Audra Holmes POV: A thick stack of legal breach notices slammed against my ankle the second I pushed open the hidden door to the top-floor office of the Holmes Sports Agency by Boston's Charles River. The heavy manila envelope skidded across the cracked wood floor with a sharp screech. Behind the mahogany desk, my adoptive father Hollis Holmes shoved his oily beer belly upward and slapped the tabletop. The deep lines around his nose twitched as he chewed a cheap cigar stub between his yellowed teeth, his eyes glinting with raw greed. He crossed the room in three strides and swung his palm toward my cheek. I shifted my weight back by a few millimeters. His hand missed my skin and smacked straight into the solid wood bookshelf with a dull thud. Hollis clutched his reddened palm, his chest heaving. "Without the living expenses I gave you these past few years, your dead grandmother would have been tossed into a mass grave!" The side door clicked open. My stepmother, Janyce Holmes, walked in wearing ten-centimeter heels and a tailored dark blue velvet suit. Her red-painted lips curved into a sneer as she pulled a yellowed photo from her crocodile handbag and slapped it onto the glass coffee table. "Sweetheart, you recognize this picture, right? If you don't want your dead grandmother's last bit of dignity ruined, you'll do as you're told." I looked down at the table, and my breath hitched. The photo showed my grandmother in a faded coat, standing in terror outside the wrought-iron gates of Boston's Kensington Manor on a snowy night just one week before her murder. My mother's dying plea to find the truth rang in my ears. A micro-thin silver needle slid from my sleeve into my fingers, the cold tip pressing hard against the pad of my thumb to keep my killer instinct as the underground operative Frost from spilling over. My stepsister, Kadence Holmes, strolled in behind her mother, filling the cramped room with heavy sweet perfume. She looped her arm through Janyce's, her gaze raking over my pilled gray hoodie and faded ripped jeans. Kadence tossed a gold-stamped marriage contract at my feet, her manicured nails digging into her designer bag. "Letting you take my place to marry Conley Bond is a favor to you. A crippled, violent washout who can't even walk deserves to ruin my social future?" I stared at the light brown mole near the corner of her eye and stepped back half a pace, making my voice raspy and timid. "Captain Conley is the backbone of the Boston team. This engagement used to be the envy of the entire sports world." Kadence let out a sharp laugh and ground her heel onto the toe of my shoe. "Right now he's a raging cripple stuck in a wheelchair who can't even take care of himself! Next week the league's morality committee is stripping his Captain 'C'. Why should I be his free nurse and live like a widow?" Hollis stepped closer and jabbed a thick finger toward my chest. "Kensington Manor paid eight million dollars in PR settlement fees. Sign your name and get over there in Kadence's place, or I'll have your grandmother's trunk of belongings dumped into Boston Harbor to feed the fish!" I lowered my eyelids to hide the chill in my eyes. Inside my cuff, a micro-recording bracelet blinked with a faint red light, uploading every word of their threats to my cloud server. Kensington Manor was the exact place I needed to investigate my grandmother's death. This PR marriage contract was my legal pass inside. I bent down with trembling fingers and picked up the cold paper, skimming the strict clauses separating all property for this PR marriage. Kadence lifted her chin and held out a diamond-studded pen like she was tossing scraps to a stray dog. "Sign it fast. Don't make me late for my yacht party tonight with the sports drink sponsor's son." I took the pen and wrote "Audra Holmes" on the line, mimicking a clumsy country girl's scrawl until the final stroke hooked upward with the sharp habit of my classified operative files. Hollis snatched the contract, checked the signature, and handed it to Janyce with a snort. "Good thing you know your place. Pack your trash. The Kensington car is waiting in the back alley. Don't embarrass our family in front of the locker room media." Kadence pulled a pair of thick black-framed glasses from her bag and threw them at my chest. "Put these on. Don't let your plain, dead face piss off Mr. Bond. You belong in the gutter." I slipped the thick non-prescription frames onto my nose, hiding my sharp amber eyes. Without another glance at the three of them, I pulled open the creaking wooden door and walked into the dim fire stairwell. Thunder rolled outside the stained-glass window at the landing as the autumn rain lashed against the pane. I walked down the narrow iron steps, the cold railing biting into my palm as I reviewed the list of suspects in my grandmother's murder. I pushed open the rusted alley door into the freezing wind. A black stretched bulletproof Lincoln limousine sat parked at the edge of a deep puddle. The driver's window rolled down a crack, revealing a pair of cold black eyes. "Get in, Miss Holmes. Kensington doesn't welcome guests who waste time." I tightened the straps of my worn canvas backpack, stepped through the water, and pulled open the heavy armored door. The scent of aged cigars mixed with clinical nerve painkillers hit my nose as I sank into the leather seat. The driver floored the gas pedal, splashing muddy water two meters high as we sped onto the rain-slicked Boston highway. I leaned back, spotting the tiny red surveillance dot above the rearview mirror through the tinted glass. In my pocket, my encrypted communicator buzzed, projecting a message from my subordinate Axel Stone onto the inner lens of my glasses. "Frost, Kensington Manor's underground defense network is modified from retired Pentagon systems, and Conley Bond's medical files are locked by the Alliance Syndicate. You're walking into a minefield." I tapped three long and two short beats on my knee in Morse code. "Good. The prey is right there. Get ready to close the net." The limousine cut through the dense fir woods outside Boston and stopped before a massive Gothic black stone estate. Amidst the roar of thunder, the heavy cast-iron gates swung open without a sound.

Audra Holmes POV: Stepping out of the Lincoln, I folded my wet black umbrella and wiped my muddy boot soles on the marble welcome mat. The moment I crossed the threshold into Kensington Manor's foyer, the sharp scent of aged wood and hockey leather conditioner filled my lungs. Ten meters above, a massive black iron chandelier cast cold white light down onto my faded hoodie, stretching my shadow across the polished stone floor. At the base of the curved staircase stood a sixty-year-old man in a tailored dark gray butler's tailcoat. His gray hair was combed neat, his hands folded over his stomach, standing still as stone. His eyes looked cloudy at first glance, yet the second our gazes met, a cold glint flashed in his pupils. A twisted scar running from his left thumb to his forearm gleamed pale under the light. I recognized that mark instantly—a permanent shrapnel wound from close-quarters combat. This butler was a retired special forces soldier. He took one step forward, his Oxford shoes making zero sound on the stone, and placed a half-inch-thick leather-bound manual heavily onto the carved marble table in the center of the hall. "I am Gene Peck, Chief Butler of Kensington. On behalf of the Bond family, I welcome the substitute bride." He pressed down hard on the word "substitute." I stood in the draft from the doorway with my hands tucked into my hoodie pocket, my face blank. "Speak to the point, Butler. I'm in a hurry to go upstairs and meet my legal husband." Gene Peck's lips twitched into a cold smirk as he tapped the cover of the manual. "Before meeting Young Master Conley, Miss Holmes must memorize the rules of Kensington. This is the home of a top NHL Captain, not a country barn." He flipped the book open, his voice dropping low. "Rule one: as a PR wife in name only, you are strictly forbidden from coming within three meters of the master bedroom without permission. Rule two: the underground rink and medical recovery room are restricted zones. Trespassers will be handed straight to federal security." As he spoke, he stepped into my space. His heavy frame cast a shadow over me as his right hand rose in what looked like a polite gesture, aiming a military nerve-pinching claw straight at my left collarbone. That grip had enough force to dislocate an ordinary girl's shoulder on the spot. A fraction of a second before his fingertips touched my fabric, my right forearm snapped up from my side. I slid my foot sideways, dropping my hip to dodge his center of force. My hand clamped onto the outside of his wrist, my thumb driving hard into the median nerve cluster. Gene Peck's cloudy pupils blew wide. His entire right arm went numb under the nerve spasm, his muscles jerking as his heavy frame stumbled half a step back. Using his momentum, I twisted his wrist clockwise and forced his two-hundred-pound body down against the marble tabletop. His own elbow smashed straight through the leather cover of the house manual. I leaned in close to his ear, my amber eyes freezing behind the thick black frames. "Old man, your grappling comes from the 7th Ranger Regiment's night combat manual. Too bad you're old. That wrist scar slowed your joint lock by half a second." Cold sweat broke out across Gene Peck's forehead, his pulse hammering against my fingers. He gritted his teeth and tried to jerk free, so I pressed slightly harder on his nerve cluster, sending a jolt of pain up his spine that killed his strength. I let go of his wrist, pulled a folded antiseptic wipe from my pocket, and slowly wiped each of my fingers right in front of him. Gene Peck grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, rubbing his bruised purple wrist as his throat bobbed. "Who the hell are you... Who sent you here?" His right hand twitched toward the Glock hidden at his lower back. "I'm the legally registered Mrs. Bond, your employer. That's the only identity you need to know." I balled up the used wipe and tossed it into the brass trash bin beside his leg. Hoisting my canvas backpack over one shoulder, I walked past him and climbed the dark red Persian carpet of the spiral staircase. Down in the foyer, Gene Peck stood frozen with sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. He pressed the intercom button on his collar and hissed into the mic. "Young Master, she's coming up... This woman is a dangerous fighter. We need to activate Red Defense Protocol immediately." Silence hung on the line for several seconds before a deep, raspy male voice came through the speaker. "Let her in. I want to see what kind of monster Hollis sent me." Hearing the order, Gene Peck slowly lowered his hand from his waistband as I rounded the second-floor corner. The thick hallway carpet swallowed my footsteps. Championship banners of the Boston team and giant posters of Conley lifting the Stanley Cup in his number 19 jersey lined the walls. I stopped before the heavy double oak doors carved with a soaring eagle. Pale light seeped through the bottom crack, accompanied by the faint metallic scrape of wheelchair gears turning inside. I slid three micro-thin medical silver needles into my palm, the cold tips resting against my skin. Without knocking, I gripped the brass handle, pushed it down, and shoved the heavy doors open.

Audra Holmes POV: The heavy oak doors swung shut behind me, the mechanical lock clicking into place and cutting off the hallway. Inside the massive suite, the overhead lights were off. Only pine logs crackled in the fireplace, casting a dim red glow through air thick with the bitter smell of bourbon and ice-pack pain spray. The instant my heel touched the rug, a sharp whistle tore through the dark corner to my left. A custom titanium hockey stick shot straight toward my carotid artery. I dropped backward at a ninety-degree angle and slid across the floor. The sharp edge of the stick blade grazed right past my black glasses, the wind whipping my bangs across my forehead. Before my attacker could pull back, I planted one hand on the stone, sprang up, and grabbed the carbon-fiber shaft. I yanked the stick toward my chest while my left hand flicked two silver needles straight at his wrist. In the flickering firelight, I saw the man sitting in a custom heavy-duty wheelchair. Even seated, his broad shoulders and over-six-foot-two frame radiated pure physical power. Messy black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark eyes locked onto my face. On his right cuff, a custom silver cufflink engraved with a soaring eagle glinted red in the firelight—the secret emblem of the Alliance Syndicate. With my needles hovering a millimeter above his pulse, the corner of his thin lips curled up. Instead of letting go of the stick, his rough hand shoved forward, closing the gap between us to less than twenty centimeters. The heat of tobacco and cedarwood cologne washed over me as his deep, gravelly voice rumbled above my head. "Since when did that idiot Hollis raise a wildcat who knows close-quarters combat?" I held my ground, keeping the needle tips steady over his skin. "Mr. Conley Bond, is this your wedding gift for your legal wife on our first meeting?" Conley let out a cold snort and released the handle. The titanium stick clattered onto the marble floor, his long legs resting still and stiff beneath his black suit pants. "Just legal trash on paper. You think dressing like a country maid hides the fact that you walked into Kensington with an agenda?" I slid the needles back into my cuff pouch and stepped back, my gaze dropping to the lifeless muscle lines of his thighs under the blanket. "I didn't come here to play loving couple for the cameras, and I don't care about the Bond family trust." I pulled a wooden armchair over, sat down, and crossed my legs. Conley watched me, his long fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the silver button on his armrest. "Then show your cards, woman. My patience only lasts for people who can survive the night." "Let's make a deal, Captain Bond. I'll cure your legs so you can stand up, return to the NHL ice, and lift the Stanley Cup again. In exchange, you give me total protection in Kensington and let me access all the estate's old security files." The room went dead silent except for a spark popping in the hearth. Conley's tapping fingers froze in midair. A second later, he threw his head back and laughed, a low, harsh sound full of fury. He leaned forward, the wheelchair tires screeching against the stone as his dark eyes burned into mine. "You? The top neurosurgery team at Harvard Medical School and the most expensive sports doctors in the league pronounced my motor neurons dead. You're a country substitute bride who never even went to college, and you dare talk nonsense in front of me?" "They're quacks. Just because they can't cure you doesn't mean I can't." I pulled a black nano-needle case from my canvas bag and slid it across the coffee table between us. "Every rainy night, deep inside your quadriceps burns like fire ants are chewing on the bone, while below your ankles feels freezing cold with zero sensation and blocked deep tendon reflexes. Right?" The mockery on Conley's face vanished. His chest went tight, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard the veins bulged along his forearms. "You stole my medical records?" "I used my eyes. Bone and muscle compensation in top athletes can't fool a professional." I stood up, walked right in front of his wheelchair, and pulled a three-inch silver needle from the case. "Let me place one round of needles. Within ten minutes, I'll prove whether I'm qualified to sit at this table and make a deal with you." Conley stared at the long needle in my hand, his chest rising and falling hard. Red veins crept into the corners of his eyes as the urge to return to the ice warred with his suspicion. "If there's zero effect after ten minutes, I'll throw you off the third-floor balcony myself and let Hollis collect your corpse." "Deal." I flipped back the cashmere blanket covering his knees. Through the thin fabric of his suit pants, I pressed my cool fingertips onto the nerve junction on the outside of his knee. At my touch, Conley's heavy frame stiffened, his jaw clenching tight without a sound. I steadied my breath, pinched the silver needle between my index and middle fingers, and drove the tip down half a millimeter into his skin. Before I could push deeper, frantic high heels and shouting guards echoed from the hallway outside, and the heavy double doors were kicked wide open with a loud crash.