AUTHOR’S NOTE :
You’ve met Lyra. You’ve seen her world through her eyes. But now? It’s time to step into the mind of the man who just walked into her life—and, whether she likes it or not, isn’t leaving anytime soon.
So step into his world. See what he sees. And remember—nothing is ever as simple as it seems.
Adam's POV
She had the survival instincts of a house cat—bold, stubborn, and absolutely terrible at making an escape.
I’ve seen people stage breakouts from high-security prisons with less effort than she put into climbing that damn wall, completely unaware that her grand escape had an audience. Rung by rung, inch by inch, like she was executing some master plan instead of a comically slow, utterly doomed escape attempt. The determination was there—she had that in spades—but the execution? A disaster.
And yet, I couldn’t look away.
Maybe it was the absurdity of it. The mafia princess, born into wealth and power, sneaking out of a mansion most people would kill to live in. Was she running from a curfew? A particularly dull dinner? The unbearable burden of being ridiculously privileged?
Or maybe it was her—Lyra Shadowlyn. The contradiction. A woman who moved through the world with the confidence of someone untouchable, yet didn’t think twice about scrambling over a wall like a reckless teenager. She had no business being this amusing.
The streets of Blackthorn Hills stretch endlessly before me, the glow of streetlights casting long, shifting shadows through the towering oak trees lining the roads.
This isn’t just a neighborhood—it’s a fortress of privilege, where wealth and power have been cultivated for generations. Each estate is hidden behind towering walls, iron gates standing like silent sentinels, their presence a clear warning to those who don’t belong.
The air here feels heavier, steeped in history and quiet brutality. Names hold weight in Blackthorn Hills, alliances are whispered behind closed doors, and every glance carries an unspoken understanding—outsiders don’t last here. And no one leaves without consequences.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel as the gates of Shadowlyn Mansion come into view, looming like something out of a nightmare. This is it. Time to settle in for the long game.
I slow the car as I approach the iron gates. One of the guards steps forward, his flashlight cutting through the dark like a beam of judgment. I roll down my window, meet his gaze. A quick glance at my ID and the gates creak open, allowing me to pass. No hesitation. He knows who I am, and I don't have to say another word.
I step out of the car and glance up at the mansion. It rises before me, an ancient sentinel of stone, both beautiful and imposing. The old stone walls, covered in carvings, make it look like it belongs in another time, while ivy climbs along the edges, trying to soften its cold appearance. The tall, arched windows catch the dim light, their detailed frames adding to the mystery of the place. The heavy wooden doors, dark and polished, have ornate iron handles that make them look grand.The manicured grounds stretch out around it, giving the mansion an almost eerie, timeless beauty.
And then a figure steps out from the shadows, cutting through the silence. Alex Carson.
He moves with a fluid grace, as if every step is calculated. His frame is tall, lean but with a certain power that radiates from him. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit-black with subtle pinstripes-it clings to his broad shoulders and tapers down to a trim waist. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal his toned forearms, veins popping slightly, a testament to the strength hidden beneath his composed exterior. His black shirt underneath is open at the collar, hinting at a casual elegance that doesn't scream for attention, but demands it anyway.
His gray eyes gleam coldly in the moonlight, a sharp contrast to the darkness around him. They lock onto me as soon as he steps into view, the intensity of his gaze cutting through the night air like a blade.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't frown. His face is a study in calculated neutrality, the kind of expression that warns you not to try and read him too closely. But I'm used to reading people-decoding every gesture, every flicker of their eyes.
His shoes make no sound against the gravel driveway, as he walks toward me with the quiet authority of someone who knows they belong. His posture is straight, his shoulders squared, like a man who's accustomed to having power in every room he steps into.
Alex Carson is the heir to an empire that doesn’t carry his blood, yet no one would dare question his right to it. Not when he wears it so effortlessly, as if it had always been his.
And that’s something I can respect.
Power isn’t about blood. It’s not about inheritance. It’s about how well you wield it. How effortlessly people fall in line without you ever needing to raise your voice. Alex moves like a man who has never had to justify his place at the table—because no one is stupid enough to challenge it.
I’ve met men born into power who crumble the second they’re tested. Alex isn’t one of them. He carries his authority like a second skin, sharp and tailored, and no matter how much I might find his posturing tiresome, I see the steel beneath it.
But respect doesn’t mean submission.
He might believe this is his territory, that I’ll fall in line like everyone else—but I don’t bow to anyone. I carve my own path.
His hand extends, stiff but firm, offering a handshake that feels more like a test than a greeting. I take it, matching his grip with one of my own that's equally strong, but without the show of dominance he's trying to project. I don't need to flex to prove my power.
"Adam Blackford," I say, breaking the silence, my tone clipped, deliberate-measuring each word carefully. It's not a question; it's a statement, one that leaves no room for doubt.
He gives me his name in return. "Alex Carson," as if his name alone should command respect. His voice is smooth, cold, carrying an icy sharpness that tells me all I need to know-he expects people to fall in line, quickly and without hesitation.
He gestures toward the entrance of the house, his hand sweeping toward the open door. His movements are smooth and controlled, yet there's an undeniable edge to them, as though he's always prepared to spring into action if the situation demands it.
Once inside, the contrast is undeniable. The timeless elegance of the exterior is replaced by the crisp sophistication of modern luxury.The walls are smooth and painted in soft ivory, reflecting the warm glow of recessed lighting, the gleaming marble floors and the muted elegance of high-end furniture.
Which is minimal but undeniably expensive—low, stylish sofas in muted tones, a glass coffee table, and steel accents that give the space a crisp, modern feel. Large abstract paintings hang on the walls, each one carefully chosen to blend with the house's aesthetic. Nothing feels random. Everything is placed with purpose, designed for elegance and control.
We move past the grand staircase, its polished marble splitting into two separate paths leading upstairs, before turning down a wide hallway. The further we go, the quieter it gets, the hum of the outside world fading into nothing. At the end of the hall, Alex pushes open a heavy wooden door and steps inside.
His office is just as controlled as the rest of the house. Dark wood and glass, sharp lines, and expensive minimalism. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch behind a massive desk, offering a view of the sprawling estate. A single shelf lines one wall, filled with neatly arranged books and a few carefully placed objects.
He moves behind the desk and lowers himself into the chair, finally looking at me. "Sit," he says, voice calm, unreadable.
I take the seat across from him, the leather firm beneath me, built for style rather than comfort.
His eyes don't leave mine, cold and steady. There's no softness there, no indication that he cares about anything other than his mission.
He leans forward slightly, his fingers brushing together in front of him. The fingers are long and tapering, with well-manicured nails. He looks like he could snap someone in half if he wanted to, but he doesn't need to. His mind is his weapon, and he wields it effortlessly.
"You've got a reputation," Alex says, his voice dropping a notch, becoming almost lethal with its calm. "I'll give you that. You're good at what you do." He speaks slowly, but with intent-like he's letting every word sink into the atmosphere. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't need to. He's sure of himself.
"But here's the thing," he continues, leaning even further forward now, eyes narrowing slightly. "Lyra isn't just another assignment. She's not some simple job for you. She's not some asset or prize to be protected. She's my sister. And if anything happens to her, even a scratch, you won't have to worry about anyone else coming for you. You'll wish you never stepped foot into this place."
His words come at me like a harsh wind, cold and unforgiving. There's no hint of a game, just pure, lethal seriousness in every syllable. I can feel the weight of his warning, but it doesn't rattle me. I've been through worse.
He doesn’t intimidate me. But what I do see is just how much Lyra means to him. She’s not his sister by blood, yet his every word is laced with an unshakable loyalty that burns beneath his cold exterior.
And that says more than any family name ever could. It’s not duty. It’s something deeper—something unyielding.
I hold his gaze, unfazed. "I hear you, Carson," I reply, my tone smooth, measured. "But you don't have to worry. Miss Shadowlyn's safety? That's my responsibility now. And if anything were to happen to her... you won't need to come after me. I'll be ahead of you."
His eyes flicker, narrowing further as though assessing my words. He's looking for weakness. He won't find it.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Alex leans back, his posture relaxing slightly-but his eyes remain sharp, focused.
He glances toward the door, then back at me. "Mr. Hartwell will show you your room," he says, tone firm, expecting me to just nod and obey.
I don’t move right away. Instead, I hold his gaze for a beat longer than most would dare, letting the silence stretch just enough to make a point—I don’t take orders like one of his men. But I let it go, pushing up from the chair with unhurried ease.
The door opens, and a middle-aged man steps inside, his suit crisp, his expression as composed as the rest of this place. He gives a small nod, professional and impassive.
"This way," Mr. Hartwell says, his voice smooth, carrying a quiet warmth.
I take one last glance at Alex before turning to leave. I can feel his gaze on my back, heavy and assessing, but I don’t slow my steps.
Just as I reach the doorway, his voice cuts through the silence. "You're not in control here, Blackford," he mutters, the words dropping like stones. There's a subtle growl in his voice now, the quiet danger of a predator circling its prey. "Remember that."
I pause just enough to let his words settle, then glance back at him over my shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "We'll see about that."
Then I step out, following Hartwell down the hall, leaving Alex to his carefully controlled world—one that, whether he likes it or not, I have no intention of playing by his rules.