Chapter Five
Savannah
An oppressive silence meets me when I finally wake. No hum of the refrigerator, no distant sirens, just an eerie stillness sending a chill down my spine. My eyes flutter open, and I’m greeted by a room so opulent it takes my breath away.
The ceiling is impossibly high with ornate crown molding that would put a museum to shame. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the room in soft morning light, highlighting the sleek furniture and tasteful art that scream understated wealth. The bed I’m lying in is massive, draped in crisp white linens that feel softer than anything I’ve ever owned. It’s all so pristine, so perfect, it feels completely alien.
Where the hell am I?
I sit up slowly. The ache in my wrists grounds me. The oversized T-shirt I’m wearing shifts against my skin. I frown. This isn’t mine. Of course, it isn’t. Just another mystery to add to the growing unease curling in my stomach.
As I scan the room, the events of last night come crashing back in disjointed fragments. The knock at the door. The charming smile turned sinister. My screams. The struggle.
And then . . . Rylan.
Gasping, I clutch the sheets as the memories hit me with full force. He was there. Somehow, he was there. His voice, sharp, commanding. The way he tore the guy off me like it was nothing. And then . . . nothing.
Just darkness.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. My mind races as I try to make sense of it all. Why was Rylan at my house at midnight? How did I end up here? And what the hell does he have to do with all of this?
The door creaks open, and I freeze. My fists clench instinctively, ready for . . . something. But it’s Rylan who steps inside, holding two mugs of what I am hoping is coffee after the night I’ve had. He’s dressed casually, but there’s an edge to his movements like he’s bracing himself for a fight.
“Morning,” he says cautiously, his voice low.
“Where am I?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “ What is this place?”
“You’re at my house,” he says, setting one of the mugs on the nightstand. “You’re safe, Savannah. That’s what matters.”
“Safe?” I repeat, incredulously. I grip onto the covers and pull them up tight against my chin as if I am shielding my body from any potential threat. “I woke up in a stranger’s house wearing someone else’s clothes. Explain to me how any of this feels safe.”
Rylan sighs, setting his coffee mug on the end table, running a hand through his dark hair—the same hair I’ve often imagined tangling my fingers in while testing out my latest toys from Boudoir Bliss . Shit. Focus, Savannah. Now is definitely not the time to get distracted.
“You passed out after . . . everything. I couldn’t leave you there. Your door was busted, and . . .” He hesitates, his jaw tightening.
“And what?” I demand. I shove to my feet. “Say it.”
“And there was a dead guy on the floor,” he says with a slight wince.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Dead. The man who attacked me is dead. My knees buckle, and I collapse back onto the bed. "Oh my God," I whisper, staring at the floor as the enormity of it sinks in. Dead.
Rylan moves closer to me into a crouch so we’re at eye level. His expression softens but the tension in his shoulders betrays the storm beneath his calm exterior. "It wasn’t intentional," he says, his voice steady, even. "I hit him to get him off you, but he fell . . . hard. He hit his head on something. It all happened so fast."
My breath catches, and I can barely find the words. "You didn’t mean to kill him?"
He shakes his head, his jaw clenches. "No. But it doesn’t change the fact he’s gone. What matters now is you’re safe. That’s all you need to focus on."
Safe. The word feels heavy, almost foreign. I hug my arms around myself, trying to find stability in the whirlwind of emotions. He’s right, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.
“Why were you even there?” I ask with a tremble in my voice. “Why were you anywhere near my house at midnight?”
He hesitates, his gaze shifting away from mine. “I . . . I drive by sometimes. Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“You what?” My voice rises, a mix of shock and confusion.
“Look, my family isn’t . . . normal,” he says, standing and pacing now. “And I know what kind of people they associate with. I’ve seen what happens to people who get caught in the crossfire. I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the cocky delivery guy I thought I knew with the man standing in front of me. He’s different. Serious. Maybe even a bit scared.
“You’re insane,” I finally say, shaking my head in an attempt to clear the frustration clouding my thoughts. “Completely insane.”
“Probably,” he agrees. A faint smirk tugs at his lips.
And somehow, despite everything, that smirk makes me feel a little better.