The hour felt like a century. When the door finally hissed open, Julian was leaning against the frame, his shirt soaked in blood, his breathing shallow.

"It’s clear," he rasped, before his knees buckled.

Elara caught him, her anger forgotten in the face of his mortality. She dragged him to the bed, her hands trembling as she tore away his ruined shirt. The wound was deep—a graze that had sliced through muscle.

"I’m calling a doctor," she said, reaching for the phone.

"No," Julian grabbed her wrist, his grip weak. "No doctors. Vanderbilt has eyes in every hospital. If word gets out I’m hit, the board will strip my assets by morning. You... you have to do it."

"I’m a cellist, Julian! Not a surgeon!"

"You have steady hands," he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. "The steadiest I’ve ever known. Please, Elara."

With a sewing kit, a bottle of high-end scotch for disinfectant, and a heart in her throat, Elara began to stitch. Every time Julian winced, her chest tightened. She realized with a jolt of terror that the "Contract" was already failing.

She didn't just want him alive for the protection. She wanted him alive because the thought of a world without his cold, complicated presence was suddenly unbearable.

As the sun began to rise, Julian finally fell into a deep, feverish sleep. Elara sat by his side, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

She looked at the "Contract" sitting on the nightstand. She picked it up and, with a slow, deliberate motion, tore it in half.