The storm hit Boston on a Thursday night, dragging dark, cold Atlantic water across the shoreline and slamming gale-force winds against the stone walls of the Hale mansion.

At midnight, the power failed.

The estate’s backup generators kicked in with a low, distant hum, but the sudden darkness had already plunged the second floor into a deep, claustrophobic shadow.

Nora, who lived in the staff quarters above the garage during her four-day shifts, walked down the service corridor with a heavy brass flashlight in one hand and a tray of warm tea in the other. She knew Vincent rarely slept more than two hours at a time; the darkness usually made his temper worse.

When she reached the master suite, the door was slightly ajar.

Inside, the light from the lawn’s floodlights flickered through the rain-streaked glass, casting long, cage-like shadows across the high ceiling.

Vincent wasn't in his wheelchair.

He was on the floor.

He lay near the edge of the massive mahogany bed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his breath coming in jagged, desperate gasps. The wheelchair was lying on its side three feet away, its front caster wheel still spinning lazily in the dark.

He had tried to transfer himself from the bed to the chair without help.

He had failed.

Nora set the flashlight on the dresser, its beam pointing up toward the ceiling, filling the room with a soft, amber glow. She didn't gasp. She didn't cry out. She didn't rush forward like a frantic mother.

She walked slowly to the side of the bed and stood over him, her broad frame casting a steady, protective shadow across his prone figure.

Vincent turned his head, his face wet with sweat, his jaw locked so tight she could hear his teeth grinding together.

“Don't,” he spat through his teeth. “Don't you fucking look at me.”

Nora looked. She looked at his broad chest heaving beneath the damp linen, his powerful arms trembling from the exertion of trying to drag his dead weight across the floor, and the raw, absolute humiliation burning in his gray eyes.

“You fell,” she said simply.

“I didn't fall,” he snarled, his voice breaking on the second word. “I slipped. Get Dominic. Get two of the security boys. Get them now.”

Nora knelt beside him on the thick carpet. She was close enough that he could feel the radiant warmth of her body, smell the soft, earthy scent of her skin over the cold metallic smell of his own sweat.

“Dominic is down at the gatehouse dealing with the generator,” she said softly. “It’s just us, Mr. Hale.”

“Then leave me here!” he roared, slamming his fist into the carpet. “Leave me on the floor! Go back to your room!”

Nora reached out, her thick, strong hands coming down firmly under his armpits. “I’m not leaving you on the floor. And I’m not calling three men to lift you like a sack of grain so you can hate them for it tomorrow.”

Vincent’s eyes widened with a mixture of shock and fury. “Nora, if you touch me—”

“Shut up,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, smooth command that sounded like heavy iron sliding into a groove. “You’re six-foot-two and two hundred pounds. I’ve lifted heavier crates than you at the dockyard when I was twenty. Put your arms around my neck.”

“No.”

“Put your arms around my neck, Vincent, or I swear to God I’ll leave you right here and tell Dominic you asked for a blanket.”

For five seconds, the boss of South Boston stared into the eyes of the maid from Southie.

Then, with a low, guttural curse that shook his chest, Vincent raised his heavy, muscular arms and wrapped them around her shoulders.

Nora shifted her weight, bringing her broad hips close to his hip, using her legs—her powerful, thick thighs built from years of labor—as the leverage point.

“On three,” she murmured into his ear, her hair brushing against his temple. “One. Two. Three.”

With a smooth, powerful drive of her legs, Nora lifted.

Vincent gasped as his upper body rose into the air. For a second, he was entirely suspended against her, his chest pressed flat against her full, generous bust, his face buried in the curve of her neck. He felt the terrifying, incredible strength in her frame—not the delicate, fragile strength of the women he used to date, but the deep, structural power of a woman built to survive.

She pivoted cleanly on her heel and set him down onto the mattress.

Vincent collapsed against the pillows, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He was breathing through his mouth, his shoulders shaking, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if waiting for the room to fall apart.

Nora didn't move away immediately. She remained bent over him, her hands still resting on his chest, ensuring he was balanced before she let go.

His eyes shifted to hers.

They were inches apart. He could see every individual eyelash, the tiny scar near her eyebrow, the full, soft line of her mouth that was currently set in a line of quiet, absolute determination.

“You’re strong,” he whispered, the rage finally draining out of him, leaving only a hollow, aching tiredness.

“I have to be,” she said quietly, her thumb briefly brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his forehead before she caught herself and stepped back. “The world isn't built for people who fall down, Mr. Hale. You have to be able to carry your own weight.”

Vincent lay there, feeling the lingering warmth of her hands on his chest long after she had straightened the wheelchair and walked out into the corridor, leaving the flashlight on his nightstand so he wouldn't be left in the dark.