The hospital was too quiet.
Too calm.
Too clean.
It offended Aiden Blackwood.
Just hours ago, he had knelt on the cold grass outside what remained of his home, holding his sister's lifeless body. Smoke still clung to him like a curse—embedded in his hair, soaked into his clothes, burned into his lungs. The world should have stopped. People should have collapsed in grief alongside him.
But Westhaven General buzzed on—fluorescent lights humming, nurses whispering to each other, vending machines humming, IV bags dripping steadily.
Like nothing had happened.
Like his family wasn't lying in the morgue three floors below.
Aiden strode through the hospital lobby with a force that made people move out of his path. He wore the same soot-stained clothes from the fire. His white shirt was scorched at the shoulder, his arms scraped by falling beams, his jaw clenched until his teeth throbbed.
He didn't care.
He wasn't here to look presentable.
He was here for her.
Elara Hayes.
The name had been burning in his mind since Detective Marcus said it at dawn. A stranger—yet she had been on his property. She had the lighter. Her fingerprints were on a jerry can that should never have existed near his home.
His mother and sister were dead.
Someone had to pay.
Aiden reached the reception desk. The woman glanced up and immediately stiffened under his stare.
"I'm looking for a patient," he said, his voice sharp and cold. "Elara Hayes. Room number?"
The receptionist faltered. "I—I'm not allowed to release that information—"
Aiden placed his Blackwood Industries executive ID on the counter. The logo alone made her inhale sharply.
"My mother and sister died in the fire she survived," he said, each word carved with precision. "I am not leaving until I see her."
The receptionist swallowed. "She's on the second floor. ICU recovery. Room 214."
He didn't thank her.
He didn't need to.
He was already walking toward the elevators, steps clipped, posture rigid with rage.
Every muscle in his body begged for violence. Grief had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but cold fury filling every remaining space.
He didn't need the whole truth.
He didn't need proof.
She had been there.
That was enough.
You owe my family that much, he had told Marcus.
But the truth was simpler:
Elara Hayes owed him blood.
…
Soft lights glowed overhead. Nurses whispered in passing. A security guard lounged near the entrance, scrolling through his phone.
Aiden didn't slow.
"Sir?" the guard called, stepping in front of him. "ICU is restricted. Visiting hours are—"
Aiden grabbed the guard's wrist before the man could react. His tone stayed calm—too calm.
"I'm not visiting," he said. "I'm retrieving."
"R—retrieving?"
Aiden leaned forward slightly, letting the weight of his fury bleed into his stare.
"Move."
Something in his voice—cold, deadly—made the guard step aside without a fight.
Aiden kept walking.
He found Room 214 easily.
Because the moment he reached the door…
he felt it.
The reason his mother and sister were dead.
The reason he was alone.
The reason he hadn't slept or felt human since the fire devoured his life.
Elara Hayes was behind that door.
He pushed it open.
Elara's world was a cage of pain
She lay curled in the hospital bed, one hand pressed to her bandaged ribs. Her breathing was shallow. Machines beeped in soft rhythms. Oxygen hissed faintly beside her. Her eyelashes were still wet with tears.
She looked fragile.
Small.
Breakable.
Aiden expected his rage to explode.
Instead, he felt nothing but the sharpened hatred he'd carried since the fire.
Because she looked terrified.
And she should be.
Her eyes fluttered open.
They met his.
And fear instantly washed across her face—pure, immediate, devastating.
She sucked in a breath.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice cracked from smoke.
He didn't answer.
He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
Her heart monitor spiked.
"W–why are you here?" she whispered.
Aiden approached the bed slowly. "You were found at my home."
"You're Mr. Blackwood?" she breathed. "I—I know. I tried to help. I swear I tried—"
"You expect me to believe that?"
Her breath stuttered. "I didn't start the fire."
"You were there."
"I was sent to repair a painting!" she cried. "But when I got there, someone else was on the property. Someone watching the house. I reported it—"
To who?
Why had no one told him?
Aiden's jaw flexed. "The detectives didn't mention that."
"Because I couldn't identify the person," she whispered. "I couldn't see their face."
Convenient.
Aiden studied her—smoke streaks in her hair, a bruise on her temple, trembling hands.
None of it mattered.
"You had a lighter with your initials," he said flatly.
Her eyes widened. "What? No. That's not possible. I didn't—"
"And your fingerprints were on a jerry can cap."
Elara's face drained of color. "I don't even own a jerry can," she whispered. "Someone must have—"
He stepped closer.
She pressed back into the headboard like she could disappear.
"Stop," she begged. "Please. I didn't kill your family. I didn't hurt anyone. I went there for work. I got a text. You have to believe me."
Aiden's stare remained ice.
"I didn't request a painting restoration," he said. "And if my mother had arranged anything, I would know."
Her breathing broke. Tears gathered—not dramatic, not manipulative, simply fear and confusion.
It changed nothing.
She was the reason his mother was gone.
The reason his sister died in his arms.
He hated her.
"You think you can cry your way out of this?" he asked coldly.
Elara shook her head, terrified. "No. I'm crying because I'm scared. Because I woke up in a fire I don't understand. Because someone stole my bag. Because everything is wrong, and now you're here and—"
She broke off, choking on her words.
Aiden leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of her pillow, trapping her without touching her.
Her heartbeat hammered so hard the monitor shrieked.
Good.
Fear was necessary.
"You were found at the scene," he said. "You were unconscious beside the west wing. My mother and sister burned alive inside that wing."
Elara's hand flew to her mouth as tears fell. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know— I didn't do anything—I swear—please, believe me. I shouted. I tried to get help."
Her sincerity didn't matter.
His family was dead.
And everything—the prints, the lighter, the timing—led back to her.
There were no coincidences.
She had to pay.
Aiden leaned closer, voice like a blade.
"You're coming with me."
Elara froze. "What?"
"You're not talking to detectives. You're not giving a statement. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever unless I allow it."
"Y—you can't do that."
"I can," he said softly. "And I will."
She trembled. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't even know you."
"You don't need to know me," he replied. "You only need to understand one thing."
His voice dropped to a lethal murmur.
"I am the only reason the police haven't dragged you into an interrogation room already."
Elara stared at him, shaking violently.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
Aiden straightened, shadows cutting across his face.
"Everything you know," he said. "Every detail. Every memory. Every lie you are hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"We'll see."
He reached toward her—and she flinched violently.
He didn't touch her.
Not yet.
But his hand hovered close enough for her pulse to tremble beneath his shadow.
"You're taking me?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"W–when?"
"Now."
Elara gasped. "But I—I can't walk. My ribs—my lungs—"
"I didn't ask if you could walk."
His tone was lethal.
He reached for the bed rails.
"No!" she cried. "Please—wait!"
But Aiden didn't stop.
He unlatched the first rail.
Then the second.
The monitor screamed with her panic.
"Aiden—" she tried again.
He looked down at her—hair tangled, ribs bandaged, trembling beneath thin sheets.
"You're coming with me, Elara Hayes."
He slid his arms beneath her knees and back.
And just as he lifted her—
The door handle twisted.
The door burst open.
"Aiden—STOP!"
Detective Harris froze in the doorway, eyes wide, hand already reaching for his weapon.
Elara gasped, suspended halfway between Aiden's arms and the bed.
Aiden turned his head slowly.
His stare was pure death.
The detective's breath hitched. "Put her down," he said, voice shaking. "Now."
Aiden didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Elara trembled in his grip, staring between the man who wanted to take her…
and the man who wanted to arrest her.
The detective stepped closer.
"If you walk out of this room with her… you'll be kidnapping a primary suspect."
Aiden's jaw tightened.
Elara held her breath.
Aiden adjusted his grip on her.
The detective tensed.
Elara's heart stopped.
Aiden looked at the detective once…
Twice…
And then—
he made his choice.