Chapter 1

The heavy Boston rain beat against the windows of the Davenport mansion, a rhythm I knew too well.

Five years.

Five years I' d pushed Victoria Davenport' s wheelchair, bathed her, fed her, listened to her every demand.

Her parents, old friends of my own before their accident, had taken me in. Then Tori had her riding accident, or so they said.

Paralyzed from the waist down.

And I, Ethan Miller, became her world, her hands, her feet.

I loved her, a silent, deep ache in my chest that never went away. I hoped one day she' d see it, see me.

"Ethan," her voice, sharp and clear, cut through the sound of the storm. "My pain medication. The special one."

I looked at the clock. Almost midnight.

This was the errand. The one she sent me on in the worst weather, for the "special" pills only one distant pharmacy supposedly stocked.

My internal count clicked. This would be the 98th time.

"Of course, Tori," I said, keeping my voice even.

Her room was opulent, a queen's chamber. She lay propped against a mountain of silk pillows, her beautiful face set in its usual expression of faint displeasure.

"And hurry, Ethan. The ache is unbearable tonight."

I nodded, pulling on my worn jacket. Unbearable. Like my hope, slowly dying with each pointless trip.

But I went. For her. For the sliver of a chance.

The wind outside bit at my face, the rain soaking through my clothes in minutes.

The pharmacy, as always, was brightly lit, the pharmacist giving me the usual sympathetic look as he handed over the standard over-the-counter painkillers.

The "special" medication was a lie, another small twist of her power. I knew it, but I played along.

What else could I do?

I loved her. I was devoted. That had to mean something, eventually.

I returned, dripping and cold, to her warm room.

She took the pills without a word, her eyes already closing.

"You were slow," she murmured.

"The storm is bad, Tori."

She didn't answer.

I watched her for a moment, the curve of her cheek, the dark sweep of her lashes.

Beautiful, and a world away.

I tidied her room, my movements practiced, silent.

This was my life, a cycle of service and silent longing.

I clung to the belief that my devotion would break through, that one day she would look at me, really look at me, and understand.

It was a fragile hope, but it was all I had.