Chapter 4 - The Waking Nightmare
When Stella opened her eyes, the world was no longer black, but a soft, warm amber.
The sharp, freezing bite of the November rain was gone, replaced by the deep, enveloping radiant warmth of a gas fireplace flickering nearby. She was lying on something soft—thicker and far more luxurious than any mattress she had ever felt.
For a brief, terrifying second, she thought she was dead.
Then the pain returned. It started as a dull, thumping ache in her ribs that sharpened into a hot spike when she tried to take a deep breath.
Stella gasped, her head snapping to the side. Her right hand swung wildly, catching on a plastic tube suspended above her. She looked up and saw the clear liquid dripping steadily down a thin line into the back of her hand.
Panic, instant and blinding, rushed through her veins.
"Easy," a voice said.
The voice was low, deep, and smooth like polished granite.
Stella jerked her head toward the sound, her heart hammering against her cracked ribs so hard she thought her chest would burst. Sitting in a leather wingback chair less than six feet away was Jonah Pierce.
He had removed his dark suit jacket. His pristine white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up past his wrists, revealing muscular, hair-dappled forearms. He was holding a glass of water, watching her with an intensity that felt physical, as if his eyes were weighing her soul.
Up close, without the dark mythos of his street reputation, he looked younger than she had imagined—maybe thirty-seven or thirty-eight. His jaw was cleanly shaved, his dark hair immaculately kept, and his features were carved with frightening symmetry. But it was his eyes that terrified her most: dark, intelligent, and utterly unblinking.
Stella tried to scramble backward, pushing herself up with her elbow.
A agonizing shockwave fired across her side, and her legs tangled in a plush cashmere blanket she hadn't realized was covering her. She let out a ragged cry, collapsing back onto the leather pillows, her chest heaving as she clutched her ribs.
"I said easy," Jonah repeated softly. He didn't move toward her rapidly; he remained perfectly still, letting her process her surroundings. "You have two cracked ribs. Severe dehydration. You haven't eaten a full meal in at least three days."
"I... I need to leave," Stella stammered, her voice raspy and cracked. "The envelope... did you get the envelope?"
"The money is safe," Jonah said.
"I need the receipt," she pleaded, her breathing rapid and shallow. "He told me... he said I had to bring back proof. If I don't go back, he’ll—"
"Dean is waiting," Jonah finished for her.
Stella’s entire body went rigid. The breath caught in her throat. "How do you... how do you know his name?"
Something cold and predatory flickered across Jonah’s face—a brief shadow that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. "I know many things about the men who work in my city, Miss Hayes."
"You don't understand," she gasped, her eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany door. "He’s waiting at the apartment. He has a timer running in his head. If I'm late, he’s going to think I stole the money. He's going to come looking for me."
"Dean can wait," Jonah said smoothly.
"No, he can't! You don't know what he's like when he drinks!" She reached up with her left hand to rip the IV tape from her skin, desperate to get off the couch.
"Don't do that," Jonah commanded. The tone wasn't shouted, but it possessed an authority so absolute that her fingers froze over the medical tape.
He set his glass on the side table. Then, slowly, deliberately, Jonah Pierce stood up.
Stella held her breath, bracing herself for impact, expecting the violence that always followed a man standing over her in anger. But Jonah didn't tower over her. Instead, he took two slow steps forward and lowered himself onto one knee right beside the couch.
The most feared crime lord in Manhattan deliberately brought himself below her eye level.
He made no sudden movements. He kept his hands open, resting on his knee. "I am not going to hurt you, Stella."
Her name sounded strange on his lips—heavy, deliberate, and clean.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, tears finally breaking past her eyelashes and tracking down her bruised cheeks. "Why do you care?"
Jonah reached out, his long fingers hovering an inch above her arm. "I am going to look at your arm."
May you like
"No," she flinched, pulling back. "Please, don't."
"I'm not asking to shame you," Jonah said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "I am looking at the damage so I know how much work I have to do tonight."
