We Meet Again, After All These Years

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.

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."

The heavy Escalade rolled down the concrete ramp into the underground parking garage of the private clinic.

The front tires hit a thick yellow speed bump. The SUV bounced sharply.

Alya's weakened body swayed with the motion. She threw her right hand out to catch her balance, her palm slapping down hard on the leather center console.

Her fingers brushed against something hard and covered in soft fabric.

Alya looked down.

Sitting half-hidden under a manila folder with a classified seal, was a small, dark blue velvet ring box.

The air vanished from Alya's lungs.

The tabloid headlines she had read in London flashed behind her eyes like strobe lights. Archer Garcia to Marry Cecilia Decker. The Ultimate Political Alliance.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the center of her chest. It was a physical agony, identical to the phantom pain she felt the day she watched her father collapse on the floor of the safe house.

Alya yanked her hand back. Her fingertips were trembling so violently she had to curl them into a tight fist.

Archer noticed the sudden shift in her breathing. He followed her gaze down to the console.

He saw the velvet box.

Archer's entire body went rigid for a split second, a flash of something unreadable-panic? regret?-in his eyes before the mask of cold indifference slammed back into place. He didn't reach out to hide it, but the muscle in his jaw clenched. He left it sitting there, a silent, heavy weight between them.

He turned his head, his piercing gaze locking onto the side of Alya's face, waiting for her reaction.

Alya forced herself to look out the tinted window. She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. She used the physical sting to anchor her mind.

She would not break down. Not in front of the man who was marrying into the family that destroyed hers.

"Congratulations," Alya said. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a rusted tin can. "I read the news. A perfect political merger."

The words hung in the suffocating air of the cabin.

Archer's jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. The dark amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a volatile fury.

"Is that why you came back?" Archer asked, his voice a lethal whisper. "After ten years of hiding, did you really think you could return to this city and survive? With your body in this condition? You came back to D.C. to get yourself killed."

The word killed hit Alya like a physical blow to the stomach.

She whipped her head around, her eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless fire.

"My father was framed," Alya snarled, her voice shaking with rage. "And I am going to rip the floorboards out of this city until I prove it."

Archer leaned into her space. The scent of cedar and danger wrapped around her throat.

"The deep water in this town will crush your bones to dust, Alya," he warned.

Alya didn't back down. She met his stare, her chest heaving. "Then let me drown. It has nothing to do with you."

The metal security gate of the garage rolled up with a loud, grinding clatter. Harsh, fluorescent white lights flooded the dark cabin.

Alya squinted, turning her face away from the blinding glare. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the intense wave of dizziness washing over her brain.

The SUV jerked to a halt.

Marcus was out of the driver's seat in a flash, pulling open the rear door. The damp, cold air of the concrete garage rushed in.

Archer stepped out first. He stood on the concrete floor, looking down at her like a king observing a beggar.

He held out his large hand, the face of his Patek Philippe watch catching the harsh light.

"Get out," Archer ordered. "Or I will drag you out."

Alya gritted her teeth. She ignored his hand.

She gripped the door frame, her knuckles white, and forced her trembling legs to move. She stepped out of the high cabin, her heel hitting the concrete.

The moment her weight shifted, her knees completely gave out.

The world tilted sideways. Alya fell forward, the concrete floor rushing up to meet her face.

Before she could hit the ground, two massive arms wrapped around her waist. Archer caught her, pulling her limp, freezing body flush against his warm chest.