Remy

20. Olivia

OLIVIA

I fight to keep calm.To stay in control. But being edged by anxiety all week makes it almost impossible.

“Please don’t touch me.” I twist my wrist to break his hold, only to have him grip tighter. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, but?—”

“Cut the crap.” He closes in, and I’m forced to backtrack toward the fence to maintain the distance between us. “We both know you didn’t follow me down here for my boss.”

I twist my wrist harder. Tug my arm toward my chest. “I assure you I did.”

“Because you’re pregnant?” He scoffs and continues to prowl toward me. “Even if you are carrying his kid, he’s not going to want to see you. The only good news is that I know you put out.”

“He’ll want to see me.”

“Then you can go back to trying to find him after I’m done.”

Panic siphons the alcohol from my system. I’m entirely sober, coherent, and terrified in the space of a few hammered heartbeats.

He releases my wrist, grabs my hips, and shoves me against the fence.

I gasp on impact, the hard, cold wire biting into my back. “Stop.” I push at his chest. “Let me go.”

“Not until I’m finished, sweet cheeks.” He leans in for a kiss.

I make a direct hit, slapping him across the face.

He flinches, leaning away slightly.

I take the opportunity to run, but I’m pulled back by my hair, searing pain lashing over my skull.

He shoves me against the chain-link again, pinning me with a forearm to the throat.

I scramble to gouge for his eyes. Attempt to knee him in the balls.

But he’s too strong. Too big. The pressure on my throat becomes too much.

“Stop,” I rasp, clawing at his forearm. “I can’t breathe.”

“Do you know how many women come sniffing around for the boss?” He sneers in my face. “All these pretty bitches after one guy, and do you want to know why?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I only want to speak to him.”

“Money,” he sneers in my face. “That’s all women ever fucking want.”

I claw harder. “Don’t be stupid enough to think I won’t go to the cops.”

“Don’t you be stupid enough to think the boss doesn’t already have them in his pocket.”

Shit. “You’ve done this before.” I attempt to knee him again, but there’s no space. No room to move. He’s everywhere. All solid legs and meaty arms that make him impossible to move.

He snickers. “Just relax and let it happen.”

I launch my mouth at his bicep, sinking my teeth into skin.

He roars, his arm loosening.

I shove him. Gain a breath of space to run.

Then his knuckles pound into my temple and my consciousness blackens for a second.

I sway, the pain howling through my brain, my vision coming back online in mottled colors.

My ears ring, the piercing tone drowning out my voice as I attempt to match the shrieking in my skull. I scream and scream and scream until a hand slaps over my mouth and I’m heaved against the fence.

He says something. Gets in my face with a threatening warning. But all I hear are bells.

I squeeze my eyes shut and slap. Claw. Pound.

It does nothing as a rough hand yanks at my waistband, viciously undoing my belt.

The noise grows. His words. The bells. My screams. Then rumbling, some kind of thunder, as if Mother Nature knows the severity of my situation.

They all mix into a tornado of havoc while he fumbles with his pants and I fight, fight, fight.

Then all of a sudden, he’s gone.

There’s no pressure against my chest. The cold air of the parking lot seeps into me as sharp, obscure shouts lash my ears.

I open my eyes to find the bouncer a few feet away, Remy in front of him, his mouth viciously moving as he holds my attacker by the throat of his collar.

“Remy.” His name is whispered from my agonized throat, my voice not making sense.

I swallow and press at my ears, trying to re-right the sound.

“Wha-wha, wha wha,” Remy shouts in the guy’s face. “Wha wha wahwahwah.” He releases him with a shove and storms in my direction, violent eyes turning soft as he stops before me.

“Wha da de do do dou.” He closes in exactly like the bouncer did, but there’s no fear with his proximity—only the euphoric rush of relief. He takes off his suit jacket and drapes the silken warmth of the interior over my shoulders. Then his calloused palms cup my cheeks as he repeats the garbled words.

“I can’t—” My throat burns as I speak. “I can’t hear you.”

I swallow again. Press my fingers to my ears.

When I pull them away the ringing lessens, a gentle hum taking its place.

“Ollie?” Remy’s voice comes through in surround sound. “Are you okay? Did he?—”

“No. He—” I shake my head, the movement threatening to unleash a migraine. I wince and gently prod at my temple. “He tried.”

“But he hurt you.” He gently tilts my head to the side, careful fingers providing the sweetest, most startling care. “He hit you?” One hand leaves my cheek to guide my arm away. “In the fucking head?”

I wince at the venom that chokes his tone, the pinched expression pulling at my battered flesh as I nod.

He releases me and swings around, stalking toward the bouncer who stumbles in retreat. Remy grabs him with a hasty yank by the shirtfront. Before I can gasp, his knuckles are pounding into my attacker’s face. Once. Twice. Then Remy shoves him to the cement and reaches behind his back, retrieving a gun from his waistband to shove against the guy’s forehead.

“Remy, no.” I rush for him on fumbling feet. “What are you doing?”

“Terminating his employment.”

“No.” I tug his arm. “Don’t.”

“Listen to her.” The bouncer cowers. “She followed me down here. She led me on.”

He winds me with the lie, forcing all the air from my lungs.

How could he? How could this man attempt to rape me, then blame it on anything other than his own actions?

A car door opens nearby, and the sickening thought of another witness to my vulnerability has me snapping my gaze in the vehicle’s direction. To Remy’s Bentley parked in one of the empty spaces I passed at the height of my naivety, the hum I hear now recognized as the car’s engine.

A woman climbs from the passenger seat.

A tall, blonde, beautiful woman with eyes as blue as the ocean.

“Remy…” She strides forward, her forehead wrinkled with concern, her long coat gaping to expose a tight black dress over an enviable body.

“Not now,” he snarls at her. “Go upstairs.”

“But—”

“I said, not now.” He snaps his attention to the woman. “Or so help me God, I’ll?—”

“Okay. I’m going,” she soothes patiently. “Just keep your cool. This isn’t about you.” She meets my gaze with a wealth of sympathy. With kindness.

Inferiority washes over me.

Humiliation.

She gives me a sad smile, and in the frenzied aftermath of my attack, I find myself growing envious of her—her beauty, her composure, the connection she has with a man that confuses the life out of me.

She turns and walks toward the elevator. I’m about to yell out and tell her she’ll need security access, my mind fixating on all the wrong things, when she diverts her path to a door marked stairwell and disappears inside.

The clang of the door closing echoes through the parking lot. The sound fades to leave nothing but the hum of the Bentley engine and the continued pounding of my pulse.

Remy stands there, looking down at the bouncer, his barrel still pressed to the guy’s head. “Do you want the honors, Pyro?”

My breath clogs in my throat. “What I want is for you to put the gun down.”

“Listen to her,” my attacker begs. “Please, man. She?—”

“He was about to rape you,” Remy sneers. “Do you really want me to let him go so he can succeed with someone else?”

I don’t know.

I can’t think.

“I don’t—” I push from the chain-link to stand on shaky feet. “I can’t. I?—”

I fumble with trembling hands to fix my pants, shame heating my cheeks at the sight of my lowered zipper and purple lace panties.

We don’t cry.

We have to be strong.

Always.

I sniff back the threat of tears and clasp my belt.

“I can end him right now,” Remy growls. “Just say the word.”

“No,” the bouncer pleads, blood oozing from a cut on his bottom lip. “It was a messed up mistake. I swear I’ll never do it again. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Remy’s gun remains aimed to kill, but those eyes keep focus with mine. “Talk to me, Pyro. Tell me what you want done with him.”

The bouncer scuffles backward on his hands and feet. “Please, boss. I swear, I barely touched her.”

I don’t notice my complete and utter exhaustion until I realize I’m too tired to even scoff. There’s been one thing after another for an entire week. Death. Destruction. Lies. Complications. They have to stop.

“All I wanted was to talk to you.” Fragility bleeds into my words. “That’s all I came here for. And then I wind up down here, thinking he was taking me to see you and…”

Remy’s jaw ticks. “Get in the car, Ollie.”

“I can’t. I came here with friends.”

“So text them. Say you’re not feeling well and had to bail. I’m taking you home.”

Could I? Should I?

The thought of returning to the noisy club makes my head throb harder. And the prospect of facing Ivy and Allison after what I endured seems worse.

I’ll break down. I’ll finally let loose of family tradition and wither into a heap of pathetic sobs.

“Go on.” He jerks his head toward the Bentley. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“What will you do to him?”

He shrugs. “We’re just going to chat.”

With the barrel of his gun still firmly squared on the man’s head, I’m not convinced.

“Remy,” I whisper. “I don’t—” God, I don’t even know the guy’s name. Don’t know the first thing about him yet I followed him from a crowded place into a deserted parking lot, all because I wanted to negotiate with a murderer.

Ten out of ten for idiocy, Liv.

“Get in the car, Pyro.” He breaks eye contact to stare at my attacker. “I’ve got this under control.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

The bouncer whimpers.

“You’ve already made it clear that’s not something you want to witness,” Remy mutters.

I nod, numbly. Thankful, yet oddly hollow.

My attacker deserves something. Punishment. Revenge. Maybe a few broken fingers. But the thought of asking for that sits in a pool of rapidly building bile in the pit of my stomach.

I walk away, passing the cars I dawdled by on the way out of the elevator, back to the vacant spots where the Bentley idles at an odd angle between two parking spaces, as if Remy braked in a hurry.

His driver’s door remains open—the one where the woman escaped from, too.

I take her place and pull the door shut behind me, my lungs filling with exquisite floral notes of jasmine.

I shove my trembling hands under my thighs to stop the chill from taking over, but also to stop myself from fidgeting as Remy pulls the bouncer to his feet and relays something I can only hear in partial snarls and biting tones.

I’ve made a huge mess into something bigger. Something more traumatic.

A lifetime’s worth of therapy won’t help to dig my way out of this.

I scoff.

Therapy isn’t even an option with the list of illegal activities I’d need to lay bare.

Remy says something else to my attacker, then smirks, the expression sickeningly threatening. He returns his gun to the back of his waistband and stalks toward me, his temperamental composure seeming woven together with menacing danger and threatening volatility.

I hold my breath as he climbs into the car, the small space shrinking with his large frame, his presence taking up my entire world.

He turns on the ignition, shoves the car into reverse, then hits the gas hard enough to have me jolting forward as the vehicle lurches backward.

I cling to the sides of my seat as tires screech and the parking lot speed limit is ignored.

He’s angry. His hostility clogs the air. Coats my skin.

I shudder with a violent shiver and finally the car slows, pulling onto the road outside in a somewhat normal pace.

“You’re in shock.” Remy reaches for the console and turns up the heat. “Let me know if it gets too hot in here.”

I nod, and nod, and nod, the jerky movement on autopilot as the city street stretches in front of me. People continue to line up alongside the club, energetic, cheerful, and oblivious to my attack.

I’ve never felt more alone.

Remy takes a turn down a bustling road. Then another. Finally, he pulls to a stop behind traffic banked at a red light.

“You heard what Lorenzo said.” His eyes turn to mine. “Why would you risk going to my club?”

“I needed to speak to you.”

“Then speak,” he demands. “What was so important that you’d follow a stranger into an isolated parking lot?”

“In all fairness, I didn’t know he was taking me to the parking lot. He told me he was taking me to see you.”

“And with everything you’ve learned about me, you still took in that information, digested it, and thought, yeah, this shady-as-fuck piece of shit sounds legit?”

Warmth blasts my cheeks, and it’s not just from the heating system.

Sympathy no longer lingers in his expression. What stares back at me is something else. Something that feels a lot like wrath.

“I guess I was desperate.”

His gaze snaps to the idle cars in front of us. “Why?”

The reasons seem pathetic now.

Because I’m tired.

Because I can’t sleep.

“I need some amendments to the agreement,” I whisper. “My father might be capable of letting you run unchecked through our business, but I don’t know how. I need to be informed of what you’re doing and when you’re doing it so I can make sure there are no loose ends.”

“There are no loose ends.”

“But there was. Twice. Hugo had to take the fall both times.”

His jaw ticks. Then the traffic light turns green and he takes off again, this time not as erratically.

“Look, I understand you don’t want a witness to your handiwork, but I haven’t slept for a week and?—”

“I’m well aware of your nocturnal habits,” he growls.

I raise my chin, defensive and unsure how I feel about the confirmation that someone has been spying on me. “Why are you angry at me?”

He slams on the brakes, the Bentley screeching to a stop in the middle of a suburban street. “Because you could’ve fucking died.” He glares wild eyes at me. “Do you not understand that? Do you think he was going to let you walk away after he was done violently fucking you?”

I shrink at the image.

“If I would’ve shown up two minutes later or not checked my phone, how I found you would’ve been entirely different. You get that, right? You get that he was about to pull his dick from his pants and?—”

“I get it.” I raise my voice yet shrink farther into myself.

I’ve never felt more shame.

More remorse.

Twice, Remy has saved me. Twice, I’ve owed him my life.

Finally, he sighs. “You heard my uncle, Ollie. We’re not supposed to have anything to do with each other.” He returns to driving, his temper mellowing if his smooth corners and slowed acceleration are anything to go by. “You need to figure out a way through this.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” I beg. “It’s been a week, and I’m exhausted. The only thing I’ve achieved is heightened paranoia and potential psychosis.”

“Don’t forget the hours of intensive online research. You realize half of what you read online isn’t real, right?”

“That’s funny.” I turn toward him, the passing streetlights casting his face in bursts of shadowed light. “Because most of what I found has been about a fashion heir whose favorite pastime is attending expensive publicity events. Yet here I sit before a mafia criminal who lives to increase his serial killer stats.”

His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t look at me.

He turns suburban corner after suburban corner before pulling into my drive and cutting the engine. The internal vehicle lights gradually illuminate the Bentley’s interior as he stares at my tiny house, the dark of night seeming a mile away from our world inside his car.

“Remy, I’m destructively inquisitive. A perfectionist. I can be neurotic and overbearing and sickeningly hyper-focused. It’s one of the reasons why I took the mortuary path instead of the funeral director role. I can’t be the way I am with grieving people. I can’t micromanage the way they mourn. But I can recreate someone’s skull so it looks exactly the same way it did before they fell twenty feet down a mountain. Or reconstruct someone’s facial features after massive trauma even though other morticians say it’s impossible.”

He keeps staring at the house. Keeps his mouth shut.

“I’ve been asked to speak at conferences because I’m a leader in my field on how to maintain the integrity of my decedents without always relying on embalming,” I add.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

“I’m an asset, Remy. I can help cover your tracks.”

He doesn’t quit the silence.

I sigh. “Please say something.”

He swallows, his throat working over his Adam’s apple in a way that shouldn’t make me transfixed. “Wes said you’ve looked like hell all week. I assumed it was a trauma response from the weekend’s events. I thought it would wear off.”

“My problem is the future, not the past. Everything I hold dear is in the hands of people who consider my life expendable. Can’t you understand how hard that is to ignore?”

The muscles in his jaw flicker as if he’s actually taking in what I’ve said. Like he may even care.

Hope heats beneath my sternum, bringing energy to my limbs.

“What are you asking for exactly?” Dark eyes turn to mine.

“I don’t know what I can ask for. But I guess what I want is a little control—no. Ignore that. It’s not what I mean. I think the word that fits best is transparency. I want to know when you’re using the retort. To be aware so I can double-check you didn’t miss something.”

His chin hitches.

The silence stretches, becoming uncomfortable as he stares at me. Then finally, he mutters, “I’ll text you.”

I blink in confusion.

“When I use the retort.” He heaves a weary breath. “I’ll send a random message. One that won’t incriminate or allude to our agreement. Will that help you sleep?”

Yes. No… maybe.

A text would only give me the barest of details.

I’d be left to obsess over what type of killing it was. If I’d need to keep an eye out for blood. Bile. Body parts.

But it’s enough for now.

I nod. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Just be aware that if you?—”

“I know.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “You have the cops on your payroll and my death already planned.”

“It’s not planned, Ollie. The last thing I want to do is kill you.”

But I willremains unspoken.

I keep nodding despite the thundering headache. “I understand.” I grab the door handle before he has time to change his mind, only to have curiosity grab me by the throat. “One last thing…”

“Hmm?” He grunts.

“How did you know I was in trouble?”

He cringes, shame or maybe regret seeming to pinch his features. “I didn’t. I was only told you were at my club.”

“Who told you?”

“Someone working the door messaged to say you were asking about me.”

“The kid.” It’s not a question. I’m certain now.

“Yeah. The little shit lives with me.” A hint of pride gleams in his eyes before he turns to stare back out the windshield, making it obvious the little shit reference was made with affection. “He sent a photo. Then proceeded to tell me how you were out of my league and that he planned to set you up with the wealthiest bachelor in the club.”

I sit straighter, my heart fluttering for unknown reasons. “But that’s not why you showed up…” I hedge so damn hard and for such stupid reasons that I hate myself.

“You bet it is.” He scowls. “The wealthiest bachelor tonight was Salvatore. I didn’t want you two anywhere near each other.”

Oh, shit.

“Yeah.” He nods as if reading my mind. “It was another stupid call, Ollie. You need to stop making those.”

The weight of regret crushes me.

I hate this—being wrong, feeling inadequate—even though that inadequacy revolves around my knowledge of criminal activity. I just hate everything about this entire situation… except maybe the man who has thrust me into it.

I don’t know what it is about Remy. Why I hold his good deeds at the forefront of my mind and push the horror to the back. How his kind gestures hold so much more weight than his terror.

I struggle to see him as a killer even though I’ve come face-to-face with his handiwork. I can’t align the criminal with the man who has run rings around my head from the first night we met.

It’s all just senseless stupidity.

“I appreciate you agreeing to text me.” I tug at the door handle. “And thank you for saving me again.” I make to push from the Bentley.

He grabs my wrist, the jolt of contact threatening to shake his jacket from my shoulders. “We’re not done.”

I fall back into place to stare down at where he holds me, the rings on his fingers glinting against the car’s soft interior light.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

My insides wage another war, fighting against the memories of what just happened and the idiotic lack of revulsion I feel toward his concern.

“Yes.” My pulse thuds a heavier beat.

His patiently scrutinizing gaze folds me like a pretzel. So intense. So genuine.

I don’t want to feel anything other than loathing for him. But I do.

I shouldn’t welcome the contact. Shouldn’t crave his care.

“I don’t want you here alone.” He keeps hold of me, the contact more than just a touch. “You should stay with a friend tonight.”

I’m not going to tell him the only friends I have are currently back at his club, probably worrying about my whereabouts if the short, sharp vibrations from my cell are any indication.

Instead, I nod. “Maybe I will.”

His fingers loosen, lingering on my arm like low-voltage live wires. “Want me to call them for you? Given the circumstances I should call your dad but?—”

“No.” I climb out of the car, the thought of my father hearing about this making my crummy dinner of stale crackers and sliced cheese threaten to evacuate my stomach. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

The slight hike of his brow is a glowing red flag that he doesn’t believe the lie.

“You should return to the beautiful woman you were with.” I strive for a distraction. “I’m sorry I ruined your date.”

He stares at me, his expression unflinching. “You didn’t.”

Great.It’s good to know my attack isn’t going to sideline his sex life. It should be no surprise that he’s confident the flawless woman is patiently waiting for him back in his den of criminality.

“Well, goodnight.” I finger-wave like a loser. “Thanks for the memories.”

His nostrils flare. “We’re still not done.” He reaches for his right hand and wiggles the ring from his index finger. “Do you have a chain?”

I frown. “A chain?”

He sighs. “Yeah. A necklace. Something discreet you can wear under your clothes.”

“I’d have something inside. Why?”

He holds out the extravagant ring, the silver—or maybe white gold—centered with a band of glinting black. “I want you to wear this at all times.”

I keep frowning, the confusion not dissipating as I take the thick weight from his palm. “I’m still caught up on why.”

“As a form of protection. If someone attempts to hurt you again, show them this.” He points to the words engraved around the inside of the band.

Property of Remy Costa.

“Are you implying I’m your property?” Incredulity attempts to enter the whirlpool of my emotions.

He rolls his eyes. “No, it states the ring is my property.”

Why would he engrave his ring like that? Does he label all his property? Are his clothes tagged?

I itch to shuck his jacket to see if this is an entire wardrobe situation.

“Wearing it will give you protection. So as soon as you get inside, I want you to put it on a chain and wear it at all times.”

“Protection from who?” I ask. “Your men?”

“That guy was a club employee, Ollie. Not one of my men. But yes, it will protect you from anyone in my employ, amongst others. Just wear it, okay? And if you get into trouble, use it.”

“Is this like a one ring situation? Should I be worried about hobbits?”

His brow knits, this time in scathing confusion.

“Forget it.” I shimmy his jacket from my shoulders.

“Keep it on,” he warns.

“It’s just a few steps to?—”

“I said, keep it on. I don’t want you freezing your ass off on top of everything else. I’ll get it from you another day.” He starts the ignition, finalizing the argument.

“Wait. I don’t have your number.”

“You’ll get it soon enough.” He grabs the steering wheel.

He doesn’t say goodbye, but it’s clear he’s itching to leave. Probably in a hurry to get back to his non-virgin companion.

“Thanks again.” I grab the door handle and push.

“You need to quit saying that,” he mutters as the door clasps shut.

He reverses from my drive, then idles in the street, his body bathed in darkness as he stares at me through the passenger window, waiting for me to go inside like he’s a concerned friend… Like some sort of hybrid murderous gentleman.

I give myself a mental shake and drag my ass up my front steps, his ring warm in my palm, my cell continuing its short, sharp vibrations in my pocket.

It’s hard to leave him. To shut myself inside. All alone.

Reality hits as soon as I step foot into the entry. Flashbacks of the attack creep into my consciousness. The dull, lingering throb of injuries make themselves known.

I force myself to keep moving into the kitchen. To grab pain relief from my medicine cabinet. To wash the tablets down with water from the fridge to keep the nausea at bay.

I check my cell, opening up the group chat with Ivy and Allison.

Ivy

Where is everyone?

Hello?

I’m thirsty. Who wants another drink?

Okay. Starting to freak. Are you guys still here?

Allison

I’m two feet behind you.

Ivy

lmao… Liv?

They upload a selfie of both of them. Ivy’s cleavage is smooshed together as she sticks her tongue out the side of her bright red lips, while Allison acts starstruck with a wide, gaping mouth and big bright eyes.

Guilt consumes me, devouring me from the inside out. I took them to a club with a bad reputation. I took them there knowing I was putting them in danger.

Allison

Paging Liv…

Ivy

Seriously, where are you? I’m getting worried.

The last message came two minutes ago. They’re going to kill me.

I blink furiously through my blurring vision and start typing.

Me

Sorry. Had an embarrassing stomach bug issue in the bathroom. Had to leave in a hurry. Will chat tomorrow.

I don’t wait for a reply.

I mute the conversation, already preempting their warranted responses of skepticism, and push to my feet.

The nausea grows with each blink. Each step. Each heartbeat.

We don’t cry.

We have to be strong.

I focus on the good things. My only things—my job, my home, my dad. But the taint of the week’s events only increases the churn in my gut.

Bile creeps up my throat.

The nausea wins.

I shove Remy’s ring into my pocket and rush to the bathroom, drop to my hands and knees, then purge.

It’s painful. My limited energy makes it a chore to even cling to the bowl. But at least I don’t cry. I let the anguish leave my system in violent bouts of acidic regurgitation. The heaves come one after another until I’m left spent on the cold tile floor, missing my mother, anguished over my father, and unwillingly craving a dark-eyed, sinister man to take care of me.

You’re losing your fucking mind.

I use the last of my strength to climb to my feet and brush my teeth, Remy’s jacket still resting over my shoulders, his scent invading my lungs.

I’m not thinking about you anymore.

I repeat the promise like a chant inside my head.

I won’t think of how protective you were.

Won’t glorify how passionately you threatened to kill someone who hurt me.

I stumble to my bedroom, boots still on, and face-plant into the comforter, whimpering at the alternatives. If I don’t distract myself with delusional thoughts of Remy, then I’ll only relive the attack, stew on my stupid decisions, or catastrophize my father’s cancer.

Glorifying the devil is the lesser of all those evils.

So that’s what I do. I lie there, his ring in my pocket, his jacket warming my shoulders, and his image in my mind as I succumb to exhaustion. I fall into a cavernous sleep, falling, falling, falling, the descent heavy, consuming, and littered with all things Remy… only to be woken with a start what feels like seconds later from the sharp vibration of my cell in my hand.

I groan and drag my phone toward my face.

2:32 a.m. Unknown number

You looked fucking beautiful tonight.

I snap upright, my brain protesting the harsh movement, my swollen temple throbbing.

It’s Remy.

It has to be.

Vultures spawn in my belly, a million wings rapidly flapping to create a storm of conflicting emotion.

I shouldn’t be thrilled by the compliment. I don’t want to like him. Don’t want to be attracted to?—

Shit.

Icy dread punches me in the gut.

The message isn’t a compliment.

It’s the fucking fulfillment of our renegotiated terms—he just killed someone and plans to use the retort.