Chapter 12 #2
“He saved me,” I whisper, but the words feel hollow, echoing in the oppressive silence of the room. Remy’s presence looms larger as reality closes in around me—my body shaking with a mixture of rage and despair. “He sacrificed himself for me.”
Remy’s eyes darken, reflecting my pain with an intensity that sends chills down my spine.
I pull my free hand away when he reaches out, instinctively recoiling from the warmth he offers.
“You’re just like him,” I spit, every syllable laced with venom.
“Like Ano—destroying lives for profit and power.”
He flinches as if struck, but instead of retreating, he moves closer, his body radiating tension and something else—something deeper that I refuse to acknowledge. The air thickens between us as he looms over me, hands gripping the headboard on either side of my head.
“I won’t take his contract,” he growls, voice low and fierce. There’s an urgency in his tone that cuts through my fog of grief and anger. “Since you reappeared in my life, I had this feeling you were in deep. I want to help.”
The confession hangs between us like a fragile thread waiting to snap under pressure. My heart races as I search his face for any hint of deception; there’s so much at stake here, and trust is a dangerous game. “Why?” I whisper finally, vulnerability clawing at me.
Remy stalks me to the bed, grabbing the headboard over me, and I gasp. “Because you trusted me enough to call when you needed help,” he replies, each word heavy with raw emotion. “Even knowing what I am.” His voice cracks slightly on that last note, revealing layers beneath his cool exterior.
My pulse quickens at his admission—a crack in the armor of indifference he wears so well. “And what are you?” My challenge hangs in the air between us; the accusation is sharp yet layered with uncertainty.
“Because even if I help monsters for a living,” he continues, voice roughening with conviction, “I have my own limits.” He pauses as if weighing each word before carefully letting them fall into place. “And I can’t help but admire you—in your shining journalist armor.”
His admission costs him more than just words; I can see it etched into the tension of his jaw—the way it clenches tightly as if holding back.
How much I would like to trust you, Remy.
The thought burns through me as I stare up at him, remembering every touch, every stolen moment between us.
His hands still grip the headboard on either side of me, caging me in with his presence.
The scent of his cologne mingles with leather and something distinctly him, making it hard to focus.
“I want to believe you,” I whisper, hating how my voice betrays the conflict raging inside me. “But Roberto trusted people, too. Look where that got him.”
Remy’s expression darkens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans closer, his breath ghosting across my cheek. “I’m not asking you to trust blindly, Eve. I’m asking you to let me help.”
My free hand presses against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive fabric of his suit. Steady. Strong. Just like I remember. “The last time I trusted someone with power like yours, they tried to bury everything I’d uncovered. Three months of evidence, gone in a single night.”
“I’m not them.” His words carry weight and conviction.
“No,” I agree, meeting his intense gaze. “You’re far more dangerous.”
The admission costs me, exposing a vulnerability I’ve fought to keep hidden.
“And now?” His question hangs between us, charged with unspoken implications.
“Now I know better than to trust feelings over facts.” I force steel into my voice, even as my body betrays me by leaning into his warmth. “The fact is you work for men like my father. You clean up their messes, make their problems disappear.”
I watch the emotions play across Remy’s face, cataloging each micro-expression like the investigative journalist I am. His jaw tightens at my accusation, but he doesn’t deny it. That’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about him—he owns what he is.
“You’re right,” he says, shifting his weight but maintaining his position over me. “I make problems disappear. But I also know when something needs to stay visible.”
My laugh comes out harsh, bitter. “And you expect me to believe this is one of those times? That you’ll help expose the very people who pay your bills?”
One of his hands moves from the headboard to brush a strand of hair from my face. The gentle touch sends unwanted shivers down my spine. “I expect you to understand that not everything is black and white, Eve. Sometimes, the best way to destroy something is from the inside.”
I turn my face away from his touch, but the warmth of his fingers lingers on my skin. “Pretty words from a man who has me handcuffed to his bed.”
“A precaution,” he murmurs, “because you’ve proven you can’t be trusted to stay put.”
“Rich, coming from you.” I test the handcuff again, metal biting into my wrist. The USB drive feels like it’s burning a hole in my conscience, safely hidden where he’ll never find it. “So what’s your play here, Remy? Keep me locked up until Stockholm syndrome kicks in?”
His other hand leaves the headboard, and suddenly, he’s cupping my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. The intensity in his dark eyes steals my breath. “My play is keeping you alive long enough to finish what you started. But we do it my way.”
The implied possession in those words sends a shiver. I hate how my body responds to him, how easily he breaks through my defenses. Eight years and nothing’s changed—he still affects me like no one else can.
The atmosphere shifts, charging with electricity as Remy leans closer.
His breath fans across my lips, and my heart thunders against my ribs.
I yank at the handcuff again, testing its hold, but this time, the motion draws his gaze.
His eyes drag down my restrained wrist, then trail slowly down my body with unmistakable heat that sets my skin on fire.
“Tell me to stop,” he challenges, his voice rough. His hand leaves the headboard, fingers tracing my collarbone with deliberate slowness. The touch ignites something dangerous between us—a volatile mix of trust warring with suspicion, desire clashing against fear, and power tangled with surrender.
I meet his gaze, refusing to back down even as desire coils tight in my stomach. “Would you?” The words come out as barely more than a whisper, betraying how affected I am by his proximity.
His dark laugh holds no humor, the sound vibrating through me as he closes the final distance between us. “No,” he admits, his lips brushing mine as he speaks, “but I want you to know this is your choice.”
When he kisses me, it carries all the violence of our confrontation transformed into raw passion. I arch up against the handcuff, my body warring between fighting his control and surrendering to the electricity crackling between us. The metal bites into my wrist, but I barely notice the sting.
Remy growls at my movement, the sound sending heat straight through me. His carefully maintained control finally cracks as his hands begin to explore my body with possessive intent. His touch brands me through my clothes, claiming and demanding in equal measure.
I gasp against Remy’s mouth as his hand slides beneath my shirt, his touch scorching against my bare skin. Every rational thought screams at me to stop this, to remember who he is and what he does, but my body betrays me. His fingers trace patterns up my ribcage that make me shiver.
“You’re playing with fire,” I warn him between kisses, though the threat in my voice is undermined by the way I arch into his touch.
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark with desire. “So are you.”
The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. There’s no pretense now, no careful manipulation or strategic moves. Just hunger, and something deeper that makes my chest tight.
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and I bite back a moan.
The handcuff rattles against the headboard as I instinctively try to reach for him with both hands.
The restriction only heightens every sensation, making me hyperaware of his touch, his scent, and the weight of his body pressing mine into the mattress.
“Let me go,” I breathe, tugging at the restraint. “I want to touch you.”
“No.” His response is immediate and definitive. He captures my free hand and pins it above my head, leaving me completely at his mercy. “I know you, Eve. The moment I release you, you’ll run.”
He’s right, of course. Even now, part of me is calculating escape routes, weighing options, and planning my next moves. But a larger part wants to surrender to this moment, to forget about investigations and betrayals and just feel.
My body trembles as his lips trace down my neck, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. Each touch is deliberate, designed to break down my resistance. And it’s working. God help me, it’s working.