Chapter 19
Pain pulses through my skull, dragging me back to consciousness in cruel waves. Each breath sends sharp jolts through my chest where Remy’s bullet struck. The memory hits as hard as the shot did—his cold eyes, the warehouse, and Heath’s terrified face. But I’m not dead.
My eyelids feel weighted with lead as I force them open.
An unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus, ornate crown molding catching shadows from hidden lighting.
Silk sheets whisper against my skin as I shift, trying to orient myself.
The sterile bite of antiseptic fills my nose, mixing with the lingering scent of leather and cedar—Remy’s signature cologne.
My fingers drift to my chest, probing the tender spot where the bullet hit.
Instead of a wound, I find only bruised flesh.
A blank round? The realization crashes over me like ice water.
He planned this. Every moment in that warehouse was orchestrated—Heath’s confession, the armed men, Remy’s performance.
Heath. My stomach lurches. Was his death staged, too, or did Remy sacrifice him to sell the deception? The thought of Heath lying dead on that concrete floor, another casualty of my crusade, makes bile rise in my throat.
My head throbs as I piece it together. This luxurious room is just another cage, a holding cell until Remy delivers me to my father.
The bastard probably congratulated himself on his clever plan—incapacitate the troublesome journalist while maintaining his reputation as Ano Montoni’s reliable fixer.
Fury ignites in my chest, but something else lurks beneath it, something more dangerous than rage.
Even now, after his betrayal, after watching him pull the trigger, my traitorous body remembers his touch.
The gentleness in his hands when he thought I was sleeping.
The warmth in his eyes when his masks slipped.
I press my palms against my eyes, willing away these thoughts. Did he plan this elaborate charade to save me from my father’s other killers, or am I just another package to be delivered? The uncertainty gnaws at me, deeper than any physical pain.
Rising from the bed makes my head swim, but I force myself to stay upright.
A steel door dominates one wall, and its biometric lock is a sophisticated piece of technology I recognize from high-security facilities I’ve investigated.
The red sensor light pulses steadily, mocking any notion of escape.
Above it, a surveillance camera tracks my movements.
Through an open door, I spot an en suite bathroom that continues the theme of controlled opulence.
My chest tightens as the walls seem to press inward.
The room’s generous dimensions do nothing to dispel the growing sense of suffocation.
This isn’t just a prison—it’s a statement.
Every detail has been chosen to break my spirit while keeping my body in pampered captivity.
The perfect metaphor for Remy himself: beautiful, controlled, and utterly merciless.
The rage builds slowly, a familiar pressure behind my ribs that spreads like poison through my veins.
I pace the room, each step stoking the fire inside me as I catalog every detail of my gilded prison.
The silk sheets mock my captivity. The crystal water glasses taunt me with their delicate beauty.
Even the art on the walls—bold abstracts in shades of crimson and obsidian—feel chosen to remind me of his presence.
“Bastard,” I mutter, running my fingers along the steel door.
The metal feels cool against my skin, unyielding.
Like him. My investigative instincts kick in, assessing weak points and analyzing angles.
The biometric lock requires his fingerprint or his retinal scan.
Of course it does. He’s left nothing to chance. Not this time.
A tremor runs through my body as the pressure builds. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists. The camera in the corner tracks my movement, its red light steady. Is he watching? Does he enjoy seeing me caged? Of course he is!
“You really outdid yourself with the security, Remy.” I address the camera directly, letting the venom drip from each word. “What’s wrong? Afraid I’ll slip through your fingers again?”
The silence that answers feels deliberate and patronizing. Like he’s indulging a child’s tantrum. The thought sends a fresh wave of fury through me.
I slam my palm against the door, the impact shooting up my arm. “Answer me, you coward!”
Nothing.
The pressure explodes. I throw myself at the door, fists pounding against steel. Each impact sends shockwaves of pain through my body, but I welcome it. Pain means I’m still fighting.
“You think you can control me, Remy?” My voice cracks, raw emotion bleeding through. “You don’t own me!”
My words bounce off the walls, a chorus of defiance that changes nothing. The door remains immovable. The camera keeps watching. Blood trickles down my knuckles, staining the pristine floor.
“I trusted you!” The confession tears from my throat, ugly and honest. “I fucking trusted you!”
I slam both fists against the door one final time, the sound echoing like a gunshot—like his gunshot. My breathing comes in ragged gasps, each one tasting of betrayal and fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
“Was any of it real?” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cold metal. “Or was I just another job to fix?”
The biometric lock disengages, and its soft click sends my pulse racing.
Remy steps in, his six-foot-three frame dominating the doorway.
His dark suit fits him like armor, not a crease out of place despite the late hour.
His eyes sweep over the chaos I’ve created—my blood on his door, the shattered crystal vase, water seeping into his imported carpet.
“Are you done?” His low voice carries that infuriating blend of authority and condescension that makes me want to claw his eyes out.
“Go to hell.” I back away, my hands curling into fists. “What kind of sick game are you playing?”
“No game, Eve.” He steps closer, and I catch the familiar notes of his cologne—cedar and leather, memories I don’t want stirring beneath my skin. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t intervened.”
“Right.” Bitter laughter tears from my throat. “So I could be alive and well when you deliver me to my father?”
His jaw tightens. “If I wanted to hand you over, you’d already be in Ano’s custody.”
“Bullshit.” I move to shove past him, but he catches my wrist, his grip firm but careful of my bloodied knuckles. “Let go.”
“No.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point. “Not until you listen.”
“To what?” I wrench against his hold. “More lies? More manipulation?”
His other hand cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. “To the truth about what your father has planned.”
“I know what he’s planned.” My voice shakes with rage. “He wants me dead, and you—his faithful fixer—are helping him.”
“Wrong.” His fingers tighten fractionally. “He wants you broken. Death would be a mercy compared to what he has in mind.”
“And this isn’t breaking me?” I gesture at the room with my free hand. “Shooting me with blanks? Locking me up like a pet? Playing sick games with me?”
His eyes darken, tracking the movement of my throat as I swallow. “If you think this is breaking you, you have no idea what Ano is capable of.”
The weight of his words hits me, but I refuse to show fear. “So what? You’re protecting me now? Playing the hero?”
“I’ve never claimed to be a hero.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my treacherous body shivers. “But I’m not your enemy, Eve.”
“No?” I bare my teeth in a sharp smile. “Then what are you, Remy?”
His words hang between us, and something inside me snaps. The rage that’s been building explodes, and I lunge forward, my palm connecting with his face in a sharp crack that echoes through the room. The sting spreads across my hand, but the satisfaction of marking his perfect facade is worth it.
I swing again, but his reflexes are too quick. His fingers wrap around my wrist, stopping the second slap before it lands. His grip is measured—strong enough to restrain but careful not to leave marks.
“Let me go!” I thrash against his hold, hating how my skin burns where he touches me.
When I aim a punch at his jaw with my free hand, he captures that wrist again, and suddenly, I’m trapped against the solid wall of his chest. My breath comes in sharp gasps, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
“You shot me,” I spit the words at him, twisting in his grasp. My body betrays me, responding to his proximity even as fury courses through my veins.
He dips his head, and his breath fans hot against my ear. “I saved you.” His voice is a low growl that vibrates through every point where our bodies touch. “The next bullet wouldn’t have been a trick shot.”
His fingers tighten around my wrists—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me of the strength he holds in check. But his thumbs trace gentle circles against my pulse points, the tender gesture a maddening contrast to our violent struggle.
“Bastard,” I hiss, but my voice wavers, caught between anger and something far more dangerous. His touch sends electricity skittering under my skin, and I hate how my body arches into him even as I try to pull away.
My legs buckle as Remy releases his grip, and I stumble forward and away from him until I hit the bed. The fight drains from my body so suddenly it leaves me dizzy and hollow. Something inside me splinters, and tears I’ve been holding back for days spill down my cheeks.
“Damn you,” I choke out, hating the weakness in my voice, hating how my body trembles. The mattress dips as I collapse onto it, my hands covering my face as if I could hide this breakdown from him.