PROLOGUE
Erik
The rain hits the glass like a steady, relentless, and honest pulse.
From the top floor of Halvorsen Corp. headquarters, Houston stretches beneath me in a shimmer of color and motion. The city hums, alive with electricity and noise, yet all I hear is the percussion of water against glass. Every light below belongs to someone chasing a future. My family built half of those futures with nothing but grit, sweat, and late nights.
Above my desk hangs my grandfather’s carved plaque:Seven Shields protect blood, honor, and heart.He used to say that each generation adds a new shield, forged in a different fire.
I am the fixer. The second son. I am the one who maintains stability in the face of global turmoil. Across my desk lies a folder stamped with a coiled serpent, SableCorp. Their cruelty is methodical; their ambition is bottomless. Grace’s kidnapping should have ended their hunt. Instead, it only taught them how to wait. Predators evolve.
I close the folder. My jaw tightens until it aches. Enough for tonight. My reflection in the window looks back with coldprecision: white shirt open at the throat, no tie, sleeves rolled. Bjorn calls me a wolf deciding which throat to guard. He’s not wrong.
I pull on my jacket and step into the corridor. The lights dim automatically, motion sensors chasing my steps like ghosts. Downstairs, the night receptionist nods, but doesn’t speak. She never does when I look like this, like I'm about to fix something broken in my head.
Outside, the rain sharpens into silver needles. The city streets glow, trees are slick and gleaming, and the pavement reflects the city’s pulse. I had called our regular driver to bring my car from the garage and park in front of our building. I want to make sure Claire gets home safely, so I’ll drive her home since I know she takes the metro bus system to her bookshop and back to her apartment. The drive isn’t far, as her bookshop is only two streets over.
Pulling up, between Grace and her father’s deli and the antique shop, sits a small bookstore with fogged windows and yellow light spilling through the glass, and inside it is her.
Claire
She’s shelving hardcovers, hair loose, sleeves rolled, a smudge of dust streaking her cheek. She moves with careful grace, unaware of how magnetic she is. I’ve known about her since Bjorn fell hard for Grace, and we spent a little time with her after all of us teamed up to rescue her. But that isn't the entire story. The moment that little girl walked into the room where my brothers and I met to discuss how to help Grace, I knew she wasmine.My brothers acted like they had a new niece, so I know they noticed.
Claire shook my hand and met my eyes. No flinch. No flutter. Most people look away from a Halvorsen. She didn’t. She studied me like I was a riddle worth solving. Since that moment, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her.
The rain slows to a mist as I cross the street and push open the door. The bell chimes softly, a sound too delicate for this world.
She looks up. Her eyes widen, then soften. “Mr. Halvorsen.”
“To you, little girl, it’s Erik,” I correct, and inside my head I can’t help but thinkDaddy, eventually.'Daddy,'
“Alrighty, Mr. Erik.”
“Just Erik, little one.” Oh, this little brat is going to have a red bottom soon.
Her laugh is genuine, unpolished, and warm. It hits low in my chest.
“I didn’t expect you tonight,” she says, slipping a book into its slot. “Nothing better to do?”
Seriously, my palm is itching to spank this little sassafras. "My mind was constantly on you."
My gaze drifts across the quiet shop: old wood, paper, dust, and the faint citrus note that clings to her shop. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I like the quiet,” she says almost absentmindedly.
“Quiet invites trouble.” My own heated gaze bores into her as if she were the fire and I'd lost my soul staring into the flames.
“So does the company,” she quips with a slight smirk on her face. God, I love her feistiness.
She places the last book on the shelf, whips around, folds her arms, and tilts her chin in challenge. “And which are you… Trouble or Quiet?”
“Both.”
The air thickens. I hear the hum of the overhead light, the whisper of rain against the window, and the soft catch of her breath.
“Top bolt,” I murmur, nodding toward the door.
She hesitates, but obeys, the lock clicking into place. The sound settles something primal inside me.
