The doors closed behind Clara with a sound like a verdict.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Rain tapped against the window.
Leo crossed the room slowly. Not weakly. Slowly, like a man used to making the world wait. Clara held her ground because stepping back would have felt like surrender.
He stopped close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw.
“Clara Hayes,” he said.
His voice was deep, smooth, and roughened by recent injury.
“Leo Salvatore,” she replied. “I’d say nice to meet you, but your men threatened my brother.”
His eyes sharpened.
“They mentioned Owen?”
“So you know his name.”
“I know everything about the woman who saved my life.”
“That sounds less romantic than you probably think.”
A flicker passed through his face. Amusement, maybe. Or surprise.
“I owe you a debt.”
“No, you don’t. I donated blood. The hospital probably billed you.”
“A Salvatore debt is not settled with a hospital invoice.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone wants money.”
“I need money. That’s different.”
His gaze lingered on her.
“You are not afraid enough,” he said.
“I’m exhausted. It looks similar.”
That almost-smile returned, vanishing before it could become human.
He turned and walked to the desk. A crystal decanter sat beside a stack of papers. He did not pour a drink. He simply touched the rim of the glass as though resisting the habit.
“There are people who believe I should be dead,” he said. “They are disappointed tonight.”
“Send them my apologies.”
“You have a sharp tongue for someone standing in my house.”
“I didn’t come here willingly.”
“No,” he said. “But you came.”
