Claimed By The Ruthless Power Broker

The rain over Washington D.C. was a solid, freezing sheet of gray, blurring the illuminated dome of Capitol Hill through the windshield of Alya's cheap rental car.

She gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles were bone-white.

A sudden, violent spasm ripped through her chest. It felt like a steel vice crushing her ribs, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

Alya gasped, her vision tunneling into dark, fuzzy edges. The PTSD was triggering the physical decay of her heart, right here on 14th Street.

She needed the pills. Now.

Her right hand left the wheel, trembling violently as she reached blindly into her open purse on the passenger seat. Her fingertips brushed the smooth plastic of the unmarked prescription bottle.

She fumbled. The bottle slipped from her slick, cold fingers and dropped onto the floor mat.

"Damn it," Alya hissed through her teeth.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting copper, and ducked her head for a fraction of a second to grab the bottle.

In that split second, the wail of a D.C. police siren pierced the rain.

Alya snapped her head up. The police cruiser had abruptly blocked the intersection. Directly in front of her, a massive, black armored Cadillac Escalade slammed on its brakes.

Her pupils dilated. She stomped her right foot down on the brake pedal with all her remaining strength.

The rental car's cheap tires shrieked against the wet asphalt. It wasn't enough.

The front of her sedan slammed into the reinforced steel bumper of the Escalade. The sickening crunch of twisting metal echoed through the street.

The airbag deployed with the force of a heavyweight punch. It smashed into Alya's face, throwing her head back against the headrest.

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Warm, thick blood immediately began to slide down her eyebrow, mixing with the cold sweat on her face.

Her chest heaved. The heart palpitation was turning into a lethal flutter.

Ignoring the blood dripping into her eye, Alya grabbed the pill bottle from the floorboard. She popped the cap, shook a single white pill into her palm, and swallowed it dry. It scratched her throat on the way down.

Through the cracked windshield, she saw the driver's side door of the Escalade open.

A man in a dark suit stepped out into the pouring rain. He held a black umbrella. His right hand hovered near the bulge of a holstered weapon under his jacket.

It was Marcus Vance.

Alya's stomach dropped. The bile rose in her throat.

Marcus walked over to her crumpled door, his face a mask of cold, professional indifference. He tapped on her window.

Alya took a ragged breath. She unbuckled her seatbelt and shoved her shoulder against the warped door. It groaned, popping open just enough to let the freezing rain whip into the cabin.

She stumbled out, her high heels splashing into a puddle of oily water. She pressed a hand to her bleeding forehead, trying to keep her spine straight.

"License and insurance," Marcus demanded. His voice was flat, devoid of any empathy.

Alya's hands shook as she pulled her wallet from her coat pocket. She slid out her British international driver's license and handed it to him.

"I'm sorry. The brakes locked up," she said, her voice hoarse. She dug the nails of her free hand into her palm, the sharp sting a desperate anchor against the waves of pain and panic.

Marcus shined his tactical flashlight onto the plastic card. The beam illuminated the name: Alya Rivas.

Marcus froze. His entire body went rigid, as if he had just grabbed a live wire.

He slowly looked up from the card, his eyes wide with absolute horror. He didn't look at Alya. He turned his head and stared directly at the pitch-black, tinted rear window of the Escalade.

Inside the armored SUV, the high-grade external microphones fed the audio directly into the cabin.

Archer Garcia sat in the back seat. His breathing stopped.

Without a second of hesitation, Archer hit the console button. The heavy, bulletproof glass of the rear window rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum.

Alya heard the motor. She turned her head.

Her gaze slammed straight into a pair of pitch-black, storm-filled eyes.

Archer's face was carved from granite, sharp and ruthless, but his eyes were burning with a violent, suppressed chaos.

Alya's smartwatch, hidden under her sleeve, let out a sharp, high-pitched beep. Her heart rate was spiking to dangerous levels.

She instinctively took a half-step backward. Her heel slipped in the mud. She wanted to run. She needed to run.

Archer didn't speak. He shoved his door open, ignoring the torrential rain, and stepped out onto the street.

He was a giant of a man, his broad shoulders instantly blocking out the streetlights. He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

His aggressive gaze swept over her pale face, locking onto the blood pouring from her eyebrow.

"My insurance company will handle the damages," Alya forced out, clinging to the most sterile, bureaucratic tone she could muster.

Archer let out a low, dark chuckle that held zero humor.

He snatched the driver's license out of Marcus's hand. His knuckles were completely white.

He didn't listen to a single word she said. Archer reached out, his large hand wrapping around her freezing wrist like an iron shackle.

"Hey!" Alya gasped, trying to yank her arm back.

Archer ignored her resistance. He pulled her forward, his grip bruising, and dragged her straight toward the open door of his armored beast.