SHE AGREED TO BATHE THE PARALYZED MAFIA KING—THEN DISCOVERED HIS DEVASTATING SECRET

At 7:00 a.m. sharp, Emma walked down the master suite hallway carrying a tray with warm towels, mild soaps, and fresh clothing.

She knocked twice on Victor’s bedroom door.

"Enter," a tired voice called out.

Emma pushed the door open. The vast room was washed in early morning sunlight. Sitting near the center of the room, impeccably dressed in his black trousers and white shirt, was Victor—sitting in his wheelchair once again.

His back was slightly stooped. His face wore a look of sullen, exhausted resignation. If Emma hadn't seen him standing six feet tall in the middle of the night, she would have sworn he was truly invalid.

"You're punctual," Victor noted, his tone distant and professional.

"I take my work seriously, Mr. Blackwood," Emma replied, setting the tray down on the marble counter of the adjoining bathroom.

She walked back out and stood beside his chair. For a second, their eyes met, and a subtle, unspoken spark passed between them.

"The servants are watching," Victor murmured under his breath, his lips barely moving as he stared out the window. "Mrs. Dalton tests everyone I hire. She reports to my uncle, Thomas Blackwood."

Emma froze mid-step, then forced herself to keep moving. "Your uncle?"

"Thomas took over my shipping contracts after the accident," Victor whispered softly. "He's the prime suspect in my brother's murder."

Emma took a deep breath, stepping behind the wheelchair. She gripped the leather handles, her knuckles turning white. "Then let's give your audience a good show."

She wheeled him into the grand master bathroom. The room was roughly the size of a city apartment, covered in white Carrara marble with a massive walk-in clawfoot bathtub in the center.

Emma filled the tub with warm water, pouring in unscented mineral salts.

Victor sat in his chair beside the tub. He reached up, unbuttoning his white dress shirt with slow, methodical movements. As the shirt parted, Emma caught her breath.

His upper body was broad, muscular, and covered in faint scars—proof of a life lived on the violent edge of an empire. Across his shoulder blade sat a dark, complex tattoo of a dragon coiled around a broken crown.

"Need help with the trousers?" Emma asked teasingly, her voice dripping with dry humor to hide her sudden nervousness.

Victor looked up at her, a rare, genuine smirk gracing his lips. "Unless you want to get thrown into that bathtub, Carter, I suggest you turn around while I get in."

Emma turned her back, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She heard the soft rustle of clothing, followed by a light splash of water.

"All right," Victor said softly. "You can turn around."

Emma turned back. Victor sat in the deep water, his broad chest rising and falling rhythmically.

She picked up a soft sponge, dipped it into the warm water, and stepped up to the edge of the tub. She began washing his back, her movements light, tender, and respectful.

Victor went completely still under her touch. He didn't move a muscle, but she could feel the tension radiating from his shoulders gradually melting away.

"Nobody has touched me like this in six months," Victor confessed softly, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost in the sound of the dripping water. "Everyone touches me with pity or fear."

Emma paused her hand, resting the soft sponge against his shoulder blade. "I don't pity you, Victor. And I'm certainly not afraid of you."