"I have a date tomorrow night." Gabriel Castellan went perfectly still.

He was across the corridor in two strides.

Gabriel dropped to his knees in front of her, ignoring the chemical pool of bleach seeping into his tailored trousers. His large, calloused hands moved frantically over her arms, her shoulders, her neck, checking every inch of her for wounds.

"Are you hit? Did he shoot you? Vera, look at me!" Gabriel’s voice was cracked, desperate, completely stripped of its usual terrifying composure.

"I'm... I'm okay," Vera gasped, her body trembling so hard her teeth chattered. "I used... I used the bleach."

Gabriel looked at Marco’s unconscious body, then at the pulled security key, then back at Vera’s small, pale face.

Understanding washed over him in a wave so powerful it physically knocked the breath from his lungs.

She hadn't hidden in the bunker. She hadn't saved herself. She had come down into the dark, into the gunfire, to protect his house. To protect him.

"You crazy, magnificent girl," Gabriel whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he had never allowed himself to feel in thirty-four years of life.

He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his broad chest around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. She buried her hands in his wet hair, clinging to him as the adrenaline finally leaked out of her veins, leaving her weeping quietly against his blood-stained shirt.

Dante and three enforcers burst into the hallway behind them, weapons raised.

Dante took one look at Marco, then at Gabriel holding Vera on the floor, and immediately motioned for his men to lower their guns.

"Clear the house," Dante ordered his men quietly. "Secure the perimeter. The Moretti crew is retreating."

Dante walked over, kicking Marco’s dropped gun away from his unconscious hand. "I'll handle this garbage, boss."

Gabriel didn't look up. He scooped Vera into his arms, lifting her effortlessly against his chest as he stood up.

"Get the doctor here," Gabriel ordered Dante over his shoulder as he walked toward the stairs. "Now."

"I'm not hurt, Gabriel," Vera murmured, resting her head against his shoulder as he carried her up the grand staircase. "It's not my blood."

"I don't care," Gabriel growled softly, carrying her down the wide hallway of the west wing—a corridor she had never been allowed to enter during her four months of employment.

He kicked open the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall, stepping into his private master suite.

The room was vast, lined with dark walnut wood, a roaring stone fireplace, and a king-sized bed wrapped in charcoal silk sheets. Rain lashed against the massive bay window overlooking the ocean.

Gabriel carried her straight into the adjoining master bathroom, setting her down gently on the edge of a deep marble soaking tub.

He knelt before her, unbuttoning his blood-soaked jacket and tossing it onto the floor. He took a soft white towel, ran it under warm water, and gently began wiping the soot and bleach spots from her face and hands.

His hands were steady now, but his eyes were burning with an intensity that made her skin tingle.

"Why did you leave the room, Vera?" Gabriel asked quietly, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I told you to stay safe."

Vera looked into his storm-grey eyes.

"He was going to open the shutters," she said simply. "They would have killed you."

Gabriel’s hand froze on her cheek. "And you risked your life for mine?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Gabriel pulled her face toward his, unable to fight the dark, consuming tide any longer.

"I told you," Gabriel whispered against her lips, "if you gave me a reason, I would never let you go."