Aria's POV
His hand is warm.
That's the first thing I notice as the stranger helps me to my feet. His grip is firm but careful, like he knows exactly how much pressure my broken body can handle. I sway, and he steadies me with his other hand on my elbow.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
I nod, even though I'm not sure. My legs feel like water and my shoulder throbs where they slammed me against the wall. But I'd crawl on broken glass if it meant getting out of this alley.
Behind us, one of my attackers groans and tries to sit up. The big one, the leader.
The stranger's eyes flick toward him, cold and empty. Without letting go of me, he takes one step and kicks the man in the ribs. Not hard enough to kill. Just hard enough to send a message.
The man collapses back down and stays there.
"Let's go," the stranger says to me.
He guides me toward the black SUV that's somehow wedged into the narrow alley. Up close, I can see it's expensive—the kind of car I used to see in the gallery district, driven by people who bought art worth more than houses.
He opens the passenger door and helps me inside. The interior smells like leather and something expensive I can't name. It's warm. Clean. Safe.
I start shaking and can't stop.
The stranger closes my door and walks around to the driver's side. He moves with complete confidence, like he owns the night itself. When he slides behind the wheel, I get my first good look at him in the dome light.
He's younger than I thought. Maybe mid-thirties. Dark hair styled perfectly despite the rain. A suit that probably costs more than I used to make in a month. And those eyes—gray like storm clouds, watching me with an intensity that makes me want to hide.
"Seatbelt," he says.
I fumble with it, my hands shaking too badly to make it work. He reaches over and clicks it into place for me, his movements efficient and impersonal. Like I'm a package he's delivering, not a person.
The SUV backs out of the alley with impossible precision. Within seconds, we're on the main street, rain hammering against the windshield. The city lights blur past and I realize I have no idea where we're going.
I should be scared. This man is a complete stranger who just hospitalized three people without breaking a sweat. He could be taking me anywhere. To do anything.
But all I feel is exhausted relief.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He doesn't respond. Just drives, his face unreadable in the glow of the dashboard lights.
Minutes pass in silence. I press my forehead against the cool window and watch Los Angeles slide by. The nice parts—restaurants with people laughing inside, apartment buildings with lights in every window, couples walking under umbrellas.
All the things I used to have.
"You're hurt," the stranger finally says.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
I touch my mouth and my fingers come away red. I'd forgotten about that. I'd forgotten what it feels like to have someone notice when you're hurt.
"It's nothing," I say.
"We'll see."
The SUV pulls into an underground parking garage. The stranger uses a keycard to access a private level, and we park in a spot marked RESERVED - CROSS. The name means nothing to me.
He gets out and comes around to open my door. When I try to stand, my knees buckle. Before I can fall, he catches me and lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
"I can walk," I protest weakly.
"You can barely stand."
He's right, but it still feels wrong to be carried like this. To be this helpless in a stranger's arms. Every instinct screams that I should be fighting, running, protecting myself.
But I'm so tired of fighting.
He carries me to an elevator and uses another keycard. The doors close and we shoot upward. I count the numbers climbing—ten, twenty, thirty, forty. We don't stop until the very top.
The elevator opens directly into an apartment.
No—not an apartment. A penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city spread out below like a carpet of lights. Everything is sleek and modern and expensive. The furniture looks like it belongs in magazines. There's actual art on the walls—real pieces I recognize from galleries I used to visit.
This man isn't just rich. He's wealthy in a way that makes my old life look small.
He sets me down on a leather couch and disappears. I hear water running. When he returns, he's carrying a first aid kit and a warm washcloth.
"Let me see," he says, kneeling in front of me.
I freeze. Having him this close feels dangerous in a completely different way than the alley did. He reaches for my face and I flinch before I can stop myself.
Something flickers in his expression. Not quite sympathy. More like understanding.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Aria," he says quietly. "I'm going to clean your wounds. That's all."
The way he says my name makes me shiver. Like he's claiming it somehow. Making it his.
I let him tilt my face toward the light. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he wipes away the blood. He works in silence, focused and methodical. His hands are steady, professional, like he's done this before.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Dominic Cross."
The name still means nothing, but the way he says it suggests it should.
"Why did you help me?" I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see something in them besides cold calculation. Something almost like... recognition.
"Because I've been looking for you, Aria Quinn," he says.
My heart stops. "What?"
He sets down the washcloth and sits back on his heels, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"I know what happened to you three years ago," he continues. "I know about Marcus Vaughn. About the murder. About how they destroyed you."
The room tilts. "How could you possibly—"
"I know everything." His voice is matter-of-fact. "Your trial. Your family abandoning you. Every shelter that turned you away. Every door that closed in your face. I've been tracking you for six months."
Terror floods through me, cutting through the exhaustion. "Why?"
Dominic Cross leans forward, and his eyes pin me in place.
"Because I need you, Aria. You're the key to destroying the man who killed someone I loved. And I'm the only person in this world who can keep you alive long enough to help me do it."
I try to stand, to run, but my body won't cooperate.
"Here's my offer," he says, his voice soft and deadly. "Work for me. Obey me without question. Never ask about my business. In return, I'll give you everything you lost—a home, a job, safety, purpose. A life worth living."
"And if I say no?"
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Then I drive you back to that alley and let you take your chances. But we both know you won't survive another night on those streets."
My throat closes. He's right. He's absolutely right and we both know it.
"This is slavery," I whisper.
"This is survival," he corrects. Then he stands and extends his hand. "So what's it going to be, Aria Quinn? Do you want to keep drowning in the life they gave you? Or do you want to fight back?"
I stare at his offered hand. At the choice between slow death and... what? Becoming this dangerous man's property? His tool?
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and exhaustion, something else stirs. Something I thought died in that courtroom three years ago.
Rage.
Dominic sees it in my eyes and his smile widens.
"There she is," he murmurs. "There's the woman who told Marcus Vaughn to go to hell in open court. The one who didn't break even when everyone turned against her." He leans closer. "That woman is still in there, Aria. And I'm going to help you set her free."
"Why?" I demand. "Why me?"
His eyes gleam with something dark and knowing.
"Because you're the only person who knows the truth about what Vaughn really is. The only witness to his real face." He pauses. "And because whether you know it or not, Aria Quinn, you're dangerous. You're smart, observant, and you have nothing left to lose. That makes you the perfect weapon."
My hand trembles as I reach toward his.
"What do you really want from me?" I whisper.
Dominic Cross takes my hand, and his grip is iron wrapped in silk.
"Everything," he says simply. "Your loyalty. Your obedience. Your secrets. Your trust." His thumb traces my racing pulse. "And when this is over, when Marcus Vaughn is destroyed and you're finally free... I want your choice."
"My choice of what?"
His smile is beautiful and terrifying.
"To stay with me anyway."