Chapter 18
Mary
The air smells of garlic. Warm and buttery.
Which is weird.
Because the last place I remember being, I was up against a wall. His breath on my face. His hands on my blouse.
And then—
His head split open.
Right in front of me.
Not metaphorically. Not like, “Wow, I really blew his mind.” I mean, his actual forehead peeled open like a dropped egg. Skin, skull, brain—all of it. Blood oozing from the center, thick and syrupy and slow, bubbling down into his eye socket like it was trying to drown him from the inside.
And I remember thinking, Good.
Which is probably the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever thought in my life.
I didn’t dream that. I couldn’t have.
Because I was glad.
Glad.
That he was dead. That he wasn’t going to finish what he started. That I wasn’t going to die with his hands on me.
And I know that shouldn’t sit right with me. I’m not someone who’s supposed to see a man get shot in the face and feel… relief.
That’s not my world.
But it happened, anyway.
The crack. The blood. His body hitting the floor like a dropped sack of meat.
I didn’t dream that. I couldn’t have.
Oh, my God.
And then… more. Memories roll in fast, uninvited.
Dave. His voice. His scream. Not like the guy I’ve worked under for seven years, but like prey. Short, sharp, final.
And then: green eyes.
The only steady thing in that entire nightmare.
Wait. Was all of that a nightmare? Or… did I die?
My fingers twitch. I try to move.
No. I’m not dead.
But my eyes won’t open. They’re glued shut like my body’s staging a quiet protest: We survived, bitch. We’re done now.
So I just lie there. Still. Quiet. Listening.
There’s a shift in the air. Warm. Subtle. Something new.
Another smell creeps in under the garlic.
Tomato. Herbs. Cheese.
Lasagna.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I get almost-murdered, and now my body’s first real reaction is hunger?
Not fear. Not grief. Not even basic survival instinct.
Just: Ooh, food.
It’s honestly rude.
My stomach growls loud enough to be legally classified as betrayal.
And there it is. That’s my rock bottom. Barely escaped death, eyes still sealed shut by trauma, and my body’s throwing itself at the scent of carbs like a cartoon hobo floating toward a pie on a windowsill.
The quiet breaks, and I hear it. Deep. Rough. Like gravel over silk. The kind of voice that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.
“You gonna sleep all day?”
My eyes crack open.
Light slams into my skull. I wince. Everything hurts. My neck, my shoulders, my ribs… like I got drop-kicked through a panic attack and then run over by a herd of cattle.
I blink slowly until the blur becomes shapes.
White walls. High ceilings. A couch beneath me so plush I sink like I’ve been claimed by it. The kind of couch people with trust funds nap on.
And straight ahead—
A kitchen. The nicest kitchen I’ve ever seen. Black marble counters. Sleek appliances. A coffee machine that looks smarter than me. And him.
Standing in front of the stove, casually flipping something in a pan like this is his Saturday and not my personal horror movie aftermath.
He’s barefoot. In sweatpants. Black tee stretching across broad shoulders like it was custom-made for his sins.
His hair is damp. Towel-dried, pushed back, careless.
I stare.
And stare.
And for a second, genuinely wonder if I actually did die and end up in the hottest, weirdest corner of Purgatory.
Then I move.
Or try to. My neck protests. My lower back screams. Something pinches in my hip, and I let out a low, awkward whimper.
His head turns, just slightly.
Green eyes.
“You’re awake.”
His voice… Yeah, still illegal. Rich. Calm. Laced with that same dangerous nothingness from last night. Like if God outsourced judgment to a man who irons his shirts with a Glock on the counter.
I sit up too fast. Instantly regret it.
Everything tilts. The couch tries to eat me again.
My hand flails, catches the backrest. My palm is slick with sweat. Or shock. Or both.
I look down.
Oh.
I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.
A white shirt that swallows me whole. Soft. Expensive-feeling. Like if luxury and cotton had a baby. And… boxers?
No. Sweat shorts. Drawstring. Barely staying on my hips.
My cheeks flame.
I shoot a glance toward the armrest. There, folded neatly, are my bra, work blouse, and skirt. Stained, crumpled, but… handled.
Handled.
“Oh, my God!” My voice cracks. “Did you—? Did you change me?”
He doesn’t look up. Just plates something that smells criminally good. “You’re welcome.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“Also not a no.”
Heat rushes to my face. Neck to hairline. “You undressed me?”
“I took off your bloody clothes before you stained my furniture. You want them back with brain matter still on them?”
I make a strangled sound.
“Right.” He drops a fork onto the plate. “Next time I’ll leave you face-down on the floor in your crime-scene chic. Very dignified.”
I clutch the shirt around me tighter, as if that’ll save my pride. It won’t.
Because now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I’m hyper-aware of three things:
I’m starving.
I’m in a place I have no business being.
He’s the most terrifying, gorgeous man I’ve ever seen… and I think he killed someone.
My mouth moves before my brain catches up.
“Who are you?” I ask. My voice barely makes it.
He turns, finally. Eyes on mine. Steady. Calm. Like I’m not asking something life-altering.
He sets the plate on the counter. Walks toward me.
Every step is measured. Quiet. The way a man like that moves… like he’s always five seconds from violence.
He stops just short of the couch.
And says without blinking, “The man who saved your life.”
I stare up at him, throat dry.
“But if you’re asking about the guy I killed—” He nods toward the door, as if the body’s still out there waiting. “That one was sent to make you disappear.”
Beat.
My heart stutters. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost bored. “Turns out someone wants you dead, Mary Sullivan.”
The words hit me like ice water.
Someone wants me dead.
I start shaking. Full-body earthquake shaking. The kind where your teeth chatter and your vision goes spotty.
“I don’t—” My voice cracks. “I don’t understand.”
He watches me fall apart with the same expression he’d use to check the stock market. Clinical. Detached.
“Dave Thornton was laundering money for the Bratva,” he says simply. “Russian mafia. You flagged accounts that weren’t supposed to be flagged. Now they think you know too much.”
My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. “I don’t know anything.”
“Doesn’t matter what you know. Matters what they think you know.”
I try to stand. My legs give out immediately. I collapse back onto the couch, the oversized shirt riding up my thighs.
“This is insane.” My voice is hoarse. “I work at a bank. I process deposits. I help old ladies reset their passwords.”
“And you accidentally stumbled into a money laundering operation worth millions.” His voice drops lower, darker. “Congratulations. You’re now a liability.”
The room spins. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spinning.
“I want to go home.”
“No.”
The word cuts through the air like a blade. Final. Absolute.
I look up at him. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, you’re not going anywhere.” He crosses his arms, and I notice the scars on his forearms; jagged lines that look like they have stories I don’t want to hear. “Your old life? It’s over. The moment you walked into that laundromat, it ended.”
My chest tightens. “You can’t just—”
“Can’t what? Keep you alive?” His eyes turn colder. “Because that’s what this is, printsessa. I’m the only thing standing between you and a bullet in the head.”
The pet name makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time.
“I have a grandmother,” I say desperately. “She needs me. I have a job—”
“Your grandmother is being watched. Three of my men are making sure she stays breathing.” His tone doesn’t change. Matter-of-fact. Calm. “Your job? Well, considering your boss got his throat slit this morning, I’d say you’re unemployed.”
Dave.
The memory hits me hard. His face. The fear. The way he begged—
I’m going to be sick.
I lurch forward, hand over my mouth, but nothing comes up. Just dry heaves that make my ribs ache.
He doesn’t move to comfort me. Doesn’t offer water or soothing words. Just stands there, watching me break down like it’s part of his morning routine.
“Dave set you up,” he continues when my breathing stabilizes. “Led you to that laundromat like a lamb to the slaughter. He thought if he delivered you, they’d let him live.”
“Stop.” Tears are streaming down my face now. “Please just stop.”
“They killed him anyway. That’s what happens when you trust the wrong people.”
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together. “What do you want from me?”
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. Not softer. Nothing about him could ever be soft. But… focused.
“I want you to listen very carefully,” he says, moving closer until he’s standing directly in front of me.
“Your life—the one where you worry about overdraft fees and bus schedules—that’s gone.
Forever. The people who want you dead? They don’t give up.
They don’t forget. And they sure as hell don’t forgive. ”
I can barely breathe.
“But,” he continues, and his voice drops low, “I can keep you alive. I can make sure your grandmother stays safe. I can give you a chance to see tomorrow.”
“In exchange for what?”
His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so terrifying.
“You do exactly what I tell you. When I tell you. No questions. No arguing. No trying to run back to your pretty little life.” He leans down, bringing his face level with mine.
“Because that life is dead, Mary. And you can join it, or you can adapt.” He pauses.
“So, what’s it going to be, printsessa?”
My head starts spinning. The room shifts out of focus, and I can’t catch my breath. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
I look at the door—sleek, modern… escape.
No.
No, no, no, no.
I’m not staying here. I’m not accepting this. I’m not becoming some prisoner while my life burns down around me.
I bolt.
My legs are shaky, but adrenaline kicks in hard. I sprint toward the door, his oversized shirt billowing behind me like a sail.
“Mary—”
I don’t look back. My fingers find the handle, twist—
And then I’m airborne.
He catches me around the waist, one arm banding across my ribs like steel. My back slams against his chest, and God, he’s so warm. So solid. Like hitting a wall made of muscle and menace.
“Let me go!” I thrash, elbows flying, trying to break free. “I said, let me GO!”
He doesn’t even grunt when my elbow connects with his ribs. Just holds me tighter, my feet dangling off the ground.
“Put me down, you psycho!” I twist in his grip, desperate, feral. My teeth find his forearm, and I bite down hard enough to taste copper.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t curse.
Doesn’t tighten his hold or threaten me back.
He just… lets me.
Lets me kick and scratch and bite like a wild animal until I’m exhausted and sobbing.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans down. His breath is warm against my ear, voice deadly calm.
“You done?”
I’m panting, tears streaming, but I nod.
He sets me down carefully. Steps back. Gives me space.
“You want to leave?” he asks, and his tone is almost… gentle. “Go ahead.”
I blink at him, confused. “What?”
“Door’s right there.” He nods toward it, hands loose at his sides. “You want to walk out of here and take your chances with the people who tried to rape and kill you this morning? Be my guest.”
My hand hovers over the handle.
“But understand this, printsessa.” His voice drops to a whisper that raises every hair on my body. “The second you walk through that door, you’re on your own. Your grandmother’s on her own. And when they find you—and they will find you—I won’t be there to put a bullet in their heads.”
I stare at him. At those eyes that promise violence and protection in equal measure.
“Choose.”
My hand trembles on the handle.
And I run.