LOGINEden’s POVThe morning light on the island didn’t creep in; it arrived like an intrusion, sharp and unforgiving against the midnight-blue silk of the bed. I woke up alone, the sheets still smelling of the sandalwood oil and the heavy, musky scent of Daniel. My body felt like a map of his territorialism—the faint shadows of finger marks on my thighs and the deep, satisfying ache in my core. He had been a force of nature last night, a blunt instrument of the Schmidt legacy that had left me spent and hollowed out in the best possible way.I sat up, the silk sliding down my bruised ribs, and saw Silas standing by the glass wall.He was already dressed in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He wasn't looking at the ocean; he was looking at the digital tablet in his hand, his brow furrowed in that way that meant he was deconstructing a lie. While Daniel was the hammer of this family, Silas was the scalpel. And I could tell by t
Eden’s POVThe storm that had been brewing over the Atlantic finally broke, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the master suite with a violence that matched the energy inside. The island felt smaller tonight, more intimate, as the rain turned the world outside into a blurred, grey void. I stood in the centre of the room, my skin humming with the residual heat of the day’s work. I had spent twelve hours in the study with Daddy and Silas, untangling the web of the undercover investigation, and the mental exertion had left me with a jagged, restless hunger that only one thing could dull.I wasn't alone.Daniel and Silas stood on opposite sides of the bed, a pair of dark pillars in the dim light of the fire pit. They had shed the professional armour of their suits. Daniel looked raw, his broad chest rising and falling slow and heavy, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded power of his forearms. Silas, usually the most composed of the brothers, had a predatory stillness abou
Lilian’s POVI woke up to the sound of a vacuum cleaner humming with indifferent efficiency in the hallway and the relentless glare of the morning sun reflecting off the glass towers of Midtown. For a long, disorienting minute, I didn't know where I was. My mind was a fractured, jagged mosaic of silver clouds, the bone-shaking roar of jet engines, and the brutal weight of Klaus slamming into me over the Atlantic. The ghost of his touch was still etched into my skin, a cold, phantom pressure that made my breath hitch in the quiet of the room.I tried to sit up, but a sharp, biting pain flared in my wrists, pinning me back to the mattress for a second. I looked down, my vision blurring. The heavy, industrial plastic zip-ties had been cut away, probably by one of Klaus’s silent, stone-faced security detail, leaving deep, purple-black welts that circled my pale skin like grotesque jewelry. My entire body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder; every muscle was stiff, my lower ba
Lilian’s POVThe Gulfstream G650ER cut through the Atlantic clouds like a silver blade, the interior a sanctuary of cream leather, burled walnut, and the low, expensive hum of twin engines. Outside the thick oval windows, there was nothing but an endless, bruising blue—the vast, indifferent territory of the Schmidt family. Klaus sat opposite me, a glass of neat gin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the digital flight tracker embedded in the bulkhead."Thirty-four fifty-seven North. Twenty-eight fourteen West," Klaus muttered, his voice a low, rhythmic chant. He looked energised, his dark tattoos peeking out from the collar of his black shirt. "The heart of the fortress."I gripped the armrests, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The flash drive was tucked into my bra, the data I’d skimmed from his monitors burning against my skin. I had betrayed him to get here, but I didn't care. If those coordinates were right, I was minutes away from seeing Eden. I was minutes away f
Lilian’s POVThe silence in Klaus's penthouse was heavy, broken only by the low hum of the climate control and the distant sirens of the city seventy floors below. Klaus lay sprawled across the midnight silk, his body a landscape of dark ink and hard muscle, his breathing deep and even for the first time in forty-eight hours. Beside him, the other man was a dead weight, his face buried in a pillow. They had finally succumbed to the exhaustion of their own excess, leaving me awake in the wreckage of the night.My body throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—a reminder of every position they had forced me into and every inch of me they had claimed. But as I sat up, my skin sticking to the silk, the pleasure was replaced by a sharp, cold clarity. I hadn't come to Klaus's place to be a permanent fixture in Klaus’s bed. I had come for the Schmidt files.I slipped out from under the heavy weight of Klaus’s arm, my feet silent as they hit the obsidian floor. I didn't reach for my clothes. In t
Lilian's POV The air in Klaus’s penthouse was a stagnant, suffocating soup of sandalwood, expensive gin, and the sharp tang of sweat. It was the kind of atmosphere that clung to your clothes and seeped into your pores, a permanent reminder of the depravity that lived within these obsidian walls. I didn’t knock; in Klaus’s world, an unlocked door wasn't a welcome – it was a trap, a silent dare to see if you had the stomach for what lay on the other side. I stepped inside, the sharp click of my heels muffled by the thick, dark rugs that led toward the sleeping quarters, the hum of Manhattan’s midnight traffic a distant, buzzing ghost against the glass.I found him exactly where I expected, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the jagged, neon-lit skyline of the city. Klaus was a shadow of a man, lean and corded with a restless, violent muscle, his skin almost entirely obscured by intricate, dark tattoos that seemed to writhe like living snakes in the dim lig
DanielWhen I walked into the fundraiser, the place reeked of bullshit and money, champagne flutes clinking, tuxedos trying too hard, and fake laughter echoing under chandeliers that probably cost more than most people make in a year.I scanned the room with the kind of patience that usually means
Eden’s POVThe warehouse smelled of wet concrete and ozone, a damp, heavy cold that seeped into my bones through the tears in my dress. I was zip-tied to a rusted pipeshaft in a corner of the basement, my jaw aching from where the man with the scarred throat had backhanded me 18 hours ago.His name
Daniel’s POVThe file on Deacon Arthur Vance made my fucking skin crawl. It wasn't just the abuse; it was the meticulous, holy-rolling theater he used to cloak it. This prick didn't just break children; he did it in the name of a god he didn't believe in, using a pulpit as a hunting blind.He was t
Daniel’s POVThe basement of the old warehouse on the outskirts of the city was a far cry from the refined, leather-scented dungeon of my estate. This place was raw. It smelled of damp concrete, rusted iron, and the pervasive, cloying scent of fear. I had chosen it for its lack of history, a blank







