Despite the chaos at the office, Roman Griffin arrived home before Violette Ellis.

Thirty minutes earlier, the driver had delivered a prompt that broke the monotony of the drive.

"Mr. Griffin, look. That’s your wife’s car."

A white Mercedes was idling on the curb. Through the driver's side window, a silhouette was visible—Violette. She appeared to be in a conversation with someone, the car perfectly still. This area was miles away from the hospital she was supposed to be visiting.

Why was she here?

A few seconds later, a young man stepped out of the passenger seat. He was dressed casually—a North Face technical shell, a bucket hat pulled low over his eyes, and a face mask. A classic, desperate attempt to remain unseen.

Unseen.

The word flickered across Roman’s mind like a spark in the dark. He stared at the scene, his gaze as still as a dead sea.

"Should I pull over, sir?" the driver asked.

"No," Roman replied. He tried to pull his gaze away, but his eyes refused to obey, locking onto that single point of friction. "Drive faster. Stay out of her line of sight."

The request wasn't unusual; men trying to orchestrate a surprise often acted with this kind of calculated avoidance. The driver, a man in his forties who fancied himself an expert on the games couples played, simply nodded and steered onto a less-traveled side street.

As a result, Roman’s car pulled into their garage ten minutes before Violette arrived.

When Violette heard the door open, Roman was already changed into loungewear. He was sitting in the cigar chair near the entryway, a tablet in his hand, quietly clearing his inbox.

"You're home early," Violette said, dropping her bag and looking over with genuine surprise. When they had spoken on the phone earlier, he had still been on the road.

Roman dimmed his screen and set the tablet on the armrest. "Did you finish visiting your colleague?"

"Yes. She’s doing fine."

Violette smiled, but then realized Roman was still watching her. She touched her cheek. "What? Why are you staring?"

Roman rose to his feet and pressed his thumb against the skin beneath her eye. "You’ve got dark circles."

"Really?" Violette cupped her face. "Is it that obvious?"

She hadn't slept well in days. She hurried toward the full-length mirror, squinting to inspect her reflection. The glass caught everything—including the space behind her.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Roman approach from behind. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his large frame instantly consuming her space, bringing with him the sharp, clean scent of cold cedar. He lowered his head, his lashes casting long, dark shadows over his eyes.

"If this situation isn't resolved properly, there will be more trouble later," he said slowly. "The source is him. I’m thinking, perhaps I should accompany you to meet him."

*Him?* Violette felt her heart skip a beat. "Blake Pierce?"

Roman’s tone remained infuriatingly ambiguous. "Some things just need to be settled."

*Actually, we’ve already said all there is to say.*

The words felt like a stone lodged in her throat. She suddenly lost the courage to meet his eyes in the mirror. She didn't know how to admit they had already met. She bit her lip, caught between nodding and shaking her head.

"Maybe another time," she murmured.

"Fine," Roman didn't push. He leaned down and kissed the sensitive skin of her ear.

That night, Roman headed to the bedroom early. He had been going to bed at odd hours for the past few days, and lying together usually led to the expected intimacies. But tonight, Violette was exhausted, and her conscience wouldn't allow it. Having just seen Blake, she couldn't give herself to Roman entirely. To be with him now felt like a betrayal of the respect he deserved.

She curled up under the duvet, frantically searching for an excuse.

The mattress dipped behind her.

Roman didn't move to initiate anything. Once the lights were out, he simply pulled her into a firm embrace, sighing against her hair. "Get some sleep."

Violette reached back, her fingers finding the side of his neck.

Beneath her skin, she could feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his pulse—a raw, surging current of blood. He didn't pull away; instead, he pressed her hand firmly against the vein, guiding her to trace the cadence of his life.

The position was bizarre. It felt as if he had laid himself bare, exposing his own vitals to her, inviting her to hold his leash.

Violette pressed down, her fingertips tracing the throb. She felt his breathing hitch, turning sharp and ragged.

For some reason, as she held his life in her palm, she finally felt safe.