My sister died five minutes after giving birth in an abandoned clinic, leaving her newborn in the arms of a woman running from a mob boss.

The safehouse was a converted maritime signal station three miles south of the main port, perched on a rocky bluff that jutted out into the sea. Built of solid granite blocks in the late nineteenth century, it had only one road in and an emergency boat slip carved into the cliffside below.

Inside the warmth of the lower living quarters, the smell of antiseptic competed with the salt tang of the ocean.

Rowan sat on an oak workbench, stripped to his waist. His left shoulder was purple and swollen, with a deep, four-inch furrow where the high-caliber shrapnel had torn through the muscle.

Claire stood between his knees, her sleeves rolled up, her fingers steady as she threaded a curved surgical needle with nylon suture.

“This is going to hurt,” Claire said quietly.

“I’ve had worse,” Rowan replied.

“I’m not giving you local anesthetic. We don't have enough lidocaine, and Lucy might need what’s left if her fever spikes.”

“Stitch it,” Rowan ordered.

Claire pressed a sterile gauze pad against the wound to clear the blood, then drove the needle through the torn skin.

Rowan’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his beard. He didn't make a sound. His right hand gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles turning white, but he remained completely motionless, letting her work.

Claire’s movements were swift, surgical, and confident. Her face was only inches from his chest. She could feel the radiating heat of his skin, could see the old, faded scars that mapped his life—a knife wound across his ribs, shrapnel marks on his collarbone, the heavy musculature of a man who had built an empire with his bare hands.

“You’re shivering,” Rowan murmured, his voice tight from the pain.

“I’m not,” Claire lied, tying off the fourth knot. “It’s cold in here.”

“You’re running on adrenaline and shock, Claire.”

Claire tied the final stitch, cut the thread, and reached for the iodine solution. As she smoothed the dressing over his shoulder, her hand lingered for a fraction of a second against his bare collarbone.

Her breath hitched.

Rowan reached up with his uninjured arm and caught her wrist.

He didn't pull her closer, but he didn't let go. His thumb rested against the steady, rapid pulse at the base of her hand.

“Why didn't you leave her at a fire station?” Rowan asked, his eyes searching hers in the dim, golden light of the station lamps. “You could have dropped Lucy in a safe-haven cradle. You could have walked away. Sloane’s men would never have connected you to Nora.”

Claire looked down at their hands. Her fingers were small against his scarred, weathered grip.

“When Nora was dying,” Claire whispered, “she took my hand. She looked at me, and her eyes weren't full of fear for herself. She was terrified that Lucy would grow up unloved. She was terrified that Lucy would be an invisible child in a system that crushes soft things.”

Claire looked up, meeting Rowan’s gaze without flinching.

“I grew up in the foster system, Rowan,” she said, her voice thick with old, unhealed grief. “I know what it’s like to sleep in seven different bedrooms before you turn twelve. I know what it’s like to have people sign papers to feed you because the state pays them fifty dollars a week. I promised Nora that Lucy would never, ever wonder if she was wanted.”

Rowan looked at Claire Quinn, and the last of his armor—the cold, unfeeling shell he had worn since his mother took a bullet in his living room—cracked completely open.

“She’s wanted,” Rowan said, his voice raw with an intensity that made the hair on Claire’s arms stand up. “And so are you.”

Claire’s eyes widened slightly. The space between them seemed to vanish. Rowan’s hand moved slowly up from her wrist to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling gently in the loose strands of her hair.

For three seconds, neither of them breathed. The world outside—the rain, the assassins, the encroaching war—simply ceased to exist.

A knock sounded against the heavy iron door of the signal station.

Rowan pulled back slowly, his eyes never leaving Claire’s face. Claire stepped back, her cheeks flushed with a sudden, intoxicating heat.

Maddox stepped into the room, holding an encrypted tablet. His face was gray.

“Rowan,” Maddox said, glancing briefly between them before focusing on his boss. “Julian’s drive is decrypted. We got through the second layer of the firewall.”

“And?” Rowan asked, reaching for a clean black henley.