1THE MAID WAS HIDING BRUISES IN A MOB BOSS’S BATHROOM—THEN HE WALKED IN

Harper froze on her knees, half-draped in the dark fabric of her uniform, the blood-stained rag clutched in her right hand like a pathetic weapon. Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp needle of pain reminding her of her fractured ribs.

A man stood in the doorway.

He was tall, lean, and built with the quiet, coiled menace of a panther. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisp black shirt with the top button undone. A silver tie hung loosely around his neck. But it was his face that made Harper’s blood run cold.

Gabriel Ashford.

His jaw was sharp as broken glass, shadowed by a dark evening stubble. His hair was black, swept back with ruthless precision, and his eyes—cold, slate gray, and piercing—cut through the dim light of the bathroom and locked directly onto her.

For three seconds, neither of them moved. The silence between them was heavier than the marble floors.

Gabriel’s gaze didn’t linger on her face. It dropped down.

It tracked the red smear on the pristine white floor. It traveled up her bare legs, taking in the drying trail of blood on her calf. It swept across her exposed back, lingering on the hideous mosaic of purple and green bruises that mapped her recent agony.

Harper felt exposed, flayed alive, stripped of every ounce of dignity she had fought so hard to keep. Her cheeks burned with a humiliation so deep it tasted like ash. She scrambled backward, her heels catching on the tile, desperate to pull her uniform up, desperate to hide.

“Who the hell are you?” Gabriel’s voice was a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in the walls. It carried no shock. Only a terrifying, controlled curiosity.

“I—I’m sorry,” Harper stammered, her voice shaking uncontrollably. She managed to pull the zipper up, her hands trembling so hard she nearly ripped the seams. “I was cleaning. I lost track of time. I’m leaving. I’m gone.”

She tried to stand, but her injured leg buckled beneath her weight. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she pitched forward.

Before she hit the floor, a pair of large, warm hands caught her by the upper arms.

The contact was lightning-fast. Gabriel had moved with a speed that defied human reaction. He hoisted her upright effortlessly, setting her back against the edge of the marble vanity. His hands remained on her arms for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his fingers pressing just hard enough to test her weight.

Up close, he smelled of expensive cedar, ozone, and a hint of scotch. He towered over her, casting a dark shadow that completely enveloped her small frame.

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” Gabriel said softly. His eyes weren’t angry. They were analytical. Dangerous. Like a general inspecting enemy territory.

“I’ll clean it,” Harper whispered, keeping her gaze strictly fixed on the lapels of his jacket, remembering Mrs. Morrison’s rule: Do not look Mr. Ashford in the eyes. “I’ll scrub every inch of it. You won’t even know I was here, Mr. Ashford. Please. Just don’t fire me. I need this job.”

Gabriel tilted his head slightly. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. “You’re the new girl. The one Morrison hired without bringing the paperwork to my desk.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re trembling.” He reached out, his long index finger catching her chin and forcing her face upward.

Harper tried to pull away, terrified, but his grip was unyielding. When her eyes met his slate-gray ones, she expected to see disgust or cold dismissal. Instead, she found an intense, predatory focus that made her skin prickle.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “Who did that to your back?”

Harper’s breath hitched. “No one. I fell. At home. Cleaning.”

A bitter, humorless smile touched the corners of Gabriel’s mouth. He let go of her chin as if touching something toxic, stepping back half a pace.

“People who fall don’t have defensive fractures on their ribs, Miss Queen,” he said smoothly, pulling a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his fingers—not because she was dirty, but because the conversation itself felt unclean. “And they certainly don’t look like they’ve just crawled out of a war zone.”

Harper’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. He knows my name.

“I want you out of this room in two minutes,” Gabriel said, turning his back to her and walking toward the oversized glass shower stall. “If you’re still here when I finish changing, Morrison will find someone else to clean the floors tomorrow.”