We Meet Again, After All These Years

Archer practically threw her into the cavernous back seat of the Escalade.

Alya scrambled against the premium leather, trying to catch her balance. Before she could sit up, Archer climbed in after her.

The heavy door slammed shut. The automatic locks engaged with a heavy, final thud.

The air inside the cabin was thick. It smelled of expensive cedar cologne, cold rain, and the metallic tang of Alya's blood.

"Drive," Archer commanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "Callum Jenkins's clinic. Now."

Marcus threw the SUV into drive, the tires gripping the wet road as they sped away from the accident.

Alya's chest tightened. She reached for the interior door handle, pulling on the chrome lever.

It didn't budge.

She pulled harder, panic flaring in her chest.

"The child locks are on," Archer said coldly.

Alya whipped her head around to glare at him. "Unlock this door. I just need a regular emergency room."

Archer didn't even look at her. He opened the climate-controlled compartment between the seats and pulled out a sterile medical towel.

He leaned across the console. His massive frame completely boxed her in.

Alya tried to press herself flat against the window, but Archer's left hand shot out. He gripped her chin, his long fingers pressing into her jawline, and forced her face toward him.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, trying to jerk her head away.

Archer's right hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her wet hair. He locked her skull in place.

"Hold still," he ordered.

He pressed the white towel firmly against the gash on her forehead.

Alya gasped at the sting. They were inches apart. She could see the dark red veins in the whites of his eyes. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

Her heart began to stutter. It was a dangerous, irregular rhythm.

She quickly pulled her coat sleeve down, covering the face of her smartwatch so he wouldn't see the flashing red warning light.

"Ten years," Alya spat, forcing a mocking smile to hide her physical pain. "And you're still a controlling bastard."

Archer's jaw ticked. He pressed the towel harder against her wound.

Alya sucked in a sharp breath, her face draining of the last bit of color.

"Shut your mouth, Alya," Archer warned, his voice so cold it felt like ice water pouring down her spine. "Before I shut it for you."

Alya swallowed hard. She clamped her lips shut, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

The SUV turned onto the quiet, tree-lined streets of Georgetown. The amber glow of the streetlights flickered across Archer's face.

His eyes acted like a scanner, taking in her hollow cheeks, her trembling shoulders, and her pale, cracked lips.

"What the hell did you do to yourself in London?" Archer asked. His tone was accusatory, laced with a dark, twisted anger. "You look like a corpse."

Alya's stomach clenched. She forced a hollow laugh.

"Journalism is a demanding field. I'm just tired."

Archer sneered. "Bullshit. Your breathing is shallow. You're shaking. You're sick."

Panic seized Alya's throat. He was too observant. He always had been.

"I need my phone," Alya deflected, reaching into her wet coat pocket. "I have to call the rental agency."

Archer's hand shot out. He snatched the phone right out of her fingers.

He pressed the power button, holding it down until the screen went black, and tossed it over the center console into the front seat.

"Give that back!" Alya yelled.

She lunged forward to grab it.

Archer caught her by the shoulders and shoved her backward. He followed her down, pinning her against the leather seat.

His chest pressed heavily against hers. The sheer physical dominance of his body made the world spin around her.

Alya's heart gave a violent, painful squeeze. A fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She clamped her teeth together to stop from crying out in agony.

Archer felt her violent trembling. He looked down at her face, misinterpreting her physical agony for pure terror.

A flicker of something complicated-guilt, rage, pain-crossed his dark eyes.

He slowly released her shoulders and pushed himself back into his own seat. But his eyes never left her face.

"Clear," Marcus announced from the front. "Clinic is two blocks away."

Archer reached up and adjusted his expensive platinum cufflinks. It was a calculated, predatory movement.

"You're in Washington now, Alya," Archer stated, his voice devoid of mercy. "Your life belongs to me."