Savannah sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the bandage wrapped around her hand. The room smelled faintly of smoke, like the fire had left a whisper behind. She hated that she still felt the heat—not just from the flames, but from the man who had pulled her out of them.
Julian Thorne.
Her jaw clenched at the memory of his arms around her, strong and sure, like the world wouldn't dare touch her while he held her. She hated how safe that had felt. How confusing it was.
The knock on her apartment door was firm. She didn't have to ask who it was.
"Not now," she called out.
"It wasn't a request."
Of course it wasn't.
Julian stepped into the room, perfectly tailored in his dark suit, the collar of his shirt slightly undone like even he hadn't had time to button back up after the chaos. His eyes flicked to the gauze on her hand.
"You should've let the paramedics finish wrapping that."
Savannah stood. "You shouldn't be here."
His gaze locked with hers, cool and unreadable. "And yet, here I am."
The silence that stretched between them wasn't peaceful—it was tight and pulsing, like something barely contained. Savannah walked past him into the living room, needing distance. Julian followed.
"You knew something like this would happen," she said, turning to face him. "You warned me to stop digging. Now my apartment burns down, and you're suddenly the hero with perfect timing?"
Julian's jaw tightened. "You think I started the fire?"
"I think coincidence is a luxury people like you don't believe in."
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "If I wanted to scare you, Savannah, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of dragging you out of the flames."
"No. You'd have someone else do it," she shot back.
Julian's eyes darkened. "You're not wrong to be suspicious. But don't confuse me with Damien."
She paused at the mention of his half-brother. "So it was him?"
Julian didn't answer immediately. "I'm handling it."
"You mean covering it up?"
He laughed, humorless. "You think I'm the villain in this story. But you don't know half of it."
"Then tell me," she challenged.
A flicker of something passed over his face—regret? Pain? Whatever it was, it was gone before she could name it.
"You wouldn't believe me if I did."
"Try me."
"I tried the moment I pulled you out of a burning building," Julian said, voice low and steady. "But all you see is a man in a suit with blood on his hands."
Savannah didn't look away. "Maybe because that's exactly what you are."
For a moment, they stood locked in silence, breathing the same air, carrying the same weight. The tension between them had never been about just attraction—it was this, too. This burning battle of wills.
Julian moved first, sitting down on her couch like he owned the space. "You're not safe. Not just because of Damien. Because you're getting too close."
Savannah crossed her arms. "That's the point. I'm a journalist, not some trophy you can tuck away."
"I don't want to tuck you away," he said, looking up at her. "I want to keep you alive."
There was a softness in his voice she hadn't expected. It made something dangerous twist in her chest. She sat down across from him, keeping the coffee table like a barrier between them.
"So talk," she said. "No more riddles."
Julian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My father built Thorne Enterprises on clean hands and dirty money. Damien… he was always more like him than I was. But my father never saw that. He thought love was weakness. Trust was a liability."
"And you're different?" she asked, skeptical.
"I try to be."
"But you still keep secrets."
He smiled, bitter. "Some secrets protect people. Others destroy them. You're digging into both."
"Then help me sort them out."
Julian looked at her for a long moment. "You're asking me to betray my family."
"You already said you don't trust them."
"I don't. But betraying blood…" He ran a hand through his hair. "That leaves a stain that never comes out."
Savannah's voice softened despite herself. "So does staying silent."
Julian met her gaze again, something unraveling in his expression. "You're not who I thought you'd be."
"And who did you think I was?"
He smiled faintly. "A spoiled socialite playing reporter."
"And now?"
"Now you're a woman who's willing to burn her world down for the truth."
Savannah didn't reply. She didn't need to. The crackle between them said enough.
Julian stood. "Come with me."
She blinked. "Where?"
"Somewhere safe. At least until we figure out who actually wants you dead."
She hesitated. "You mean until you figure out how to spin it."
His mouth tightened. "You don't trust me. I get it. But right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and whoever lit that match."
Savannah studied him. There was a time she would've walked into fire to protect her family. And now here he was—claiming to do the same.
"What if I say no?" she asked.
Julian's expression didn't change. "Then I'll stay outside your door. All night if I have to."
"And if I call the cops?"
"They'll get here too late."
A chill ran down her spine. Not because he was threatening her. Because he wasn't wrong.
She stood, walked past him toward the door, then stopped. "This doesn't mean I trust you."
"I don't expect you to," he said. "But I'd rather have your anger than your obituary."
That shouldn't have made her heart skip. It did.
An hour later, she sat in the back of his armored SUV, staring out the tinted windows. Julian sat beside her, silent. The city blurred by, bathed in amber streetlights and shadows.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My place."
Savannah glanced at him. "Because that won't look suspicious."
"I have twenty-four-hour security and bulletproof glass. Unless you'd prefer a Motel 6."
She didn't dignify that with a response.
His penthouse was exactly what she expected: floor-to-ceiling windows, marble everything, minimalist design with a view that made even New York look tame. But what caught her attention was the single photo on the mantle—Julian, younger, with a woman she didn't recognize.
He noticed her staring. "My mother."
Savannah turned. "You don't talk about her."
"She died before my father could ruin her."
Something in his voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
"You still love her," Savannah said.
Julian nodded. "She was the only person who saw through all of this." He motioned to the penthouse, the city, his suit. "She said being powerful was easy. Being decent was the fight."
Savannah found herself sitting on the edge of his couch, her own heart unexpectedly raw. "She sounds like someone I'd write about."
"You'd like her."
"Would she like you?"
Julian looked at her, solemn. "Not right now."
Silence settled between them again. Not cold, not hostile—just heavy.
He stepped into the kitchen and returned with a glass of whiskey, handed it to her. "For the nerves."
Savannah took it, fingers brushing his. Electricity. Annoying, undeniable electricity.
She sipped slowly. "Thanks. But I still don't trust you."
"I know," Julian said, voice low. "But I trust you."
She blinked.
"And that's a much bigger risk," he added.
Something cracked open inside her, but she closed it again quickly. The burn of the whiskey helped.
"I'm not going to sleep with you just because you saved my life."
Julian smiled, faintly amused. "That's not why I saved you."
She stood, heart thudding with something she refused to name. "I'm taking the guest room."
"Good," he said. "You'd hate the master bed. It's too soft."
She hesitated. "Why?"
He held her gaze. "Because it remembers things. And you're trying hard to forget."
Savannah turned, walking away before she could do something stupid—like ask what he meant. Or worse, stay.
Because no matter what he claimed…
She still wasn't sure who lit the match.