The first picture of my unborn baby burned in a freezing Chicago kitchen while the child’s father stood on television beside another woman and announced their engagement.

By five o'clock, the rain had turned into a thick, slushy snow that blanketed the mountain roads in white.

I sat on the edge of my bed in the upper apartment, staring at the small canvas duffel bag packed with my clothes, my grandmother's ring, and the tiny yellow baby socks.

I hadn't run. I knew it was useless. Four of Declan's security guards were stationed around the building, their dark suits visible through the falling snow like grim specters.

The stairs creaked. Declan walked into the bedroom, carrying a thick, fur-lined winter coat.

He didn't say a word. He walked over to where I sat, held out the coat, and helped me slide my arms into the sleeves. His fingers brushed against my neck as he pulled the hood up, his touch impossibly gentle despite his cold demeanor.

"The snow is getting worse," he said quietly. "We need to lift off before the airfield freezes over."

I stood up, resting my hand on my stomach. "Is the helicopter safe for... for the baby?"

Declan’s expression softened instantly. "It's a twin-engine Sikorsky S-76, fully pressurized and heated. I brought my private obstetrician, Dr. Aris, on the flight. She's waiting onboard to check your vitals."

He picked up my duffel bag with one hand and reached for my hand with the other.

I looked at his open palm. A year ago, I would have slipped my fingers into his without hesitation. Now, looking at that hand, I saw the invisible blood of Chicago's underworld clinging to his skin.

Slowly, reluctantly, I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine, warm, strong, and possessive.

We walked down the narrow stairs and out into the freezing air.

A convoy of three armored SUVs was waiting on the quiet street. Gavin opened the rear door of the middle vehicle, holding a large black umbrella over my head as Declan guided me inside.

The leather seats were heated. A soft wool blanket was folded neatly on the bench beside a bottle of sparkling water and a plate of fresh fruit.

Declan slid in beside me, closing the heavy, bulletproof door with a solid thud.

The convoy pulled away from the curb, leaving the town of Blue Ridge behind in a cloud of swirling white snow.

I stared out the darkened window, watching the small shops, the pine trees, and the mountains disappear into the storm. My quiet life was over. The lie of Claire Mason had evaporated like mist.

"You're quiet," Declan said, his hand resting on the seat close to mine, but not touching me.

"I have nothing to say to you," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the window.

"Amelia," he said, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive hum. "I know you're angry. I know you feel like I've kidnapped you."

"You have kidnapped me."

"I have retrieved my family," he corrected fiercely. "Do you have any idea what my life has been like for the past three months? Every morning I woke up expecting to hear that your body had been found in a lake. Every night I sat in that empty penthouse, looking at the studio key you left on the table."

He reached out, his long fingers cupping my chin, forcing me to turn and look at him.

"You broke me, Amelia," he whispered, his storm-gray eyes raw with pain. "You are the only person on this earth who has ever made me feel helpless. I will never let you do that to me again."

Before I could answer, the front passenger door opened as Gavin turned around from the front seat, his face pale in the glow of his tablet screen.

"Declan," Gavin said, his voice tight. "We have a problem."

Declan’s entire demeanor shifted in a microsecond. The softness vanished. The romantic intimacy disappeared. The crime boss returned.

"Report," Declan commanded.

"Victor Calloway's men just breached the security perimeter at the Asheville regional airfield," Gavin said quickly. "They know you're in North Carolina. They have two vehicles blocking the main runway."

My heart stopped. My hand instinctively slammed against my stomach.

Declan didn't panic. His eyes narrowed, turning into two chips of gray ice.

"How many men?" Declan asked, his voice steady as steel.

"Eight. Armed with automatic weapons," Gavin replied. "They think you're alone with a standard escort."

Declan pulled a small, silver smartphone from his inner jacket pocket and tapped the screen once.

"Tell the pilot to spin the rotors," Declan ordered calmly into the phone. "We're taking off in ten minutes. Clear the runway."

He hung up, then reached under the seat in front of him. With a sharp click, he pulled out a heavy black hand-gun, checking the magazine with practiced, terrifying speed.

"Declan!" I gasped, shrinking back against the leather seat.

He looked at me, his eyes entirely devoid of fear.

"Stay down on the floor, Amelia," he said softly, reaching out to press my shoulders down toward the carpeted floorboards. "Gavin, cover her with your jacket."