it. She's my sister."
"I know. But you need to stay focused." He takes her hand. "When we meet Irina, she's going to tell us things about that place. About what happens there. You need to be prepared."
"I am prepared."
"Are you?" His eyes search hers. "Because once you hear it, you can't unhear it. And it's going to change how you see your sister. How you see everything."
"Nothing could make me see Maya differently."
"Let's hope you still believe that tomorrow." He squeezes her hand. "But either way, I'll be there. Whatever you need to hear, whatever you need to feel—I've got you."
The words are a promise and a warning. Elara nods, trying to steady herself. She's come this far. She can go the rest of the way.
They land in New York just after midnight. The city is alive with lights and noise, so different from home. Cain has a car waiting, and they drive through Manhattan to a hotel in Tribeca—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where no one asks questions.
"Get some sleep," Cain says as they enter the suite. "We meet Irina at ten tomorrow morning."
"Will you—" Elara stops, suddenly uncertain. "Will you stay with me?"
Something soft crosses his face. "If you want me to."
"I do."
They fall into bed together, still clothed, too exhausted for anything but sleep. But Elara feels safer with Cain's arm around her, his steady breathing in her ear. Feels like maybe, despite everything, they might actually pull this off.
She dreams of Maya. Young and laughing, chocolate cake smeared on her cheeks, whole and happy and home.
When she wakes, Cain is already up, dressed in a suit that probably costs more than Elara makes in a month. He looks every inch the dangerous businessman, and she realizes this is the version of him the world sees. Controlled. Powerful. Untouchable.
She prefers the version that kisses her like she's air.
"Morning," he says, noticing she's awake. "Coffee's ready. We leave in thirty minutes."
"Where are we meeting her?"
"Her club. It's closed during the day, but she agreed to see us privately." He pauses. "Elara, I need to warn you. Irina's story—it's not pretty. She was trafficked for eight years before she escaped. What she'll tell us about Maya—"
"I know." Elara sits up, squaring her shoulders. "I can handle it."
"I know you can. I just wish you didn't have to."
They arrive at Eden exactly at ten. The club is in the Meatpacking District, all dark wood and velvet and the kind of exclusivity that comes with a five-figure annual membership. During the day, it's empty except for cleaning staff and one woman sitting at the bar.
Irina Volkov is stunning. Late thirties, platinum hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that have seen too much. She studies them as they approach, her expression carefully neutral.
"Mr. Harlow. Right on time." Her accent is faint but present. "And you must be Elara."
"Thank you for meeting with us," Elara says.
"I almost didn't." Irina gestures to the seats beside her. "But Viktor said you're looking for your sister. That she's at the Palace." Her expression softens fractionally. "I remember her. Maya. Pretty girl, seventeen when they took her."
Elara's heart clenches. "You saw her?"
"I processed her. That was my job—taking the new girls, breaking them in, teaching them how to survive." Irina's voice is matter-of-fact, clinical. "Maya was strong. Fought back more than most. They had to—" She stops. "They had to work harder with her."
The room tilts. "Work harder?"
"To break her resistance. To make her compliant." Irina meets Elara's eyes. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you want to hear. But if you're going after her, you need to know the truth. The girl you remember is gone. What's left—" She pauses. "What's left is something else."
"I don't care," Elara says fiercely. "She's still my sister. I'm still getting her out."
Irina studies her for a long moment, then nods. "Good. Then let's talk about how to break into the most secure trafficking facility in the Middle East."