Dragging an unconscious billionaire through the rain was not on my bingo card for the night.

Cold water soaked through my jeans, my jacket, my hair. Everything. I tried to keep my arms steady around the man in my lap, his weight solid and impossible against me.

Thunder rolled overhead, distant but threatening, like the sky hadn't decided whether to break or hold.

Cassian Cavanaugh.

I kept staring at his face, half certain the night had cracked open and dropped me into someone else's life. It felt impossible. Unreal. A headline turned human.

But the blood on my hands was real. His weight against me was real. The danger humming in the air like an exposed wire was very real.

For a man worth more than entire neighborhoods, he looked impossibly human like this. Too pale. Too still. Too vulnerable.

And yet everything about him radiated danger.

I wiped wet hair from his forehead, my heartbeat thundering louder than the storm.

Lightning flashed. The street was empty, rain pounding so hard it drowned everything but my heartbeat, a frantic, uneven rhythm in my ears.

If anyone saw us like this... if the wrong people saw...

I pushed the thought down and checked his pulse. Steady, but too slow. His breathing, shallow.

I swallowed hard. "Okay, Nora... think."

I needed to get him somewhere safe. Not a hospital. He'd rather bleed out on the sidewalk, apparently. My apartment? One broken lock and neighbors who would sell their own mothers for rent money?

That was my only option.

My apartment was a block away, normally a five-minute walk. Tonight, it felt like miles. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every passing car made my pulse jump. Every flicker of light made me think the men from the alley were back to finish the job.

Cassian was heavier than he had any right to be. Muscled. Solid. Like someone had sculpted him from steel and corporate spite. And right now that steel was collapsing against me, bleeding through an expensive shirt that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

If I still had rent.

"Cassian," I whispered, tapping his cheek. "Come on, help me out here. I'm five-foot-five and fueled by noodles."

He didn't move.

Great.

I tried again, this time using leverage, not brute strength. He shifted enough for me to wedge myself under him and push with my shoulder.

Slowly. Agonizingly. We stood.

He was solid muscle and dead weight. Like trying to pick up a soaked mattress that glared at you for trying.

"Okay," I muttered under my breath, "you are astronomically heavier than you look. Which is rude."

I managed to loop his arm around me and drag him toward the street. His head lolled against mine, breath warm against my temple. He smelled faintly of cedar and something darker. Danger, maybe. Power. The kind of scent you don't forget once it wraps around you.

"Just... one foot at a time," I panted.

Step. Drag. Step. Drag. Step.

The storm swallowed every sound except my own ragged breathing. Each block felt like a mile. My muscles screamed, but adrenaline screamed louder.

We staggered out of the alley.

Rain blurred the world into streaks of silver. My lungs burned. My legs shook.

But I kept going.

Two blocks. Three.

Halfway down the street, he stirred.

A low sound, raw and threaded with pain. His grip tightened on my shoulder.

"No..." A broken breath. "Nora?"

I nearly dropped him. "Hey. You're awake."

"Shouldn't... be." His voice was a torn whisper.

"Well, stay alive," I whispered urgently. "I cannot explain a dead billionaire on my doorstep."

He managed a weak laugh, more breath than sound. "You're unbelievable."

"Thank you," I said, grunting as we turned a corner. "Help me keep you on your feet and I'll accept the compliment."

His fingers twitched, brushing my side. His grip was strong. Military-strong. Not gym-strong. Not vanity-strong.

A man trained for survival. A man who wasn't supposed to need saving.

He was slipping. I felt it, the weakening in his muscles, the heat beneath his skin. Blood loss. Too much.

His legs buckled once, twice, then completely.

I went down with him, landing hard on my knees. Pain shot up my legs, but panic drowned everything else.

His head slumped against my thigh.

"Cassian," I whispered. "Cassian, wake up."

Nothing.

I pressed two fingers to his throat. There was a pulse, but faint. Too faint.

I looked toward the road, praying for a miracle. None came.

I buckled him up again and dragged him down the street.

I turned onto my block and froze.

A black SUV crept down the far end of the street, slow and deliberate. The same kind the attackers had used.

My pulse spiked. "Oh God."

My blood turned to ice.

I scrambled, dragging Cassian into the shallow shelter of a doorway. My heart hammered against my ribs, throat tight with fear.

The SUV rolled to a stop yards from us. Engine rumbling softly. Lights illuminating the rain-swept street.

Someone was inside. Watching. Waiting.

I held my breath.

Seconds stretched like centuries.

Cassian's words echoed: The men who attacked me don't abandon unfinished work.

Then the SUV rolled forward slowly, too slowly, gliding past us like a predator searching grass for movement.

Don't see us. Please don't see us.

It passed the alley, continued down the road, and finally disappeared into the storm.

My lungs collapsed around a shaky breath.

"Okay," I said, swallowing hard. "New rule: no dying tonight."

I turned away and headed down the next block, practically dragging Cassian to keep moving.

His breath hitched. Barely, just enough to let me know he wasn't entirely gone.

"Where...?" he murmured.

"Somewhere you're not going to die on me."

"Not... die..."

"You look like you're auditioning for it."

A faint sound, almost a laugh, ghosted past his lips. Then he went still again.

I pushed us into an abandoned laundromat across from the old bus depot. Half the lights were out; the other half flickered like they were battling demons.

Perfect atmosphere for a crisis.

I maneuvered him onto a cracked plastic bench, my arms shaking with exhaustion.

His head fell back. Eyes closed. Skin pale beneath the flickering glow.

I crouched down, hands trembling, and pulled out my cracked phone.

"Don't," he rasped.

I jerked back. His eyes were half-open now, storm-gray and unfocused but still carrying that dangerous intensity. Like lightning trapped in glass.

"I'm trying to help you," I said softly.

"You can't." His voice was weaker now, but the warning was there. The threat. Or maybe the plea.

"You need a hospital," I insisted.

"No hospitals," he forced out. "No police. No one."

"You're losing blood."

"I've lost worse."

His head dropped back against the bench.

I ignored him and dialed anyway.

"Pick up," I whispered. "Pick up."

On the fourth ring, a groggy voice answered. "This better be good. Or illegal."

"Nova," I hissed. "I need your help. Immediately."

A pause. Then, sharp and awake: "What happened?"

"I found... someone. He's injured. Badly."

"Define someone."

I hesitated.

Nova inhaled sharply. "Nora. Who?"

I looked down at him. At Cassian Cavanaugh. A man the whole country thought either dead or guilty.

"...Cassian Cavanaugh."

Silence. Then: "You're lying."

"I wish."

Another silence, longer now. I imagined Nova pinching the bridge of her nose, cursing, kicking something, or all three.

Finally: "You're in deep shit."

"Thank you for the affirmation. Can you help or not?"

She exhaled hard. "Address. Now."

I rattled it off. She cursed again. Then: "Ten minutes. Don't let him die. Or the entire country will implode."

I hung up and looked again at the semi-conscious billionaire.

His lashes were long, dark, wet from rain. His jaw was tight even now, like he was still fighting battles in his sleep. His lips were pale, parted slightly as he breathed shallowly.

I unbuttoned his soaked shirt carefully, trying not to stare at the carved lines of muscle underneath.

The wound was deep. Too deep for comfort. Not a stab, but a slice. Sharp. Clean.

Someone had meant business.

I swallowed and tore the cleanest piece of fabric from the inside of my jacket.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I know this jacket cost six dollars, but sacrifices must be made."

I pressed it to his ribs.

He hissed through his teeth and jerked awake.

His eyes snapped open, sharp, disoriented, wild.

Before I could react, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist in a steel grip.

I froze. His jaw clenched. His breath came ragged.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"Pretty sure someone else already applied for that job.”

He didn't loosen his grip.

"Let go," I said gently. "You're bleeding through your ego."

That earned a faint flicker of something. Maybe annoyance, maybe amusement. He released my wrist slowly, fingers dragging against my skin before falling away.

I pressed the cloth harder to slow the bleeding.

Silence settled between us, thick, tense, pulsing with too many unanswered questions.

His eyes, storm-gray and assessing, fixed on mine.

"You don't understand what you stepped into."

"I didn't step," I shot back. "I tripped. Fell. Landed straight on top of a billionaire conspiracy, apparently."

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then, quietly, "You saved my life."

I blinked.

That wasn't gratitude. It was... confusion. As if the idea someone might help him for no reason was foreign.

"Well," I said softly, "somebody had to."

His gaze didn't shift.

"Why?" he asked. Not accusatory. Just... raw.

"Because I don't watch people die in alleys," I said simply.

Something in his expression cracked, barely noticeable unless you were inches away like I was.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked away fast.

"Nora," he said slowly, like he was memorizing the name. "You won't be safe now."

"I've never been safe."

"Not like this."

Silence again. Heavy. Electric.

Then he straightened suddenly, breath sharp. "They tracked me."

"Who?"

He hesitated. And that hesitation told me everything.

Whoever was after him wasn't just dangerous. They were powerful.

"Cassian..."

"You need to leave," he cut in. "Walk away. Forget this happened."

"Not happening."

"You don't understand. If they saw your face..."

"Well, they're going to have to stand in line. Lots of people want to ruin my life tonight."

His eyes flashed with anger, real and visceral, directed entirely at himself.

"You don't get it," he said, voice low. "If they think you matter to me..."

"I don't."

His breath faltered.

And for a terrifying second, something unguarded slipped through the cracks in his composure.

"You could," he said quietly.

The room tilted a little. Or maybe that was just me.

Before I could respond, a loud metallic clang echoed from outside.

We both froze.

Cassian grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Urgent.

"They found me," he whispered.

My pulse skyrocketed. "How?"

He swallowed, chest rising with a slow, controlled breath.

A shadow moved past the laundromat window.

I shot to my feet.

Cassian tried to push himself up but swayed instantly, grabbing the bench. He was too weak to fight.

Which meant there was only one person who could move.

Me.

I grabbed the broken table leg leaning against the wall, tightened my grip, and squared my shoulders.

Cassian's eyes widened.

Then the door burst open.

Nova appeared, drenched and furious, carrying a black duffel bag large enough to hide a body.

"Twelve hells, Nora." She dropped to her knees beside us. "You didn't say he was this bad."

"And you didn't say you were about to add heart attack to my list of misfortunes."

Nova laughed. The carefree kind that said it wasn't that serious.

But it was.

Nova examined the wound quickly. "Deep. Missed the artery. Someone was determined to live today."

"He lost a lot of blood."

"No kidding." She dug into her bag and pulled out supplies. "Hold him."

I followed orders, cradling Cassian's head and bracing his shoulders as Nova worked with infuriating speed, cleaning the wound, stitching with practiced efficiency.

Cassian groaned once, low and pained, but kept his eyes closed.

I held him tighter. Maybe too tightly.

Nova's eyes flicked to me. "You good?"

No. Not even close.

"I'll survive," I said.

She didn't believe me, but she didn't push.

After several intense minutes, Nova tied off the final stitch and sat back. "He'll live. Barely."

I sagged with relief.

Then Nova looked at me like I'd personally offended the universe.

"So." Her tone was flat. "You're bringing the most wanted man in America to your apartment?"

I swallowed. "I don't know where else to take him."

"You could leave him here," she suggested.

I glared.

She sighed. "Fine. You're not going to, I get it."

"Let's get him up."

Together, we lifted Cassian, who was beginning to stir again, head lolling, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the storm toward my building.

"Come on," Nova grunted as his weight shifted again, nearly toppling us backward. "Try not to die before we reach the door. That would be incredibly inconvenient."

He was heavy. He was bleeding again. He was worth more trouble than any human had a right to be.

And yet. And yet.

Every time he leaned into me, every time his breath warmed my neck, every time my fingers brushed the heat of his skin, a strange, dangerous truth hummed beneath my ribs.

Saving him had been reckless. Foolish. Possibly fatal.

But walking away from him now? Impossible.

We reached the back door of my building, a rusted metal thing that screeched in protest when I pushed it open. I dragged him through the narrow hallway, past peeling wallpaper and flickering lights, praying no one stepped out and asked questions.

Up two flights of stairs. Down the peeling hallway. And finally, into my tiny, dim, barely-held-together apartment.

Third floor. Room 3B. My disaster of a life.

I fumbled my keys as Nova steadied Cassian, shoved my key into the lock, kicked the door open, and half-dragged, half-guided him inside. He sagged against the rickety sofa, soaking it instantly.

Nova eyed the cracked walls. "Cute place."

"Shut up," I muttered.

We lowered Cassian onto my bed, my only bed. He groaned, muscles tensing.

His eyes opened.

Gray. Sharp. Dazed. Locked right on me.

For one suspended second, neither of us breathed.

Then he said, with a voice roughened by pain and storm: "You brought me here."

"Yes," I whispered.

"Why?"

Nova snorted. "Oh, he's alive enough to be annoying."

But he didn't look at her. He didn't look anywhere except at me.

The world stilled. My heart stumbled.

I opened my mouth.

But Cassian Cavanaugh, the billionaire ghost, the fallen empire heir, the man whose enemies hunted him like an animal, closed his eyes again.

Not unconscious. Just... surrendered.

To safety. To exhaustion. To my bed.

And something in my chest shifted. Dangerously. Irrevocably.

Nova cleared her throat and began packing up her supplies. "He needs rest. Real rest. And antibiotics, which I'll bring tomorrow." She gave me a pointed look. "You need sleep too."

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar." She zipped her bag and stood. "I'll be back in the morning. Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

She paused at the door, her expression softening just slightly. "Be careful, Nora. Men like him... they're walking catastrophes."

"I know."

"Do you?" She shook her head. "Lock the door behind me. All three locks."

I nodded. She slipped into the hallway, and I did as she asked, sliding each bolt home with trembling fingers.

The apartment fell silent except for the rain battering the windows and Cassian's shallow breathing.

I turned back to him.

He looked impossibly out of place in my shabby room, his expensive clothes ruined, his body too large for my narrow bed. And yet somehow, seeing him there felt... right. Dangerously right.

I grabbed a thin blanket from my closet and draped it over him, then sank into the chair by the window, pulling my knees to my chest.

I should sleep. I should eat. I should do a hundred practical things.

Instead, I watched him.

Watched the rise and fall of his chest. Watched the rain cast shadows across his face. Watched the most wanted man in America sleep in my bed like he belonged there.