The drive to Downtown Paradise took eighteen minutes. She made it in twelve.

The Sovereign Tower rose before her like a blade stabbed into the night sky, all glass and steel and impossible arrogance—the architectural equivalent of a rich man flipping off the heavens and daring God to do something about it.

She'd been here before—had toured the building when it first opened, had considered buying a unit before Harold vetoed it as "unnecessary extravagance" (translation: it didn't have enough space to store his ego).

But she'd never felt this desperate clawing need to get inside.

The lobby was all white marble and soft lighting, a reception desk staffed by a woman in a crisp uniform who looked up with a professionally pleasant smile as Melissa strode through the doors like a woman on the verge of committing felony trespass.

"Good evening, ma'am. How may I assist you?"

"Floor 98. I need to access the residence."

Calistra, the ice receptionist's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind her eyes. A wall going up. Smart girl. She knows desperation when it walks in wearing silk pajamas and murder heels.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. That floor is VVIP exclusive. I'll need to verify your credentials. Name?"

"Madaline." No hesitation. The pseudonym rolled off her tongue like she'd been using it her whole life. Madaline Harlow—the ghost identity she used when she didn't want Harold's name attached to her purchases, her secrets, her sins.

Phei had told her, after he'd been approved for the condo—had mentioned it almost as an afterthought, like he wasn't sure why he'd done it. "Your fake name's still on the access list. Madaline Harlow. I added it back after they transferred ownership. You can come whenever you want."

She'd thanked him. Had wondered, privately, what it meant that he'd thought to do that. He wants me to have access to his space, his sanctuary, his escape from the Maxton mansion.

Now she was grateful beyond words. And terrified beyond reason.

The receptionist typed something into her terminal. Frowned slightly. Typed again.

"I see a Madaline Harlow listed as secondary access for Floor 98. I'll need biometric verification—fingerprint and retinal scan."

Melissa provided both without hesitation. The scanner beeped green.

"Everything checks out, Ms. Harlow. The private elevator is through the east corridor, third door on your left. Have a pleasant evening."

'Pleasant. Right. Because nothing says pleasant like storming your nephew-lover's penthouse at midnight because he didn't answer his phone.'

Melissa was already walking.

The elevator ride was eternal.

She watched the floor numbers climb—60, 70, 80, 90—and tried to steady her breathing. Tried to think of reasonable explanations. He was asleep. He'd silenced his phone. He was in the shower. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine.

Her heart didn't believe her. Her heart was busy writing obituaries.

Floor 98. The doors opened directly into the condo.

Dark. Everything was dark.

"Phei?"

Her voice echoed through the open space. No answer.

Melissa moved through the living room, past the kitchen, toward the spiral staircase that corkscrewed upward through the center of the space—all black iron railings and floating steps, dramatic and slightly dizzying in the darkness.

"Phei? Darling, are you here?"

Nothing.

The bedroom. He must be in the bedroom.

She climbed the spiral stairs, heels clicking against metal, heart hammering against her ribs. Around and around, up and up, past the second floor, past the third. The master suite waited at the top.

The bedroom door was open.

And there, sprawled across the massive bed in a dark blue robe that had fallen half-open, was Phei.

Still. Too still.

For one horrifying second, Melissa couldn't breathe. The world narrowed to a pinpoint—just him, just his chest, just the desperate need to see it move—

It rose. Fell. Rose again.

Alive.

Asleep.

Safe.

The relief hit her so hard her knees nearly buckled.

She stood there in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth, watching him sleep like a complete lunatic.

Seventeen missed calls. A midnight drive across Paradise. All because the boy had the audacity to pass out after his first real workout.

Pathetic, Melissa. Absolutely pathetic.

But the dark humor of it—the sheer, ridiculous overreaction—couldn't quite drown out the truth.

She had been terrified.

And that terror had a name.

Love!

The kind that made fools of women who should know better.

The kind that made monsters of them too.

She stepped into the room, quiet now, and pulled the robe closed over his chest. Tucked a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"Asleep. He's just asleep. Oh, thank Tiamat, thank—"

But she had to be sure. Had to know.

She crossed the room in three strides, coat discarded somewhere behind her like shed skin, and pressed her fingers to his throat.

His pulse beat against her fingertips.

Strong. Steady. Alive.

The relief crashed over her like a riptide—no, like a dam bursting, like every suppressed terror of the past three hours suddenly evacuating her body in one violent, shuddering wave. Her knees buckled.

She caught the edge of the bed, barely saving herself from collapsing entirely, and for a long moment she just knelt there on the marble floor, fingers still glued to his carotid, trembling like a junkie who'd finally scored.

"He's okay. He's okay. He's okay."

She wasn't crying. Melissa did not cry. But her eyes burned like acid and her throat was raw and her entire frame felt hollowed out, as if the fear had feasted on her organs and left only this trembling husk behind.

It was strange really; she never loved anyone this much!

You're being ridiculous. He fell asleep. That's all. He was tired and he passed out and you've just staged a full-scale emotional meltdown over nothing.

But it hadn't felt like nothing. It had felt like her ribcage was being pried open with a crowbar. Like every unanswered ring was another turn of the screw.

Like the universe was finally collecting on a decade of quiet sins by stealing the one thing—the one person—that had made her feel alive again.

Her fingers wouldn't leave his pulse. Couldn't. She needed that steady thrum against her skin, that irrefutable proof that her world hadn't imploded in this dark penthouse bedroom.

"Pathetic, Melissa. Absolutely pathetic."

She should leave. Should slip her coat back on, summon the elevator, drive home to her cold mausoleum of a mansion, and pretend this hysterical midnight pilgrimage never happened.

That would be the sensible thing. The proper thing.

But looking at him now—sprawled across the bed in that damp, half-open robe, looking younger in sleep, vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache—Melissa couldn't summon a single sensible thought.

She slipped off her heels. Let her coat stay where it had fallen.

The silk slip she wore was thin, cream-colored, absolutely inappropriate for anything except bed—or seduction—but she didn't give a damn.

It clung to her like a whispered sin, the fabric so fine it might as well have been a second skin.

Pale cream against the warm gold of her body, the slip skimmed every curve with merciless precision: the full, heavy swell of her breasts, nipples already tight from the cool air and something far more dangerous; the narrow dip of her waist flaring into hips built for ruin; the long, toned length of her thighs that ended in bare feet, toes painted the same blood-red as her lipstick.

Hair loose now, spilling over her shoulders in waves that caught the low light like fire. Full lips parted slightly, breath shallow. Green eyes dark with something that wasn't just worry anymore.

Hot didn't cover it.

She was the kind of woman who made men forget their wives' names. The kind who walked into a room and made every other female feel suddenly underdressed, even when they were wearing couture. The kind whose body promised things no respectable woman should know how to deliver—and delivered them anyway.

The slip ended mid-thigh, riding up slightly as she moved, revealing the shadowed curve where leg met hip, the faint mark on her lower abdomen glowing softly in the dim light—the dragon tattoo that branded her as his.

She looked like sin poured into silk.

Like a goddess who'd traded heaven for one mortal boy and never looked back.

Then she looked at him again. At the robe, soaked and bunched uncomfortably beneath him. At the way he was sprawled like a man who'd lost a fight with gravity and passed out mid-surrender.

Her man.

Her Dragon.

And every inch of that devastating body was his to claim, whenever he woke up and decided to take it.

"He must be freezing. That robe is practically a cold compress."

Moving with the care of someone defusing a bomb, she untied the belt. Eased the fabric off his shoulders, lifting him just enough to slide it free. His skin was cool and clammy from the ice bath, and she winced at the chill.

Underneath, only boxers.

She folded the robe—because even in emotional freefall, some habits died hard—and set it aside. Then pulled the covers up over him.

Better. He'd warm up now.

And then—because restraint had apparently deserted her entirely, because the thought of leaving felt like tearing off her own skin—she climbed onto the mattress behind him. Slipped under the covers. Wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing her body flush against his back to lend him her heat.

His heartbeat thumped steadily against her palm.

I'm here. I've got you. Sleep as long as you need.

The mark above her pussy pulsed once—warm, content, almost smug—and Melissa closed her eyes.

Whatever questions tomorrow brought, whatever chaos waited in the morning, whatever secrets she was still keeping locked behind her teeth like poisoned pearls—

Right now, he was safe.

She was here.

This is enough for me.

For tonight, the empress would play guard dog.

And if anyone tried to disturb her sleeping dragon, they'd learn exactly how sharp a mother's claws could be.

Even when the mother was also the lover.

Especially then.

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