Chapter 2

The black sedan that pulled up to the Silver Moon territory's gates was nothing like the rusted pickup trucks I'd expected from a "declining" family. Its obsidian paint gleamed under the afternoon sun, and when the driver—a man in an impeccably tailored suit—stepped out to open my door, I caught a glimpse of the interior's cream leather and polished wood accents.

"Miss Moon," he said with a respectful nod, taking my single worn duffel bag as if it were made of precious metals. "Master Roman is expecting you."

I slid into the backseat, my fingers automatically smoothing over the buttery leather. The car smelled of expensive cologne and new money—a sharp contrast to the musty basement scent that had clung to my clothes for years. Through the tinted windows, I watched the Silver Moon territory shrink behind us, taking with it every painful memory I'd accumulated over eighteen years.

The drive to Seattle took two hours, but it felt like crossing into another world entirely. The closer we got to the city center, the taller the buildings grew, their glass facades reflecting the setting sun like mirrors. When we finally stopped in front of a gleaming high-rise that seemed to pierce the clouds themselves, I had to crane my neck to see its peak.

"The penthouse," the driver explained, leading me to a private elevator that required a key card to access. "Master Roman owns the top three floors."

The elevator rose smoothly, my ears popping from the altitude change. When the doors finally opened, I stepped directly into what could only be described as a technological paradise.

The space was vast and open, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Seattle's skyline. The furniture was all clean lines and expensive materials—white leather sofas that probably cost more than most cars, a kitchen island made from a single slab of black marble, and abstract art pieces that I suspected were originals rather than prints. Everything gleamed under carefully positioned LED lighting that seemed to respond to the fading daylight outside.

This wasn't the run-down dwelling of a family in decline. This was wealth—real, substantial, generational wealth.

"Roman?" I called out, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.

The sound of weights clinking came from somewhere deeper in the apartment, followed by the mechanical whir of exercise equipment. A few moments later, a door I hadn't noticed—seamlessly integrated into the wall—slid open with a soft hiss.

And then I saw him.

Roman Blackwood was nothing like the rumors had prepared me for. Instead of the bloated, slovenly drunk I'd expected, a tall figure emerged from what appeared to be a private gymnasium. His dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell with the controlled breathing of someone who'd just finished an intense workout.

His physique was... impressive. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and every movement revealed the kind of muscle definition that came from dedicated training rather than casual exercise. A thin sheen of perspiration highlighted the planes of his torso, and when he reached for a towel draped over a nearby chair, the motion was fluid, controlled.

For just a moment, our eyes met across the apartment, and I caught something in his gaze—a sharpness, an intelligence that seemed at odds with his reputation. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by something lazy and unfocused.

"Well, well," he drawled, draping the towel around his neck with studied casualness. "The infamous Thalia Moon. You're prettier than the photos suggested."

He moved toward the kitchen with the kind of loose-limbed gait that suggested either intoxication or supreme indifference to the world around him. From a cabinet that probably cost more than most people's cars, he pulled out a bottle of what looked like very expensive whiskey.

"Drink?" he offered, not waiting for my answer before pouring himself a generous measure. "I find these arranged marriage situations go down easier with a little lubrication."

I watched him take a sip, noting how his hand remained perfectly steady despite his apparent nonchalance. "It's a little early for whiskey, isn't it?"

"Darling," he said with a laugh that sounded practiced, "it's five o'clock somewhere. Besides, when you're as wealthy and useless as I am, time becomes rather... flexible."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black credit card, sliding it across the marble countertop toward me. "Speaking of flexibility, this should cover any immediate needs. Clothes, jewelry, whatever makes you happy. Consider it a signing bonus."

I stared at the card—unlimited, judging by the platinum finish and discrete logo. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He shrugged, taking another sip of his whiskey. "I'm not particularly interested in the details of how you spend my money, as long as you don't interfere with my... lifestyle. I have parties to attend, races to bet on, and a reputation for spectacular debauchery to maintain."

There it was again—that flicker of something calculating behind his deliberately unfocused eyes. The performance was good, almost perfect, but I'd spent too many years watching people pretend to be something they weren't. I knew the signs.

"How generous," I said, leaving the credit card untouched on the counter. "But I think we should be honest about what this arrangement actually is."

Roman paused with his glass halfway to his lips. "Oh?"

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent that clung to him beneath the sweat—something dark and complex, like storm clouds and expensive tobacco. "You need a wife to get your family off your back about settling down. A convenient shield so you can continue whatever it is you're really doing when you're not playing the dissolute heir."

His expression didn't change, but I saw his knuckles tighten almost imperceptibly around his glass.

"And I," I continued, "need this marriage for my own reasons. Revenge, specifically. Against the people who thought they could discard me like garbage."

For a long moment, we stared at each other across the marble expanse. The setting sun painted the apartment in shades of gold and amber, but the light seemed to sharpen rather than soften the tension between us.

Finally, Roman set down his glass and smiled—a real smile this time, not the practiced smirk he'd been wearing since I arrived.

"Well," he said, his voice losing some of its affected drawl. "That's refreshingly honest. Most people spend weeks dancing around their true motivations."

"I don't have time for games," I replied. "Do we have an understanding?"

Roman studied me for another moment, and I had the distinct impression I was being evaluated by someone far more perceptive than he pretended to be. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because he extended his hand across the counter.

"Partners in crime, then," he said. "Welcome to the Blackwood family, Thalia. I have a feeling this arrangement is going to be far more interesting than either of our families anticipated."

As our hands touched, I felt a jolt of something electric pass between us. Not the mate bond—I was too broken for that—but something else. Recognition, perhaps. Or the acknowledgment of two predators who'd found themselves on the same side of the hunt.

For the first time in years, I smiled and meant it.