At three seventeen in the morning, Hazel Brooks fell asleep against the most feared man in Chicago.
She did not mean to.
In fact, if someone had told her twenty-four hours earlier that she would end up sleeping in Damian Romano's arms, she would have laughed.
Then she would have checked whether the person telling her that was completely insane.
Damian Romano was not the kind of man women accidentally fell asleep against.
He was the kind of man people stepped aside for when he entered a room.
The kind of man whose name could silence an entire restaurant.
The kind of man who had built an empire out of money, secrets, and the terrifying understanding that fear was sometimes more effective than violence.
And Hazel?
Hazel was his night maid.
Twenty-four years old.
Shy.
Curvy.
Usually invisible.
She wore uniforms two sizes too large because she had learned that loose clothing made it easier to disappear.
Her life consisted of cleaning other people's houses, working the morning shift at a downtown diner, and trying desperately to pay a debt that should never have belonged to her.
Sixty thousand dollars.
That was the amount her ex-boyfriend, Wyatt, had left behind when he vanished.
And Frankie Sullivan wanted every penny.
By Friday.
Or else.
But at three seventeen that morning, Hazel was not thinking about Frankie Sullivan.
She was thinking about the warm chest beneath her cheek.
And the powerful arm wrapped around her shoulders.
And the fact that she had somehow fallen asleep against a man who had not kissed anyone in four years.
The evening had begun badly.
Hazel's shift at the diner had ended two hours late because another waitress had called in sick.
By the time she reached the Romano estate, freezing rain was falling across Chicago.
Her shoes were soaked.
Her back ached.
Her stomach growled because she had eaten nothing since noon.
She had been awake almost twenty-two hours.
Still, she had work to do.
The Romano residence occupied an enormous private estate overlooking the city.
Its windows were bulletproof.
Its security system cost more than Hazel would earn in a lifetime.
And its owner was supposed to be in New York until Saturday.
That was the only reason Hazel had accepted the night shift.
She could clean quietly.
Avoid the intimidating men who worked for Damian.
And perhaps steal fifteen minutes to sit down before returning to the diner the following morning.
She had just finished polishing the silverware when she heard something upstairs.
A heavy thud.
Then another.
Hazel froze.
The house was supposed to be empty except for the security staff.
She glanced toward the hallway.
"Hello?"
No answer.
She considered calling security.
Then she heard a man's voice.
"Get the medical kit."
Her heart stopped.
Damian Romano.
He was home.
Hazel hurried toward the third-floor study, carrying the emergency medical kit she had retrieved from the hallway cabinet.
When she pushed open the study doors, she nearly dropped it.
Damian stood beside his desk.
His expensive white shirt was soaked with rain.
And blood.
A dark red stain spread across his left side.
His black hair was damp, his jaw clenched, and one hand pressed firmly against his ribs.
Two security guards stood nearby.
Neither appeared particularly surprised.
Hazel stared.
"Oh my God."
Damian looked at her.
"Medical kit."
She lifted it.
"I have it."
"Good. Come here."
Hazel did not move.
She was staring at the blood.
Damian followed her gaze.
"It's not as bad as it looks."
"That's what people say when it's exactly as bad as it looks."
One of the guards made a strange choking sound.
Damian slowly turned his head.
The guard immediately looked at the floor.
Hazel realized what she had said.
Her face burned.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Damian studied her for a moment.
Then he gestured toward the sofa.
"Sit beside me."
She obeyed.
Her hands trembled as she opened the medical kit.
Damian removed his ruined shirt.
Hazel's breath caught.
His chest and arms were covered in tattoos.
Some were intricate black-and-gray designs.
Others looked older, their edges softened by time.
But the wound near his ribs demanded her attention.
It was bleeding through a temporary dressing.
"You need a hospital," she whispered.
"I've already been examined."
"By an actual doctor?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you bleeding?"
"Because I moved when I shouldn't have."
Hazel looked up.
"Then perhaps you should stop moving."
Silence.
She immediately lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
Damian's mouth twitched.
"Are you always this talkative?"
"No."
"Good."
But his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
Hazel carefully removed the soaked dressing and replaced it with fresh gauze, following the instructions Damian gave her.
She tried not to look at his face.
That was difficult.
Damian Romano was a striking man.
Dark hair.
A strong jaw.
Broad shoulders.
A face that looked as though it had forgotten how to smile.
Hazel had seen him only a handful of times since beginning work at the estate.
He usually passed through rooms without acknowledging the staff.
Yet tonight, he watched her with an intensity that made her nervous.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"I'm cold."
"The room is seventy-two degrees."
"Then I'm nervous."
"Because of me?"
Hazel hesitated.
"Would you prefer that I lie?"
"No."
"Then yes."
For the first time that evening, Damian almost smiled.
Twenty minutes later, the bandage was secure.
Hazel packed the medical kit.
Damian reached for his phone.
"Marco."
One of the guards appeared in the doorway.
"Boss?"
"Find out what happened to the Sullivan crew near the warehouse."
Hazel went completely still.
Sullivan.
Her fingers tightened around the medical kit.
Damian noticed.
His eyes shifted toward her.
"Why did you react to that?"
Hazel swallowed.
"I didn't."
His expression hardened.
"Do not lie to me."
The words were quiet.
That made them worse.
Hazel stared at the floor.
"I should finish cleaning."
"Sit down."
She remained standing.
"Please, Mr. Romano."
"Hazel."
Her eyes lifted.
It was the first time she had heard him say her name.
"Sit."
She slowly lowered herself onto the opposite end of the sofa.
Damian dismissed Marco.
Then he turned toward her.
"Who is Frankie Sullivan to you?"
Hazel's stomach twisted.
She had spent months trying to keep the name out of her mouth.
But something about Damian's steady gaze made lying feel impossible.
"He says I owe him money."
"How much?"
She hesitated.
"Sixty thousand dollars."
Damian's expression did not change.
"Why?"
"My ex-boyfriend borrowed it."
"And you signed for the debt?"
Hazel nodded.
"Wyatt told me it was paperwork for a business loan. He said he needed my signature because we were going to open a restaurant together."
"Did you read it?"
"I tried."
"What happened?"
"He got angry."
Damian's jaw tightened.
Hazel looked down at her hands.
"I know it was stupid."
"No."
She blinked.
"No?"
"You trusted someone who deliberately misled you. That doesn't make you stupid."
Something inside Hazel shifted.
It was such a small statement.
Yet nobody had said anything like that to her since Wyatt disappeared.
Everyone else had asked why she had signed.
Why she had believed him.
Why she had allowed herself to become involved.
Damian simply asked, "Where is Wyatt now?"
"I don't know."
"When did he disappear?"
"Three months ago."
"And Sullivan has been threatening you ever since?"
Hazel nodded.
"He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He said someone would come if I didn't pay by Friday."
Damian became very still.
"Did he threaten you directly?"
"Yes."
"Did you contact the police?"
Hazel laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"I tried."
"What happened?"
"The officer told me it sounded like a civil dispute. Two days later, Frankie called and repeated everything I'd told the police."
Damian's expression darkened.
Hazel rubbed her hands together.
"I don't want trouble. I just want to pay what I can and move on."
"Sixty thousand dollars is not a small amount."
"I know."
"How much have you paid?"
"Almost eight thousand."
"How?"
"Two jobs. Sometimes three."
Damian looked at the dark circles beneath her eyes.
"When did you last sleep?"
Hazel hesitated.
"Yesterday morning."
"What time?"
"Five."
He glanced at the clock.
It was nearly three.
"You're going home."
"I still have laundry."
"Someone else can do it."
"I need the hours."
"Hazel."
She looked at him.
"You're exhausted."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
"I can't afford to be."
For several seconds, Damian said nothing.
Then he reached for the blanket folded over the back of the sofa.
"Rest here until the weather clears."
Hazel stared at him.
"Here?"
"Yes."
"In your study?"
"Would you prefer the hallway?"
"No, sir."
"Then stop arguing."
She should have been terrified.
Instead, she was simply too tired to think.
She settled at the far end of the leather sofa.
Damian remained beside her, reviewing messages on his phone.
Five feet separated them.
Then four.
Then none.
Hazel's head slowly tipped toward his shoulder.
She tried to straighten.
"I'm sorry."
"Go to sleep."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you're my boss."
Damian looked at her.
"And?"
"And this is inappropriate."
"You're sitting on a sofa, Hazel."
She gave a tiny, exhausted laugh.
Then her eyes closed.
A moment later, her cheek rested against his chest.
Damian froze.
He looked down at the young woman sleeping against him.
Her fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt.
Her breathing was slow.
Even.
Trusting.
He could have moved her.
He could have called someone to take her to the guest room.
Instead, he carefully placed his arm around her shoulders.
And remained exactly where he was.
At six in the morning, Hazel opened her eyes.
For several seconds, she did not understand where she was.
Then she felt the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek.
A heartbeat.
A man's heartbeat.
She looked up.
Damian Romano was watching her.
His arm was still around her shoulders.
Hazel scrambled backward.
"Oh my God."
Damian remained still.
"Good morning."
"I'm so sorry."
"Hazel—"
"I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"I know."
"I swear I wasn't trying to—"
"Hazel."
She stopped.
His gaze held hers.
"You're not in trouble."
Her face burned.
"Am I fired?"
"No."
She exhaled shakily.
Then she noticed something.
Damian looked tired.
Very tired.
"Did you sleep?"
"A little."
She suspected he was lying.
Before she could say anything else, the study doors opened.
Marco, Damian's security chief, stepped inside.
He took one look at the sofa.
Then immediately looked toward the window.
"Boss. We have a problem."
Damian stood.
"What?"
Marco's expression changed when he looked at Hazel.
"Sullivan's crew wasn't near the estate because of New York."
Hazel felt the blood drain from her face.
"They were looking for Miss Brooks."
The room became very quiet.
Damian moved closer to her.
"Explain."
Marco swallowed.
"Wyatt didn't simply borrow money from Sullivan. He stole financial records before disappearing."
Hazel shook her head.
"No. Wyatt never told me anything about records."
Marco continued.
"Sullivan believes she has them."
"I don't," Hazel whispered.
Her knees weakened.
Damian caught her elbow before she fell.
Marco looked directly at his boss.
"Frankie sent a demand."
Damian's face emptied of expression.
"What demand?"
Marco glanced at Hazel.
"He wants her turned over by noon."
Hazel stopped breathing.
She looked up at Damian.
"You cannot start something because of me."
His eyes dropped to her trembling hand on his sleeve.
Then slowly lifted to her face.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, he turned toward Marco.
"Close the gates."
Marco straightened.
"Boss?"
"Nobody enters this property without my permission."
Hazel's heart pounded.
Damian looked back at her.
"And nobody takes Hazel anywhere."
For the first time in months, Hazel felt something stronger than fear.
Hope.
But she did not yet understand that the man standing beside her had just made a decision that could destroy everything he had built.
And somewhere across Chicago, Frankie Sullivan was already preparing to collect what he believed belonged to him.