Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Gigi
I wake to a pounding on my hotel-room door. Memories of last night rush in quickly. I roll over, groaning into the pillow. The knocking persists, a fist bashing with intent.
“All right, all right.”
I climb out of bed, treading to the door in my bare feet, and pull it open. Poppy’s standing there, arms crossed, one shameful brow raised at me.
Fuck. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
We’re supposed to be leaving in thirty minutes.
Poppy’s expression tilts into slight concern, and I’d bet my life she’s thinking about last night. She glances towards the hallway, dropping her voice low. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Nothing happened,” I say, as if that makes it any better.
We don’t talk about what any of this will mean when we get home – if we get home.
Poppy nods suspiciously, as if she doesn’t believe me, leaving me to shower and change. Between landing in Paris and yesterday, I’ve hardly given much thought as to why we’re here. There’s so much riding on today, and here I am, missing alarms and getting distracted by pretty men with tattoos.
There’s no fancy dress code, just a dark T-shirt and cargo trousers, not too dissimilar to what we’d wear on a heist at the Circle. I run my fingers through my tangled hair and hesitate in the hallway outside Harry’s room. His door is ajar, and I take a deep breath before stepping inside.
No distractions, I tell myself. Get in, get out.
Harry is across the room, bent over the duffel bag on the bed, his back to me.
He peels off his jacket, revealing a black cotton T-shirt stretching over his frame.
I catch the glint of steel as he opens the bag, pulling out a series of leather holsters and matte-black weapons. Knives, mostly. A pack of handguns.
He glances over his shoulder. “Come here,” he says.
Gone is the flirty behaviour of last night, the reality of what we’re about to face adding a chill to the room that wasn’t there yesterday. I approach slowly, stopping just behind him.
He turns to me and just … looks. Down my arms, over my collarbones, across the slight rise and fall of my chest. “Protection,” he says simply.
I reach for the smallest of the blades, tracing its edge with my fingertip.
He snatches it back before I can nick myself. “Arms up.”
I raise them, and his hands are on me, wrapping a leather sheath round my bicep.
“How many are we expected to face?” I ask.
He tightens the strap just enough to make me gasp. “None, if we’re lucky.”
He tugs, checking it’s secure, then slides a blade into place with a soft click. His fingers brush my wrist as he lifts my arm, turning it palm-up, examining the space just above my elbow.
“Blade here,” he says quietly. “Close to the artery. Easy reach.”
I nod. His hands slide down my waist next, wrapping the leather band snugly round my hips. He doesn’t look up from where he anchors the belt.
“You want me to fetch your Glock?”
“I never knew what happened to it,” I say. “Richard confiscated it a long time ago.”
Our eyes meet, and I suddenly realise how close he is. Close enough that I’m able to see the flecks of colour in his green eyes. I force a swallow, returning to the memory of the weapon with the engraved initials I once despised.
“I miss it,” I say.
He doesn’t ask me to clarify which part. There’s a breath of silence as he clears his throat. Then he kneels. He fucking kneels. His broad shoulders fill my vision, his eyes fixed on the inside of my thigh.
“I need access here,” he says.
“I bet you do.”
Something hungry flashes across his face, but his expression falls fast. His hands are on my leg, sliding the garter strap up, just high enough that I can feel the weight.
His palm curls round the inside of my thigh, spreading it slightly from the other.
My breath hitches. He fastens the clip, sliding a second blade in, this one longer.
He looks up. It’s obscene how it feels – him on his knees, the knife hot against my skin, his hands still lingering like he’s forgotten what he was doing.
“What about your weapons?”
He shrugs, the cocky fucking idiot.
I stumble over my words. “And if you get shot?”
“I won’t.” He raises a bulletproof vest off the floor. “As long as you’re protected, nothing else matters.”
I lower to the carpet, kneeling across from him, my face level with his chest. I reach up and slide my hand round his wrist, holding it there.
“Don’t do that,” I whisper. “Don’t plan on dying for me.”
“Then don’t give me a reason to.”
He gestures to the vest held between his fingertips. I release his hand as he pulls it over my head. Harry pulls out my hair from underneath it, tightening the straps at the sides.
“I was always going to wear one,” he says. “Just wanted to make sure I still mattered in your world.”
The relief falls from my chest like a dead weight. “I hate you.”
His voice turns soft. “No, you don’t.”
The coordinates dump us at an abandoned home on the city’s edge. The building looms at the end of a gravel road, ivy clinging to what’s left of its walls. Shattered windows, half-boarded with rotted wood, graffiti sprawled across its exterior.
We pause outside, the rain hammering down.
I blink through the downpour, watching Poppy pull out her phone, double-checking the coordinates against the faded sign above the door. Her heavy exhale tells us we’re at the right place.
There’s so much riding on this, but I feel my hope dwindling fast already.
The memories flood back with each second we wait, and suddenly, I’m back there, at the Circle headquarters, Jamie’s hands round my throat, squeezing until I see black spots.
Pain in my jaw as I clench it too tightly.
In my ribs, as I forget how to breathe. And Andy.
What happens to him if we don’t find what we’re looking for?
He’s still secluded in Harry’s flat, also desperate for their demise.
If he steps back into the Circle headquarters after seeking refuge, or if Richard finds him, his punishment will be fatal.
“This has to be it,” Poppy mutters, her voice laced with desperate optimism.
Harry’s shoulder brushes the side of my head, and for once, I’m thankful for the comfort he brings. I ache to take a step closer, but he pulls the gun from his jacket.
“Then let’s go,” he says.
I nod, pushing forwards, clinging to the fragile hope this lead will set us free. Kill Richard, break free from Jamie, and set Harry free from the confines of my decisions.
The door is an old, battered thing, but it still takes the force of Harry’s shoulder to open it. The hinges screech in protest, drawing out a groan. The air slams into us, thick with the stench of mould. The back of my hand flies to my mouth to withhold a gag.
Dim light filters through the windows, casting shadows across the floor. I retrieve my phone from my pocket, turning on the flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness, lighting the floor littered with debris and shattered glass.
“There’s no one here,” I say into the silence.
No obvious miracle to take down Richard. Nothing other than years of dirt and rot. Poppy whispers curses, scanning the map on her phone again. Harry takes lead, gun raised.
“Fan out. We might still find something useful,” he says. “Shout if you find anything or run into any trouble.” He looks at me specifically.
I slip a dagger from one of the sheaths. The search turns into a frantic, desperate attempt. There are three floors, all separated by a wooden staircase barely holding it together. Harry is on the top floor, Poppy and I taking the bottom two.
I push at a stack of crates in the corner, sending up a cloud of dust that makes us cough.
Poppy rifles through a desk shoved against the far wall, pulling out yellowed documents that crumple at her touch – nothing but junk mail dated decades ago.
She throws it aside, tearing through equipment.
I hear Harry upstairs, flipping crates and hunting through drawers.
I rush between rooms, footsteps echoing as I alternate between different floors. Adrenaline masks the fear bottling through me.
I take a moment to catch my breath, finding Harry on the top floor. He kicks at a pile of debris, cursing under his breath.
“Anything?” I pant.
He turns to me over his shoulder, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
It’s abandoned, useless, a dead end.
The coordinates are a lie, a trap, or just some cruel misdirection from whoever sent them. Richard’s probably laughing from across the ocean, toasting to his victory.
“Gigi!” Poppy calls.
My pulse spikes. I’m suddenly gripping the banister, rushing down the stairs. She has to have found something. She has to. Each step creaks, threatening to break apart, as my boots slam against them.
I rush into the hallway, catching myself against the doorframe and sucking in a sharp breath. She spins around from where she’s leaning over a dining table, the linen tablecloth stained dark and worn at the edges.
I rush out, “What is it?”
Her face falls, and I draw my brows together.
“What did you—?” I cut off the question and force myself to say, “You didn’t find anything.”
Her silence is answer enough. There’s nothing, which means …
I freeze, panic surging through me. Poppy’s face contorts with the same horror. Her usual fire dims as realisation dawns.
“Gigi …”
I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes. “Don’t do this to me,” I whisper.
My skin feels tight and wrong, like it remembers every hand that touched it without kindness. I’ll go back to them, suffering more bruises at the hands of another man. My heart quickens so fast I can’t catch my breath. Poppy keeps glancing at me like I’m going to pass out.
The pain hits me like a train, ripping through my body without warning. My breaths turn shallow, each one a desperate gasp that doesn’t fill my lungs. I feel every bit of hope slip through my fingers. My hands tremble, the dagger slipping from my fingertips, clattering to the floor.
Flashes assault me – Jamie’s face twisted in anger, his fist connecting with my jaw; his foot slamming into my temple; the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth.
I can’t breathe, drowning in the terror that’s been bottled up for so long.
Harry appears on the staircase, glancing at me, his eyes searching, and for a split second, I want to tell him everything. The truth about how I still ache for him; how every night I dream of his touch instead of Jamie’s violence.
Tears burn my eyes as I lean against a crumbling wall. Harry’s there in an instant, dropping to a crouch beside me as I struggle to right my balance. Hands grip my face, gentle enough not to hurt but hard enough to make me look at him.
“Hey.”
I shake my head.
“Hey.” He presses firmer. “Look at me.”
His fingers spread across my neck, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. I feel his confusion in the way his brow furrows, his eyes searching mine as if he’s piecing together a puzzle with missing edges. Why am I falling apart when we’ve faced danger before?
He doesn’t get it – not with the lies I’ve fed him.
He doesn’t think twice, scooping me into his arms as if I weigh nothing and bringing me into his chest.
“We’re leaving,” he says. “Now.”
An order.
I don’t fight him. I can’t. Because the realisation has finally settled in.
I’m marrying the wrong man, even though I’d go to war for the right one.