Harrison would come to my bed in the dark, and administer something that would stop my heart and look, afterward, like nothing more than a dying man’s trauma-battered body finally giving out.

It was, I had to admit, a good plan.

A corrupt doctor, an unwatched hour, a death that would surprise no one.

There was only one flaw in it, one variable Chloe and Anthony and Harrison had not accounted for, and it was lying in the bed they intended to kill, wide awake, and no longer alone.

“Elena,” I said, reaching out to grasp her wrist.

My fingers were bruised and weak, but my grip carried the authority that had built everything I owned.