He’s overbearing and a criminal. He shot my brother and chained me in marriage.

  I repeat the thoughts. Yes, that’s it. Sparks shoot up my spine.

  I shove him away.

  He doesn’t let go.

  “What on earth is wrong with you? Can’t get women so you have to manhandle one?”

  “That mouth of yours. I should punish you.”

  He spans his large hands around my waist and grips it tighter, pinning me down on his lap.

  Right on top of something hard, thick, and undeniable.

  He’s turned on.

  A startled sound slips out of me—half whimper, half moan.

  “You sadistic piece of shit,” I rasp as I wiggle on his lap.

  “You’re welcome.” He pins my hands behind me. “Stop fighting me.”

  “Make me, Elias. I fucking dare you.”

  “You like it though. I can see it.” Elias dips his lips to my ear. “You’re turned on. Just like Thanksgiving.”

  I shiver. “You’re delusional.”

  “Am I? Or are you lying to yourself?”

  He kneads my waist, his fingers dipping under my oversized sweater, grazing my skin.

  Tiny flames lick outward. My breathing stutters.

  “You hate me. I loathe you,” he says, his voice rough. “I stole you from your family, took away your freedom. I shot Maxwell. Take your revenge. Be vicious.”

  Is this how Persephone felt when Hades pulled her into the depths of hell?

  My eyes flicker up to his again, seeing the taunt and challenge in them.

  He thinks I won’t hurt him? He wants viciousness?

  My jaw tightens. I sock him across the face like my self-defense instructor taught me.

  Elias wipes his mouth, his hand coming away with blood.

  “Again,” he growls.

  “You want me to hurt you?” I gape and climb off him.

  “I want you to mean it. You can do better, Lana.”

  This time, he doesn’t make it easy. He pounces on me and locks my hands behind my back. His eyes darken with unholy fire.

  I yell and knee him where it hurts.

  “Fuck!” He drops me, staggers back, and groans from obvious pain.

  “Good. Stay down.”

  A high like no other burns through my veins.

  “Is this vicious enough for you?” I ready myself to deliver another right hook across the bastard’s face.

  He blocks me with his arm. A deranged smile splits his lips.

  “Not even close, princess.”

  Fury surges up my spine, and I jam my elbow into his chest.

  “Harder.” He blocks my next kicks and hits.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  I throw out a left hook. It lands on his cheek with a satisfying smack.

  Admiration reflects in those green eyes, and I ignore the excited flutters in my stomach.

  “Tell me to stop,” I grit out.

  “No.”

  Spinning around, I follow with a right jab. But this time, he catches it, uses my wrist as leverage, and turns me so my back plasters against his front.

  A scream rips out from my throat as I jab my heel into his foot. His grip loosens, and as he reaches for me, I headbutt him, hitting him square in the nose.

  A pained hiss escapes his lips as he stares at the blood dripping onto the floor.

  Adrenaline pulses through me, my senses heightened.

  I settle into a defensive stance. “Want more, bastard?”

  Elias’s shoulders shake. Then a low chuckle rumbles through the room. Unwittingly, I take a step back, knowing I’ve unleashed something.

  “You have no idea,” he murmurs.

  Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes take on a maniacal glint as his lips curve into a twisted smile. He wipes the blood from his nose.

  “You’re turning me on, princess.” He prowls toward me, his hoarse voice sending ripples down my body.

  My nipples peak and my body heats.

  “Monster.” I back up until I hit his chair.

  “Say it again,” he says softly. “Tell me you want to kill me.”

  Another dark chuckle.

  Then a flash of black and green—too quickly for me to react—he twists me around until I’m sitting on top of his lap on the chair again.

  “Not vicious enough,” he says, pinning me in place with one arm while taunting me with the other like a dare.

  He thinks I won’t do it?

  I snatch his arm and bite down.

  Hard.

  He hisses, his nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t yell or push me off.

  Instead, his lips curl and eyes flash. Then an arrogant smirk. That’s all you got?

  The shaft between his legs grows harder.

  I bite until copper floods my tongue. Warm, wet liquid slides over my lips, down my chin, my neck.

  He grunts, his fingers digging into my waist, a sharp pain mixing with the heady warmth swirling in my veins.

  I don’t know what comes over me. A lapse of sanity. The Shadow King infecting my mind with whatever sickness he has.

  I grind myself against him, savoring his hard muscles clenching underneath me. Roll my hips once. Twice. Slow figure eights over his length.

  I want to unravel him and obliterate the detached control he wears like a second skin.

  Heat curls in my core, gathering at my clit. My lips part, and I moan.

  “Fuck,” he rasps. “Look at me.”

  “Make. Me.” My response is breathy.

  “Gladly.” He drags me closer and buries his face at the base of my throat. His nose grazes the tender flesh where my pulse throbs a rickety rhythm. I hear his desperate breaths, like he’s famished for my scent. Like I’m his salvation.

  A tortured groan wrenches from him—desperate and aching. He bands his arms around me and moves me up and down, up and down, a sinewy rhythm over the thick cock in his pants.

  Logic burns away, my body incinerated by madness. With his blood on my tongue, his cologne in my nostrils, I’m overwhelmed with everything that’s Elias Kent.

  Flames singe between my legs and burgeon into an inferno as he grows harder against me, his warm tip dampening, digging into my core, seeking entrance. My mind spins and muscles tighten, a guitar string wound over and over again until it’s taut to the point of breaking.

  I writhe over him, our movements natural, like we were made to do this.

  Made to drive each other mad.

  “My zemër,” he grunts into my neck, his hand traveling down to my ass before he cups it and squeezes.

  Zemër? What’s that? The thought vanishes like smoke on a rainy day when he presses his lips to the hollow of my throat. I whimper.

  “I hate you,” he says. Another loud, masculine groan of approval. “You drive me insane. And I’ve fucked my hand raw to the thought of you on my lap.”

  “Elias,” I moan and chase the sensations—the climbing sparks around my clit.

  “Let go, Lana. Feel what I do to you.”

  My back arches, my pussy wet, accepting his hard thrusts like it’s my only purpose—

  This elusive pinnacle, this explosion, I can see it, feel it—

  He wrenches me off his lap.

  What? Why did he stop?

  Cold air knives down my spine. My legs tremble, and feet find purchase. I want to claw him back to me and feel his body against mine. I want to kiss him and punch him and finish what we started.

  The room swirls as I heave out heavy breaths. Elias glares at me, his feral dark eyes burning like hot coals.

  Then there’s the blood.

  The crimson liquid drips out of my bite mark and streaks over his white dress shirt in crescents.

  Who am I?

  “Get out,” he growls and hurls a folder at me I barely catch in time. “Press releases. A magazine interview. A deal between your family and the Berishas. Due tomorrow.”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My taste buds are singing, nerves ringing. Temporarily losing my voice, I glance away, my gaze catching on a document on his desk.

  Saints Hollow Conservancy—Hollow Gardens Acquisition Permit.

  Dates circled in red. Photos of the park tucked above.

  My heart twists and spasms. Hollow Gardens. The tree. Kian.

  What was I thinking? Have I lost my mind?

  “I-I want to leave the house. I’ll take Ren. Please. I can’t stand being trapped here anymore.”

  The second after is heavy with tension.

  “Fine. Now, get out!”

  I turn around and flee.

  Chapter 22: HOLLOW IN MY HEART

  “I know you said it’s closed, but I still want to go,” I murmur from the backseat.

  Ren’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and he sighs.

  After the incident in his office—temporary insanity or Stockholm Syndrome, take your pick—Elias is dodging me again.

  But at least I can leave the house now.

  The realization sits wrong. Did I buy my freedom by grinding against my jailer? And what does it say about me if I want to do it again?

  Because the sounds of his strangled breaths and the burn of his hands on my body, like getting me off was his sole purpose? They’re carved into my mind, and creep in when the house is quiet. And I refuse to untangle my complicated knot of emotions.

  To distract myself from these unhelpful thoughts and to do something I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t while I was imprisoned, I asked Ren to take me to Hollow Gardens for my first outing.

  Ren grunts his disapproval again, pointing at the darkening skies.

  It looks like it might snow—the weather in Chicago is as volatile as the man I married.

  “I’ll make it quick. I just need to do something,” I reassure him, clutching the small box in my hand.

  A slice of Hannah’s tiramisu.

  It’s been my biggest regret since moving to Chicago—not lighting a candle for Kian by our elm tree at Hollow Gardens for his birthday.

  Wrought-iron gates, tipped with the gray sludge of dirty snow, loom before us. My heart clenches, ghosts of the past twirling behind my eyelids.

  Before the car comes to a stop, I wrench open the door and hop out.

  My boots clomp on the snow piled on the curb, and my lungs heave in icy needles of winter air. A sudden gust almost knocks me off my feet as snow drifts from the sky. I wrap my jacket tighter around my body as I follow the fence to the towering metal sign with the gothic lettering.

  Hollow Gardens.

  The letters are rusted with age.

  I shake the gates.

  But as Ren said, it’s locked.

  A yellow sign hangs to the side—under renovation.

  My mind shifts to the permit I saw on Elias’s desk. Why would he have it? What does he want with the park?

  My breath comes out in a cloud of white. I spot our elm tree in the distance, its barren branches straining toward the sky.

  Memories flicker through my mind.

  Kian’s bleached blond hair covering his brilliant green eyes. How he’d cup my icy hands in his, blowing warmth into them. The gentle smile curving his lips when he’d give me pricey chocolates out of his budget—Geraldine’s—every time we’d meet here.

  But he’d always say, “Anything for your smile.”

  There were no five-course meals, no fancy cars. But there was one thing he gave me that no man unrelated to me ever did before or after him.

  Genuine love. One stripped of my last name or bank account.

  When I first met him, I went by my middle name because I didn’t want to be the Lana Anderson, the precious Anderson princess. I wanted to be me—just me.

  And Kian? He made me feel his Elise was enough.

  And in those stolen moments—strolls in the park, dreams of the future—his presence and love were priceless.

  Kian would look at me the way Dad stared at Mom in our photo albums.

  And then he disappeared. I had no closure. My heart never moved on.

  The wind lets out a mournful wail. My mitten-clad hands shake as I pull them off, fingers stiff.

  Quickly, I open the box, push in a candle, and reach for the lighter in my pocket.

  It sputters on, but a gust steals the flame away.

  “Come on,” I mutter, sparking it again.

  But nature doesn’t cooperate. Instead, frigid wind and thickening snow stab my face like glass shards.

  Then, the snow stops.

  Vetiver and smoke drift to my nose. My skin hums with awareness.

  A spot of red—his umbrella—shields me from the elements, like some echo of a memory I can’t catch.

  Elias stands next to me, silent in his gentleman gangster attire, all harsh lines and strong angles, complete with leather gloves.

  He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, flips it open, and lights the candle for me.

  My heart hammers against my rib cage.

  Suddenly, I’m lightheaded.

  “Why are you here?” I whisper. “And why do you have the acquisition permit for the gardens?”

  He doesn’t answer either question. Gaze inscrutable, he faces me instead, his body blocking the howling wind, his umbrella protecting me from the harsh elements.

  His smoldering eyes drift to the emerald pendant around my neck.

  Slowly, he scrapes one finger down my cheek, lighting tiny fires on my skin.

  I shiver.

  “I protect what’s mine,” he murmurs, unbuttoning his coat.

  Gently, he places it over my shoulders, wrapping me in its warmth.

  A sense of déjà vu falls over me, but I can’t place it.

  He holds my gaze for a few heavy beats, his throat rippling, like he wants to tell me something, to bare his soul and reveal his secrets.

  But a rough exhale escapes his lips instead.

  Wordlessly, Elias lifts the dessert and blows out the candle.

  My breath hitches. Something sharp and guilty twists in my chest.

  This was supposed to be Kian’s flame, not his.

  But then, it also feels…right.

  He curls my hand around the umbrella handle.

  “A blizzard is heading our way,” he rasps. “Don’t stay out too long. You’ll get sick.”

  Before I can answer, the Shadow King ducks out from under the umbrella into the wind-whipped snow, letting it coat his hair and clothes while I stand there dry and wrapped in his coat.

  A hollow ache flares behind my sternum as I watch his lonely silhouette disappear into the mist.

  Chapter 23: INTERLUḌE—HOLLOW GARDENS

  Kian

  Past: Chicago, Twenty Years Ago

  I should’ve known danger was near.

  There were warning signs. But I didn’t recognize them back then.

  My happiness had deflated the moment I saw the black luggage stacked like little coffins by the front door. I lifted one. Empty. Relief crashed through me.

  “Make sure to pick up the flowers for Mom, son,” Dad muttered as he grabbed his silver lighter and brushed past me to put on his shoes. He’d signed up for an extra shift at the shop so he could make Mom’s birthday tonight special.

  “Sure. Will do it on my way back.” I still couldn’t look away from the suitcases.

  “Better to be safe than sorry.” Dad eyed the luggage.

  “But why? It’s not like we’re important or have money. We don’t need to be so paranoid.”

  Dad grunted but didn’t say more.

  He never did.

  I used to roll with it—new apartments, new schools, new streets.

  But now I had someone—someone who made me dream about things besides money for our next meal.

  And I didn’t want to leave the city that gave me my Elise.

  We stepped out of the building into the biting cold.

  I went right to grab my bike. Dad went left.

  “The flowers, son. Florist closes at four today,” Dad hollered.

  “Got it!” I turned around and gave him a mock salute.

  Dad chuckled, his eyes scanning my face. “That special girl of yours…”

  I stopped, dread coiling in my gut. Mom disapproved of Elise, saying we were worlds apart and I’d end up heartbroken.

  “A man’s greatest accomplishment is finding a good woman.” His eyes softened the way they do when he thought of Mom. “Your Elise…if she’s your special someone, do what you can to keep her by your side. Good women don’t come along often.”

  Her sweet smile flashed across my mind. My chest warmed.

  “Got it, Dad.”

  He grunted and turned away, whistling as he walked toward the bus station. A flash of silver arched through the air. Dad chuckled, catching the lighter he had tossed up moments ago.

  Elise stood at the gate, bundled up in a thick wool dress and snow boots, a fuzzy scarf around her neck. Her red umbrella was tucked under her arm. Her cheeks pinkened, a smile splitting her lips when she saw me.

  “Kian!”

  My heart fluttered as I parked my bike and rushed toward her.

  Slightly out of breath, I took her hands in mine.

  They were cold—too cold. I swiftly rubbed her fingers, then brought them up to my lips to heat them with my breath.

  She hummed her favorite melody—Beethoven’s song—as we strode into the gardens. The trees were barren, the weathered benches thick with snow, but there were still people loitering about.

  After all, it was one of the few places kids could run and scream without getting side-eyed by the Albanian mob. The park was off-limits.

  “Sorry we couldn’t go anywhere nice.” Shame thickened my voice.

  “This is perfect.” She shuffled closer to me and let out a happy sigh. “Absolutely perfect.”

  We strolled on the outer loop, past the marble angels with wings unfurled, and thorny bushes that would bloom her favorite flowers—roses—in spring.

  She fished out a book and started reading.

  “And when he opened his eyes, he realized his dark world had light. That, for once, his thirst wasn’t for death but for a woman bright with life. That he’d—”

  I chuckled.

  “What?” She elbowed me.