"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"I want to go back to a time before it was too late."-
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Dawn pressed thin silver light through the penthouse curtains, but the bedroom lay mostly in shadow. Kaia surfaced from uneasy sleep on a slow tide of pain that seemed to glow behind her eyelids—pulsing, bright, dagger-sharp. Luca's arms were around her, one heavy across her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as though he'd fallen asleep trying to hold the hurt inside her still.
She inhaled, and the ache behind her eyes flared—white-hot, electric—driving a soft gasp past her lips.
Luca woke instantly. "Kaia?" His voice was barely more than a rasp, but it vibrated with panic he tried to bury. He shifted so he could see her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. Even that light pressure hurt.
"I'm f-fine," she whispered, though the room reeled as soon as she opened her eyes. A slow spin, gravity tilting sideways.
She tried to sit.
Vertigo slammed her. The ceiling tilted, dipped; her stomach lurched. She froze half-risen, fingers gripping Luca's forearm until her knuckles blanched. He eased her back against the pillows, muscles coiled and trembling under her hold.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Head? Stomach?" He wanted a target to kill, something to tear apart.
"Head." Her voice frayed. "Feels...too bright."
She raised a hand to rub her temple—saw the tremor. A fine shake she couldn't still. Luca reached to steady it, but his fingers halted when crimson dotted the tips of her hair. A thin trail snaked from the shell of her left ear, staining the pillowcase scarlet.
His pulse went icy. "No—no, no." He pressed the edge of the sheet to the trickle, voice hoarse. "You're bleeding. Kaia, you're bleeding."
Her chest rose and fell too quickly; beads of sweat dotted her hairline. "I'm fine," she lied—though the room tilted again, viciously. "Just dizzy."
Luca launched from the bed, tearing open the dresser's top drawer where he kept the emergency med kit Raine had stocked. He yanked out saline, gauze, a digital thermometer, his movements jerky with urgency. The penthouse felt cavernous and useless, no staff, no medic—only him.
He returned, kneeling on the mattress. The thermometer beeped: 100.8°. Not catastrophic, but wrong for dawn, wrong for her.
"Hold still," he murmured, rinsing blood from the shell of her ear with trembling hands. The gauze stained crimson again immediately.
Kaia's breath hitched. "Just needs pressure."
"Pressure won't fix why it's happening." Fear leaked through the grit in his voice. He pressed gauze firmly, then grabbed his phone, thumb flying. Reception bars flickered—he stabbed at Blade's number, at Raine's—but cell towers were jammed with post-gala chatter. Calls failed.
