Chapter 15
I extract myself from the silk sheets, careful not to disturb Remy’s steady breathing beside me. My skin tingles where his fingers traced paths hours before, where his teeth marked territory across my neck and breasts.
The cool air bites against the warmth of his presence, still pressed into me, stamped onto my skin like a brand. I swallow hard, trying to shake the bruising realization that he lingers, even when he’s not holding me down.
Everything feels sharper in this hour, where Chicago pulses but doesn’t sleep. Rain from sometime in the night streaks down the glass, distorting the lights below into jagged rivers of color. I shouldn’t hear my heartbeat over the murmur of the city, but I do—a drumbeat of weakness.
I glance over my shoulder at Remy. He lies sprawled on his side, his breathing slow and steady.
The tension he wears like armor in waking moments slips as he drifts here in the dark.
Even asleep, his presence knots something deep in my chest. I don’t want to look at him—not like this, vulnerable, almost human.
But I can’t unsee him. My eyes linger, taking him in—the bare cut of his shoulder, the faint crease of his brow even now, his mouth slightly parted.
It’s infuriating. How easily the man can switch between predator and lover without losing momentum.
I cover my face with my hands and exhale into my palms. That look in his eye earlier, the claim that burned through every kiss, every breathless demand he drew from me until I wasn’t sure what I had left to fight him with.
Idiot. I’ve questioned everything else—his motives, his plans, his endgame—everything but me.
One night, one moment of tangled limbs and ragged breaths, and suddenly, my body forgets the lesson I’ve relearned a thousand times: men like Remy Harding don’t offer protection unless it’s laced with control and consequences.
And what did I do? I reached for him like he wouldn’t pull me down with him.
The thought makes me sick. But it’s not just him. It’s Roberto, lying lifeless in that restaurant. His face flashes again in my mind—defiant, unshaken. The words he didn’t have time to say, the promise I didn’t deserve.
I shake off the stabbing ache in my chest. Focus. I can’t afford the luxury of looking anywhere but forward.
I pull Remy’s shirt from the floor and put it on as I drift toward the window.
Cool glass meets my fingertips as I press lightly against it, watching the city sprawl in organized chaos below.
Somewhere out there, Ano Montoni’s labyrinth breathes fire.
He’s hunting me—sending his professional shadows while I stand here indulging stolen moments of warmth. I tighten my jaw.
The evidence. Every piece of blood-stained cargo, every ledger and signature—the weight of it burns heavier than the bruises Remy pressed into my skin. It’s all I have now, all we have if I count Roberto’s sacrifice in the pile he left behind.
I padded across the room before closing the bathroom door with a quiet click, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The marble floor chills my bare feet as I step toward the mirror, my reflection stark.
“Jesus.” The whisper escapes before I can catch it.
My fingers trace the constellation of marks spanning my collarbone down to where his shirt hangs loose on my frame.
Purple-red blooms dot my neck, my shoulders bearing the imprint of his grip.
When I push the fabric aside, I find more evidence of his possession painted across my skin—beard burns along my breasts, the shadow of his teeth at my hip.
The woman in the mirror looks claimed, marked, and owned. My stomach twists. This isn’t me—this reckless surrender, this weakness. But the heat pulses beneath each bruise, a reminder that my body betrayed my better judgment.
Roberto’s face flashes in my mind, and bile rises in my throat. He died protecting me, believing in our mission, while I’m here letting Remy—
I grip the counter, forcing air into my lungs. Roberto’s final moments replay behind my eyes—his desperate shove, the lock clicking shut, darkness swallowing his footsteps as he led the killers away. I never saw his body, but I know. The truth sits like lead in my gut.
Water splashes cold against my face, but it doesn’t wash away the grief or the guilt. Or the knowledge that my father’s reach extends further than I imagined. How many more will die before this ends?
A gentle knock breaks through my spiral. “Finding the bathroom escape route challenging?” Remy’s voice carries that infuriating blend of amusement and authority. “The shower drain’s too small for your purposes, sweetheart.”
My jaw clenches at his accurate read of my thoughts. Even through a door, he sees right through me.
“I’ve discovered worse exits,” I shoot back, hating how my skin warms at the low chuckle that follows.
“I’m sure you have.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “But you won’t need them here.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise and threat. I study my reflection again, taking in the flush creeping up my neck and the wildness in my eyes. Every mark on my skin screams of how dangerous this man is—not because he’ll hurt me, but because he makes me want to stay.
I watch Remy move past me, his bare chest brushing against my arm.
The contact sends electricity through my tired muscles, but I stay frozen, arms crossed.
He leans over the massive tub, testing the water temperature with practiced precision.
Steam curls up around his shoulders as he adds oils to the running water, the scent of lavender filling the space between us.
“You look dead on your feet.” His voice holds none of its usual sharp edges.
“I nearly was.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He turns, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Come here.”
I shake my head, pressing my back against the cool marble counter. “Don’t. I know what you’re doing.”
“Do you?” He straightens, moving closer until I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“This.” I gesture at the filling tub, the oils, the gentle facade. “The careful choreography. Making me feel safe and cared for. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Another way to maintain control?”
Something flickers across his face—a crack in his usual mask of calculated charm. “Is that what you think?”
“I think I’m tired of games, Remy.” My voice cracks. “Tired of trying to figure out which version of you is real.”
He reaches out, his fingers ghosting along my jaw. I expect him to argue, to deflect with that infuriating smirk. Instead, his expression shifts, softening into something I’ve never seen before.
“Then stop looking for the trick.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Sometimes a bath is just a bath, Eve.”
I search his face, waiting for the mask to slip back into place. But what I find in his eyes makes my chest tight—a rawness, a sincerity that feels foreign on his features.
“I can’t tell anymore,” I whisper. “What’s real, what’s manipulation. It all bleeds together with you. It’s your job, after all.”
My fingers dig into the marble counter as I struggle to hold myself together. The steam from the bath fogs the mirror, blurring my reflection—fitting since I barely recognize myself anymore.
“I can’t—” The words catch in my throat. “Everything’s tangled. Roberto’s dead, my own father wants me buried, and you”—I gesture between us, frustration building—“I don’t know what this is. What game we’re playing.”
Remy steps closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. “Eve.”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t use that voice. The one that makes everything sound simple when it’s not.”
“Then tell me what you need.” His directness catches me off guard.
A laugh escapes me, brittle and sharp. “What I need? I need to stop feeling like I’m drowning. Like every choice I make puts someone else in danger. I need—” My voice breaks. “I need one moment where I’m not calculating angles or watching shadows.”
To my surprise, Remy nods. “You’re right.”
I blink. “What?”
“There’s too much to unpack.” He runs a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of uncertainty. “But not now.”
“Not now,” I repeat, testing the words.
“I propose a truce.” He holds my gaze. “Until we leave this bathroom, no games. No manipulation. No trying to outmaneuver each other.”
I search his face for any sign of deception but find only exhaustion that mirrors my own. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He gestures to the steaming bath. “One hour where we stop being who we are out there.”
The offer dangles between us like a lifeline. Every instinct screams that this is another trap, another layer of his manipulation. But God, I’m tired. Tired of fighting, of second-guessing, of carrying the weight of everything alone.
“Okay,” I whisper, the word feeling like surrender and relief at once. “Truce.”
Something in his shoulders relaxes, and he reaches for my hand. I let him take it, watching as his thumb traces circles on my palm. The simple touch anchors me and draws me back from the edge I’ve been teetering on.
“One hour,” he confirms softly. “Just us.”
I watch Remy stand, his muscles shifting beneath tanned skin as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants.
Before I can ogle him, he turns his back on me.
The fabric pools at his feet, and he steps into the tub with practiced grace.
At least I can admire his perfect ass. Once immersed and settled, he sighs.
My breath catches as his eyes find mine, holding out his hand in silent invitation.
“Come here,” he says, his voice impossibly soft.