"I texted my brother for help after my boyfriend broke my ribs—a stranger replied: 'Not Ben. But I'm on my way.'"

Parked at the curb, blocking the entire street with its hazard lights flashing, was a midnight-black armored Maybach, flanked by two black SUVs filled with private security operators.

Damon stepped into the rear cabin of the Maybach, settling onto the plush leather bench with my body cradled securely in his arms. He didn't set me down on the seat. He held me against his broad, warm chest, his long fingers gently stroking my dark hair as the heavy vehicle pulled away from the curb with a smooth, silent acceleration.

Sitting in the front passenger seat was Dr. Aris Vance—a distinguished, silver-haired physician carrying an emergency trauma kit.

"Her pulse is thin, Don Damon," Dr. Aris reported rapidly, opening an oxygen canister and placing a clear mask over my face. "Subcutaneous emphysema near the lower left ribcage. A bone fragment has likely lacerated her lung lining."

"Fix it, Aris," Damon commanded flatly. His baritone was devoid of panic, but every word carried a lethal, unyielding weight that made the doctor move twice as fast.

"I need to administer an emergency intercostal nerve block for the pain, Don Damon," Dr. Aris explained, holding a syringe. "It will sting, Miss Clara."

I flinched, my hands instinctively clutching the lapels of Damon's expensive suit jacket.

Damon leaned down, bringing his handsome, carved face inches from mine. His storm-gray eyes burned into mine, casting an absolute spell of safety that made the terrifying pain recede into the background.

"Look at me, Clara," Damon murmured softly into my ear, his thumb gently stroking my cheekbone. "Don't look at the needle. Look at my eyes."

I stared into those dark gray eyes—eyes that looked like winter pretending to be a person, yet held a fierce, unshakeable heat meant only for me.

The needle entered my side. I gasped into the oxygen mask, but Damon's arms tightened around my waist, holding me flat against his chest, refusing to let me absorb the pain alone. Within thirty seconds, a warm, numbing wash swept through my left side, cutting off the sharp, agonizing edge of the broken ribs.

"Better?" Damon whispered softly.

I nodded weakly against his chest, my hazel eyes looking up at him through tears of pure exhaustion.

"Why... why did you come?" I rasped through the oxygen mask. "It was... a wrong number. You don't know me."

Damon reached into his pocket, pulling out his encrypted smartphone. He tapped the cracked screen, displaying the text message I had sent fifteen minutes earlier:

Trent went too far. He broke my ribs. Can't breathe. Need help. Please.

"Six years ago, Clara," Damon revealed, his deep baritone dropping into a quiet, heavy register, "a woman sent a similar message to my older brother from a dark room in Tacoma. He thought it was a prank. He ignored it."

He closed his eyes for a brief, agonizing second before opening them to look back down at me.

"She was found dead two hours later," Damon said softly. "I swore on her grave that if a woman ever reached out to my line in the dark again... I would move heaven and earth to answer."