Twenty-two years old, and Rosalie's already paying for sins that were never hers-until Saint decides to collect. I should've walked away the moment I saw her. Twenty-two, doe-eyed, sharp-tongued, standing in that doorway with fire in her veins. She's Patrick's daughter-the man who thought he could barter his own flesh and blood to wipe a debt clean. She's the last woman I should be looking at, the one line I swore I'd never cross. But the way she glares, the way she trembles and still refuses to break... it guts me. Her father's mess put her in my path, but every breath I take around her makes it less about business and more about need. I catch myself listening for her laugh, memorizing the curve of her lips, watching the defiance in her eyes when she tells me "no" like she doesn't already belong to me. Rosalie thinks I'm here to collect, to drag her into the fire her old man lit. Maybe I am. But the more she pushes back, the more I know I can't let anyone else touch her. Not the Vultures. Not even fate. Her life may have started as collateral, but she's mine now. And I'll burn the whole damn world before I let her slip away.