The impact knocked the breath from Annette's lungs. Pain shot down her spine. She gritted her teeth and drove her knee up, aiming for his stomach.

Beckham reacted with terrifying speed. He slammed his hand down, blocking her knee, while his other hand shot forward and locked around her throat.

His grip was like iron. Annette choked. She twisted her head to the side and chopped her hand hard against the side of his neck.

Beckham grunted, but he did not let go. He felt no pain. The manic episode had completely shut down his body's warning signals. He pressed her harder against the rough bricks.

They fought in the tight space. Fists hit flesh. Boots scraped against the concrete.

Annette realized quickly that this man had elite military training. He was faster, stronger, and completely out of his mind. If she kept fighting force with force, he would kill her.

She reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers searching for the surgical needles she always carried.

Beckham saw the movement. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed.

The pressure was immense. Annette felt her bones grinding together. She gasped, trying to pull away.

Beckham's grip crushed her against the rough brick wall. The pressure on her side pocket became unbearable. She heard a faint crack as the glass gave way under his raw strength. The bottle shattered.

Clear liquid splashed across her boots and the dirty ground. A sharp, unique scent filled the air. It smelled of cold cedar and a rare, bitter herb.

The scent hit Beckham's face.

His bloodshot eyes contracted. His hand froze around her throat.

His heavy, ragged breathing slowed. The rigid muscles in his arms twitched, then slowly began to relax.

Annette felt the pressure ease. She yanked her wrist free and raised her fist, ready to strike his temple.

But Beckham suddenly swayed. All the tension left his massive frame. He fell forward, his full weight crashing onto her shoulder.

Annette stumbled back, struggling to hold him up. She raised her hands to push him off.

Beckham buried his face in her neck. He let out a long, deep sigh. For the first time in three years, the violent storm in his brain stopped. The silence in his head was absolute.

Tires screeched at the end of the alley.

Two black, bulletproof Maybachs slammed to a halt. The doors flew open.

A man in a sharp suit ran into the alley, followed by four massive bodyguards. He held a syringe filled with a heavy sedative.

Walter stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped. He stared at his boss, the ruthless CEO of the Morris family, resting peacefully against the shoulder of a girl in a dirty leather jacket.

Annette glared at the men. She shoved Beckham hard toward Walter.

The moment Beckham was pushed away from her, he lost the center of the scent. His face contorted in pain.

His eyes snapped open. The madness was gone, but a cold, obsessive darkness remained. He reached out and grabbed Annette's wrist again.

"Let go of me," Annette said. Her voice was ice.

Beckham's voice was hoarse, rough from screaming earlier. He did not look at her. He looked at Walter.

"Put her in the car," Beckham ordered.

Walter blinked, then waved his hand. The four bodyguards instantly surrounded Annette. They blocked every exit.

Annette looked at the men. She looked at the guns bulging under their jackets. She knew she could not fight four armed professionals in an enclosed space.

She let out a cold laugh and stopped resisting.

The bodyguards escorted her to the Maybach. She climbed into the back seat. Beckham slid in beside her. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The air inside the car was still. The scent of the spilled perfume on Annette's boots quickly filled the small space.

Beckham leaned his head back against the leather headrest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The tight lines around his mouth vanished.

He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head. He stared at Annette, his gaze heavy and calculating.