Sienna Calder swore she’d never touch her father’s world—Dorian Ashford, shipping mogul and billionaire king, left her mom to rot while he built his empire. She’s there to curse his grave when he dies, not to claim a dime. But his will traps her, naming her co-heir to his $50 billion legacy alongside Roman Valtieri, the brooding, hard-edged protégé who’s clawed his way into Dorian’s shadow—and now into hers. They’re to run the empire together or lose it all, and Sienna hates him for it: too slick, too close, every look a spark she doesn’t want. Then a letter from Dorian’s cold hand ignites the fire—he was murdered, and Roman’s name’s scratched beside the truth. A silver key and a vial of blood—hers, his—drag her deeper, promising answers locked in Ashford estate.But the walls crash in fast: Ezra Locke, a scarred snake with a grin like a blade, wants that key, and he’ll drown the place to get it. Roman’s her lifeline—gun drawn, hands steady, pulling her from the flood—and she loathes how his touch burns, how his voice steadies her when the water’s at her throat. Caught between rage and a pull she can’t name, Sienna fights the heat growing with every near miss—Roman’s too damn solid, too damn close, and she’s torn between shoving him away and pulling him in. The empire’s crumbling, the cliff’s falling, and Ezra’s not the only shadow circling—something darker watches, waiting. Love’s a gamble when blood’s the stake, and Sienna’s playing with a deck her father rigged. Can she trust Roman’s hands to hold her up, or will the crown they’re fighting for crush them both in its ashes?
View MoreRain pattered soft on Sienna’s hood, a steady drip that matched the thud of her boots on the muddy path. Lila led the way—small, hunched, her coat too big, her steps shaky like she’d collapse any second—and Sienna followed, her jaw tight, the vial a cold lump in her pocket. Roman trailed a few paces back, silent, his presence a weight she couldn’t shake—his heat, his kiss, still burning on her lips, a mistake she couldn’t unmake. Her chest ached, raw and tangled, and she hated it—hated him for making her feel it, hated herself for letting him in even that much.“Keep up,” she muttered, voice low, sharp, not looking at Lila—couldn’t, not yet—because every glance at those hollow cheeks, those trembling hands, dragged up too much: needles on the trailer floor, Lila’s slurred promises, the day she’d vanished, leaving Sienna with Dorian’s cold lies. Her mom—the junkie Dorian had paid to disappear—and now here, alive, leading her through the dark like it meant something.“I’m trying,” Lila
The shack’s door groaned open, a damp wind slicing through the stale air, prickling Sienna’s skin—still hot, too hot, from Roman’s kiss. His lips had been rough, desperate, searing into hers, and his hand lingered on her waist, fingers digging in like he could anchor her there. Her chest tightened, breath catching, and she shoved him—hard—her palms slamming against his chest, breaking free. “Get off me,” she snapped, voice jagged, stepping back, boots scraping the gritty floor. Her tank top clung to her ribs, her arms crossing tight over her chest to hide the heat crawling up her neck, the regret sinking in her gut.Roman’s gaze locked onto hers—dark, sharp, a flash of confusion, maybe hurt—and it twisted something in her, sharp and low. She wanted to grab him, pull him back, feel that fire again, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t. Not with everything unraveling. “Sienna,” he said, voice low, gravelly, reaching for her, but she shook her head—quick, fierce—silencing him.“Don’t,” she bit ou
Roman's PovThe woman’s voice—soft, trembling, “Sienna… it’s me”—cut through the shack’s damp air like a blade, sharp enough to pull me back from the edge I’d been teetering on. My lips still burned where Sienna’s had been, her taste—rain, salt, her—lingering, hot and heavy, and my hand stayed on her hip, fingers dug into the denim, holding her against me like letting go would unravel me completely. She was pressed close, chest to chest, her breath ragged on my neck, and damn if it didn’t wreck me—how she’d kissed me back, hungry and raw, cracking me open in ways I hadn’t let happen in years.“Who’s that?” I muttered, voice low, rougher than I meant, my eyes flicking to the door—warped, splintered, barely a barrier—but I couldn’t look away from her long. Her hair was tangled from my hands, her lips swollen, parted, and those green eyes hit me hard—wild, wanting, pulling me in when I needed to focus. My gun was in my other hand, cold and steady, but my pulse hammered, heat still coilin
The shack’s walls creaked under the weight of that whisper—“She’s mine”—low and sharp, slicing through the haze Sienna had fallen into. Her breath caught, stuck in her throat, and Roman froze beside her, his hand still warm where it’d brushed her thigh, his gun now a dark shape in his grip. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and the echo of those words, but all she could feel was him—his heat, his nearness—lingering like a burn she couldn’t shake. She should’ve jumped up, demanded answers, but her body wouldn’t move, pinned by the pull of him, by the way his eyes had darkened when he’d said he wanted to know her.“Who’s out there?” she whispered, voice rough, barely audible over the drip-drip of rain leaking through the roof. Her fingers tightened on the vial, its cold glass grounding her, but her eyes stayed on Roman—his jaw tight, his chest rising slow, like he was holding himself back from something.“Dunno,” he muttered, low, his voice a gravelly thread that tugged at her. He ea
Sienna’s boots crunched on dry pine needles, the shack a fading speck behind them as she and Roman cut deeper into the woods. The truck’s bloody mess was miles back, that scream still ringing in her skull, but the air here was still—too still—thick with the tang of sap and something sharper, like metal or smoke. Her fingers flexed around the vial in her pocket, its cold glass a tether to whatever hell Dorian had left her, and Roman walked ahead, his stride long and sure, gun tucked close, his silence loud enough to grate on her nerves.“Say something,” she snapped, voice low, cutting through the quiet. Her breath puffed in the chill, her jacket stiff with dried mud, and she hated how exposed she felt—out here, with him, no walls to lean on.He glanced back, eyes catching the faint starlight—dark, steady, peeling her open in a way that made her skin itch. “What’s to say?” he said, voice rough, low, like he’d swallowed gravel. “We’re moving. That’s it.” But there was a hitch in it, a c
The shack shook as the door rattled, a hard thud that snapped Sienna’s head up, her heart slamming against her ribs. That warped voice—“He’s bleeding already”—still echoed in her ears, cold and mean, and Roman stood there, gun raised, his eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room. The headlights outside cut through the cracked window, painting his face in harsh streaks—jaw tight, stubble dark, too damn steady when everything was spinning. “Get back,” he said, voice low, rough, cutting through the hum of the truck outside. He stepped toward the door, putting himself between her and it, and damn if it didn’t piss her off—how he acted like her shield, how it made her feel something she didn’t want to name. “No way,” she shot back, voice sharp, grabbing the poker again—cold, solid in her grip. “I’m not cowering while they play this out.” Her eyes flicked to his, and there it was—that look, dark and heavy, burning into her, and it hit her hard, low in her gut, a heat sh
The drizzle had faded, leaving the woods damp and quiet, the air thick with pine and the faint rot of wet earth. Sienna leaned against the shack’s warped wall, her breath fogging in the chill, the vial a cold lump in her pocket. Roman stood by the busted window, peering out, his silhouette sharp against the faint moonlight—broad shoulders, torn coat, too damn still for the mess they were in. The radio’s threat—“Bring the vial, or he pays”—still gnawed at her, but her mind was stuck somewhere else, pulled by the way he moved, the way he filled the space.“Anything out there?” she asked, voice low, rough from the cold, trying to shake the itch crawling up her spine. She rubbed her arms, the cut on her forearm stinging under crusted blood, but it wasn’t the pain nagging her—it was him, standing there like he owned the dark.He turned, slow, his eyes catching hers—dark, steady, cutting through the dim. “Nothing yet,” he said, voice low, gravelly, like he’d smoked too much or shouted too l
The radio’s voice hung in the shack like smoke, low and warped—“Bring the vial. Cliff road, now—or he pays.” Sienna’s gut twisted, the vial a cold weight in her hand, her breath catching on the static’s last hiss. Roman stood stiff by the door, gun up, his eyes boring into hers—dark, steady, asking questions she didn’t have answers for. The twig snap outside hit like a slap, sharp and close, and her pulse kicked hard.“Who’s ‘he’?” she said again, voice low, rough, barely holding steady. She stepped toward Roman, the floor creaking under her boots, the air thick with damp and him—too close, too real.“Dunno,” he said, sharp and quiet, his head tilting toward the door. “But they’re here. Move back.” He shifted, putting himself between her and whatever was out there, his shoulder brushing hers—quick, firm, enough to spark a dumb flicker she shoved down fast.“No chance,” she snapped, pocketing the vial and grabbing a rusted poker from the stove. It was heavy, cold, better than nothing.
Water slammed into Sienna’s chest, cold and black, clawing her down like it had teeth. She choked, lungs burning, kicking against the flood swallowing the basement. Roman’s hand locked around her arm, fingers digging in hard, dragging her through the mess toward where the stairs used to be. Her pocket sagged with the vial’s weight, that damn glass nagging her, and Ezra’s laugh still rang in her head—his smug ass waving the key like a prize.“Grab something!” Roman shouted, voice torn over the rush, his other hand scrabbling at the wall’s edge, now just a crumbled lip of concrete. The water was winning, surging up her ribs, tugging at her soaked jacket. She gagged on it, tasting mud and salt, her arm screaming where the knife had cut—blood swirling red in the dark churn.“Grab what?” she yelled back, thrashing, boots slipping for any hold. His face was right there—wet hair plastered flat, eyes blazing dark and fierce, pinning hers like she was all that mattered. It hit her, that look,
Rain smashed into the earth like it wanted to bury the whole damn city, turning the graveyard into a sopping mess of mud and hunched figures clutching black umbrellas. Sienna Calder stood off to the side, her boots sinking into the muck, her old jacket—splattered with paint from a dozen late-night rants—sticking out like a middle finger among the somber suits. She wasn’t here to weep. She’d come to see the bastard in the ground for herself.Dorian Ashford’s coffin sat there, slick and shiny, all polished mahogany that hollered wealth even as it sank toward the dirt. The priest mumbled some nonsense about peace everlasting, his voice half-drowned by the storm, but Sienna didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were glued to that box, her jaw locked tight. Twenty-seven years of bile churned inside her. He’d left her mom to waste away in a rusted trailer, coughing up her last breaths, while he piled up his shipping billions—money built on the wreckage of the only person who’d ever given a damn ab...
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