The Alchemist of Silver Street

The blast shattered her workshop. Not the Guild—something worse. Through the smoke, a man emerged. Kaelen Thorne. His family owned this city. His stormy eyes scanned the ruin, then found her. “Elara Harris,” he said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in her bones. “Three Guild assassins are down. The next wave is mine. Or yours. Your choice.” He offered a hand. Not to help her up, but to pull her into his war. She was a fugitive, a "Bad Girl" alchemist with nothing left to lose. He was a king in a trench coat. “Why?” she demanded, her heart a wild drum. His gaze was intense, possessive. “You have the power to ruin my greatest enemy. I have the name to keep you alive.” He stepped closer, the heat from his body a stark contrast to the chilling rain. “I don’t need an employee, Elara. I need a partner. A wife.” The word hung between them, dangerous and electric. A marriage contract. It was madness. It was salvation. It was the most exciting proposition she’d ever heard. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. “Let’s talk terms, Thorne.”