Chapter 13
I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp. The kiss burns with violence barely contained, a match striking gunpowder. Eve’s response mirrors my urgency—her free hand grips my collar, pulling me closer even as tension radiates through her body.
Her lips part beneath mine, and I taste the conflict in her submission.
The silk of her borrowed pajamas whispers against my suit as she arches up, seeking more contact while her mind fights against it.
The metal of the handcuff clinks against the headboard, a sharp reminder of our precarious situation.
I devour her mouth, memorizing every response, every hitched breath. Her teeth graze my bottom lip—defiance even now. The familiar scent of her skin clouds my thoughts. I need to stop. Need to break away before I lose the last threads of my control. But I don’t want to.
Rising abruptly, I leave her breathing hard against the pillows. The distance between us crackles with unspoken accusations. I cross to my dresser, maintaining my composure even as my pulse hammers against my collar. The drawer opens silently.
Eve’s breath catches when I withdraw the knife. Fear and anger flash across her face, but she doesn’t speak. I ensure she sees the handcuff key in my other hand.
“It’s all about trust, Eve.” My voice remains steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “Maybe you can’t fully trust me with your investigation yet, but your body trusts me.”
“Why are you helping me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I consider her question for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Because you need my help. And because I can’t just stand by and watch you self-destruct.”
Her gaze flicks down to the knife and the key and then back up to me. “Do you think you can save me from myself?”
I smile, a twisted, dark smile.
“No more than you can save me, Eve. Now, don’t move.”
I approach the bed, tracking her gaze as it fixes on the blade. Her pulse jumps at her throat, but she holds perfectly still. Good. She’s learning.
“You focus on the problem and not on the solution.” I wiggle the key, drawing her attention away from the knife. Her eyes narrow, following the metal’s glint. The mattress dips as I sit beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
She tenses as I lean over her but doesn’t pull away. The scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely Eve—clouds my senses. I pause, letting her uncertainty build. Control is about timing, about knowing when to push and when to wait.
“What’s your play here, Remy?” Her voice stays steady, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.
“My play?” The knife’s edge catches the light as I turn it. “I’m giving you a choice. You can keep fighting me at every turn, or we can work together.”
A harsh laugh escapes her. “Those aren’t choices. That’s an ultimatum.”
“Semantics.” I shift closer, invading her space. “The question is whether you’re ready to admit you need me.”
Her jaw tightens. Even handcuffed and vulnerable, she radiates defiance. It stirs something primal in me, the urge to break through her walls, to claim what she keeps trying to deny.
I watch her eyes track the key, calculating. Her muscles tense a fraction of a second before she moves. Amateur.
Her fingers grasp the air as I pull the key back, catching her wrist in my other hand. The momentum carries her forward until she’s pressed against my chest, breath coming fast.
“Nice try.” I tighten my grip when she tries to jerk away. “But predictable.”
Anger flashes across her face. “Let go.”
“Not until you understand something.” I lean closer, enjoying how she fights to maintain her composure. “Every time you try to outsmart me, you prove why you need my help.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” I cut her off, voice hard. “You’re good, Eve. Better than most. But you’re letting emotion cloud your judgment. That’s how people end up dead.”
She stills at that, Roberto’s death hanging unspoken between us. The fight drains from her body, replaced by something more dangerous—resignation.
“Trust me first,” I repeat, gentler this time. “And you’ll have the key.”
I watch Eve’s shoulders slump in surrender, her sigh the only acknowledgment of our deal. Victory thrums through my veins, but I keep my expression neutral as I slide the key into my pocket. Control requires restraint, especially in moments of triumph.
The knife glints as I step toward her. Her sharp inhale echoes in the quiet room, but she holds her ground. Something shifts in my chest at her effort to trust me. Lesser people would have cowered, yet here she is, chin lifted, meeting my gaze despite her fear.
“Smart choice,” I murmur, moving closer. The mattress dips under my weight as I settle beside her. Her pulse jumps at her throat, but she doesn’t flinch when I raise the knife. The blade catches the light, and I see her fingers curl into the sheets.
Trust goes both ways. I could release her now, prove my intentions. But that’s not how this works. She needs to understand the stakes and feel the weight of her decision in every breath.
My free hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her lower lip. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Progress. Small but significant. Like taming a wild creature—every moment of stillness is earned.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, studying the flecks of gold in her eyes. “That you’re trapped. That you’ve made a deal with the devil.” A smile tugs at my lips. “Maybe you have.”
She swallows hard but maintains eye contact. “And what does the devil want in return?”
“Your trust.” The knife hovers between us, a reminder of power and possibility. “Your cooperation.” My thumb traces her jawline. “Your honesty.”
Her pulse races beneath my fingers, betraying her composure. But she doesn’t break, doesn’t cry, doesn’t beg. My admiration grows. Liv Consoli might be cornered, but she’s far from broken.
Her question catches me off guard. “And does the devil give the same promise in return?”
The knife stills in my hand. Few have dared challenge me this directly, especially in such a vulnerable position. But Eve’s gaze holds steady, demanding an answer. Her boldness stirs something in me—respect, perhaps. Or something more dangerous.
“You’re asking if I’ll be honest with you?” I test the words, buying time to sort through my reaction. My thumb traces her jawline again, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch.
“I’m asking if you’ll show the same trust you demand.” Her voice remains level, but there’s an edge to it. Sharp. Challenging.
I study her face, searching for manipulation or deceit. But all I see is raw determination. Liv isn’t playing games—she’s negotiating terms. Equal terms.
“Trust is earned,” I say finally, lowering the knife. “But yes. Quid pro quo, Eve. You give me honesty; I’ll give you the same.”
She shifts slightly, the handcuff clinking against the headboard. “And cooperation?”
A smile tugs at my lips. Clever girl. Using my own words against me, demanding explicit terms. “Yes. My cooperation as well. Though my methods might not always align with your… moral compass.”
“And what about trust?” Her eyes lock with mine, unflinching. “Does the devil trust anyone?”
The question hits deeper than she knows. Trust isn’t a luxury in my world—it’s a liability. A weapon that can be turned against you. But something about Liv makes me want to take that risk.
“I trust what I can control,” I admit, letting honesty color my voice. “But for you… I’m willing to make an exception. Maybe.”
Her question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken challenge. I stroke her jaw with my thumb, the pad of my thumb brushing the pulse at her neck. I want to claim that spot as mine and mark her as belonging to me. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I let the knife speak for me. The tip of the blade traces a path down her throat, following the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.
I could slice her open with a flick of my wrist and end her life as easily as I could snap my fingers. But I don’t.
My eyes hold hers as the knife edge nicks the collar of her pajamas. Skillfully, I slice downward, the fabric parting like water. One smooth cut, no hesitation. Her chest rises and falls with her rapid breaths, nipples tightening in the cool air.
Eve’s eyes glitter with defiance, even as her body betrays her arousal. I hook the knife into the waistband of her pants, drawing the fabric taut. She shivers as the blade slices through, turning her pajamas into ribbons. I work slowly and methodically, enjoying her reactions.
Finally, she lies naked before me, the soft glow of the city’s night lights highlighting her curves.
The handcuff glints at her wrist, a stark contrast to her vulnerable position.
My gaze travels the length of her body, drinking in the sight of her flushed skin, the taut peaks of her breasts, the swell of her hips.
Desire wars with self-control. I want to take. To claim. But I remind myself that control is key. She needs to be taught a lesson. Needs to understand the consequences of defying me.
I step back, placing the knife on the bedside table. Eve’s eyes follow my movements, confusion and desire warring in their green depths. The mattress shifts as I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not close enough to offer comfort.
“Now,” I say, letting my gaze wander over her body. “We can continue our discussion.”
Her eyes narrow, but she holds her tongue. She knows when to push and when to yield. My thumb traces idle patterns on her collarbone, watching her shiver in response. Her body is a canvas, and I want to paint it with my touch.
“You wanted to know what the devil wants,” I murmur, letting my hand drift lower. “Let me show you.”
I stand, gently pushing the cut pieces of fabric away from her body. Her skin is flushed, her nipples taut, thighs rubbing against each other. But it’s her eyes that hold me captive—wary, defiant, and challenging all at once.
When I straighten up, I fish the handcuff key out of my pocket and offer it to her.
Eve’s gaze never leaves mine as she takes the key from my outstretched hand. Her movements are slow and deliberate as she unlocks the handcuff and rubs her wrist. She pushes herself up from the bed, standing to face me, her nakedness a silent accusation.
“You trashed a very good pair of pajamas for nothing, Remy.”
I shrug, my gaze traveling the length of her body. “Not for nothing. Naked, you’re less tempted to escape.”
A smirk plays at the corners of her mouth. “I thought it was the knife in your hand that served as a threat.”
“It’s all about options, Eve.” I swivel the knife into my palm before throwing it with practiced ease. It lodges itself into the wall with a satisfying thud. “Sometimes, you need to mix things up.”
She shakes her head, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. “Show-off.”
“Never,” I deny, my eyes locking with hers. “Just confident in my skills.”
“Your skills, huh?” She arches a brow, taking a deliberate step forward. “Care to show me more of those skills?”
Her proximity stirs something primal within me. I want to pull her against me, taste her lips, feel her body against mine. But I hold my ground, enjoying the dance of words and glances.
The tension hangs heavy in the air, a tangible force crackling between us.
Liv stands there, naked and defiant, her green eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.
I can feel the heat radiating off her body, but my own pulse is ice-cold.
I refuse to let this woman get under my skin, even as she challenges every shred of control I’ve built around myself.
“Your skills, huh?” she asks, stepping closer, each footfall deliberate. “Care to show me more of those skills?”
I smirk at her bravado. She thinks she can intimidate me? The nerve of this woman. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Eve,” I say, letting my voice drop to a low rumble that I know will get under her skin. “One you’re not equipped to win.”
She narrows her eyes, a flash of anger sparking within them. “And what makes you think that? Because I’m not armed with your kind of violence?” She shakes her head, dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a wild halo. “I know how to handle myself in situations like this.”
“Clearly,” I retort, unable to hide the mocking lilt in my voice. “You did such a great job last time you were on your own.” The reminder stings: it’s meant to wound, and it does—just as much as it reveals my own weakness for this woman.
For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to slap me. The fire in her gaze sharpens, her jaw tightening as if she’s summoning all her strength for one decisive blow. It would serve me right for pushing too hard; after all, I’m the one who should be careful about provoking this journalist.
But instead of striking out at me physically, Liv steps even closer until there’s hardly any space left between us. The shift in our dynamic is electric—her anger fuses with something else entirely: raw desire.
In an unexpected move that takes my breath away and leaves me momentarily stunned into silence, she leans forward and presses her lips against mine.