Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
M y phone vibrates against the kitchen counter. Matteo's name flashes across the screen.
"What?" I keep my voice low, glancing toward the bedroom where Evelyn's holed up with her violin.
"Ivan's men are tearing up the city looking for her." Matteo's voice carries an edge I rarely hear. "They hit three of her usual spots last night. The Carlyle's a fucking mess."
I grip the phone tighter. "Let them look."
"This isn't a game, Noah. Ivan's calling in favors. He's got eyes everywhere."
"Good. Let him squander his resources." I move to the window, scanning the street below out of habit. "I need you to come watch her."
"The fuck? I'm not your babysitter."
"There's shit I need to handle. Can't leave her alone." The thought of Evelyn making another escape attempt makes my jaw clench.
"You're losing it. First you take her, now you want me to play guard dog?"
"Just get your ass over here."
A long pause. I hear him exhale. "Fine. But you owe me."
I end the call without responding. Through the bedroom door I hear the soft whisper of violin strings being plucked – not played, just touched. Like she's reminding herself they're still there.
But watching her grip that violin case like a shield, seeing the fire in her eyes when she fights back – it wakes up parts of me that should've stayed dead.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Far below, the city moves in its usual rhythm, unaware of the war brewing in its shadows.
I cross to the bedroom door and knock. No response. Just the faint sound of her fingers on the violin strings.
"Evelyn." I rap my knuckles against the wood again. "Open the door."
Silence.
"I can take this door off its hinges in under a minute. Your choice."
"Fuck off." Her voice cracks like a whip.
"I'm leaving for a few hours. Matteo's coming to keep an eye on you."
A harsh laugh. "Trading one jailer for another?"
"He won't bother you. But I need to handle some business."
"What kind of business?" Her tone sharpens. "Killing more people?"
"Open the door."
"Why should I?"
"Because I'm asking nicely." I lean against the doorframe. "For now."
The lock clicks. The door swings open and she stands there, violin case armored to her chest. Her hair falls in damp waves around her face, my T-shirt hanging loose on her frame.
"I hate you," she says, but there's something else beneath the venom in her voice. Something that makes my blood run hot.
I lean against the doorframe, letting my eyes trail over her—the defiant tilt of her chin, the white-knuckle grip on her violin case, the way my shirt hangs off one shoulder. Something tightens in my chest but I force my face to remain blank.
"No, you don't." I keep my voice flat. "You hate that you don't hate me."
Her eyes flash. "Don't tell me what I feel."
"Why not? Your face does it for me." I push off the doorframe, stepping closer. "You're an open book, Evelyn. Every page screaming that you're fighting something you don't understand."
She slaps my hand away. "You think too highly of yourself."
A laugh escapes me—genuine, which surprises us both. "You're the first person to ever accuse me of that."
There’s a shift in her expression. For a second the mask slips and I glimpse the woman beneath—curious, complex, conflicted.
I step back, giving her space. "I need to go handle some things. You need anything while I'm out? Food? Clothes that actually fit?"
She blinks, thrown by the sudden change of topic. "I?—"
"Books? Something to keep you occupied besides plotting my murder?"
Her lips twitch, almost a smile before she catches herself. "I don't need anything from you."
"Suit yourself." I turn to leave, then pause. "But that violin case isn't much of a wardrobe. Unless you plan on wearing the same clothes until this is over."
She hugs the case tighter. "When will it be over?"
"When Ivan's no longer breathing, or I’m not." The truth slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen slightly. For once she doesn't have a sharp comeback.
"So," I continue, covering the moment of honesty, "Clothes? Food preferences? Or you want to keep playing the martyr?"
Evelyn stares at me for a long moment, her fingers drumming against the violin case. I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she weighs her options.
"Fine," she says, her voice clipped. "I'll make a list."
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
"But I'll pay you back," she adds, lifting her chin. "Every penny. Once this is over and you let me go back to my life."
I almost laugh at her determination to maintain some control. Even trapped in my apartment, wearing my clothes, she's negotiating terms like we're in a business meeting.
"Sure, princess. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
She narrows her eyes. "I mean it, Noah. I don't want to owe you anything."
"You already owe me your life," I remind her. "But if tallying up some clothing expenses makes you feel better, knock yourself out."
Her cheeks flush with anger but she swallows whatever retort was forming. Instead she looks around. "Do you have paper? A pen?"
I nod toward the kitchen. "Drawer next to the fridge."
She hesitates, clutching her violin case like it might disappear if she sets it down. After a moment's deliberation she places it carefully on the bed and follows me to the kitchen.
I pull open the drawer, watching as she takes out a notepad and pen. Her hands are steady as she begins her list, her handwriting precise and elegant. Just like her music—controlled on the surface, wild underneath.
"I need actual clothes," she says, more to herself than to me. "Not just your T-shirts."
"Specific brands? Sizes?" I ask, leaning against the counter.
She looks up, surprised by the question. "You're actually going shopping?"
"No. But Matteo might, if I pay him enough."
Her lips twitch again—that almost-smile I've caught glimpses of. "Poor Matteo. Kidnapping and personal shopping in the same day."
"He'll survive." I watch her write, noting how she chews slightly on her lower lip when concentrating. "Anything else?"
She hesitates, then adds something to the list. "Books. I need something to read or I'll lose my mind in here."
"What kind?"
"Anything. Everything." She shrugs. "I'm not picky."
When she finishes, she tears the page off and holds it out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it and she snatches away quickly, like I've burned her.
"I will pay you back," she repeats, her voice firm. "Every cent."
I fold the paper without looking at it and slip it into my pocket. "If that's what you need to believe."
I drop the pen on the list I've been making and glance toward the bathroom. My skin feels sticky and my hair's a tangled mess from sleeping roughly last night.
"I need to take a shower," I announce, not quite meeting Noah's eyes.
He looks up from his phone, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to ask permission, Evelyn. The bathroom's yours whenever you want it."
Something about the casual way he says my name makes my stomach flip. I hate that he affects me this way.
"Right. Because I'm just a guest here, not a prisoner." The words come out sharper than intended.
I grab the clothes he provided yesterday and march to the bathroom without another word. The hot water helps clear my head, but not enough. When I finish, I wrap myself in a towel and realize I forgot to ask for a hairbrush.
The bedroom door is closed when I return. Noah must be in the living room. Perfect.
I drop the towel, then pause. This is my chance to learn something—anything—about the man who's holding me captive. I move to his dresser first, sliding open the top drawer. Just neatly folded T-shirts, all black or gray.
The second drawer holds nothing interesting either. The third has a false bottom.
My heart races as I carefully lift the panel. Underneath lies a single photograph, worn at the edges as though it's been handled countless times.
A woman with dark hair and Noah's eyes stares back at me. She's beautiful, sitting with a violin across her lap. The resemblance is striking—this has to be his mother. Her smile is gentle, with nothing of Noah's hard edges.
I trace the edge of the photo with my fingertip. Why hide this? And why a violin? The coincidence makes my chest tighten.
"Find what you're looking for?"
I jump, nearly dropping the photograph. Noah stands in the doorway, his face a mask of controlled fury.
"I—" Words fail me as I clutch the photo. "Is this your mother?"
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe. It's gone so quickly I can't be sure.
"Put it back." His voice is deadly quiet.
"She played violin." I don't know why I say it, why I'm prodding when his eyes have gone so dark.
Noah crosses the room in three long strides and snatches the photo from my hands. "You don't get to ask about her."
I press, even as warning bells sound in my head. "What happened to her?"
Noah carefully returns the photo to its hiding place, his movements precise despite the tension radiating from him.
"She died." His voice is flat. "And you need to learn to respect boundaries, Evelyn."
My heart hammers in my chest as Noah turns away from me. The silence between us stretches thin and brittle.
Then it hits me—the towel. In my rush to get dressed and search his room, I'd dropped it on the floor and...
I look down in horror. I'm completely naked. Standing in the middle of Noah Rivera's bedroom without a stitch of clothing.
Heat floods my face, spreading down my neck and chest in a wave of mortification. How did I not notice?
"Oh my god," I whisper, frozen in place.
Noah's shoulders tense at the sound of my voice, but he doesn't turn. His eyes had never left mine during our entire confrontation—not once had they dipped lower.
"I'll give you a minute," he says, his voice oddly tight. He moves toward the door, still facing away from me.
"Wait," I say, not sure why I'm stopping him. My arms cross over my chest instinctively. "You... you didn't look."
Noah pauses at the doorway, one hand on the frame. "No," he says simply. "I didn't."
Something shifts in my understanding of him. This man who kidnapped me, who threatened me, who taunted me—he could have taken advantage of my vulnerability. But he didn't.
"Thank you," I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue.
He gives a short nod, still not turning. "Get dressed, Evelyn."
Then he's gone, closing the door firmly behind him.
I scramble for the clothes, my hands shaking as I pull them on. Shame and confusion war within me.
I dress quickly, my face still burning with embarrassment. The soft cotton of his borrowed T-shirt does little to calm my racing thoughts. What just happened? Noah Rivera—kidnapper, enforcer, dangerous man—caught me naked and chose not to look. The gesture of respect feels out of place, like finding a delicate flower growing through concrete.
When I finally gather enough courage to leave the bedroom I find Noah standing by the window, his back rigid. He turns at the sound of the door, his expression carefully blank.
"Matteo's here," he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Noah, about what happened—" I start, needing to acknowledge the moment somehow.
"Don't." He cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "It's done."
But something's shifted in his demeanor. The cocky, taunting man from earlier has disappeared, replaced by someone more distant. Disappointed, even. In me? In himself? I can't tell.
The buzzer sounds, and Noah moves to the intercom, pressing a button without speaking. Moments later, there's a knock at the door.
Noah lets Matteo in, their greeting a wordless nod. Matteo's eyes immediately find me, standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room.
"Princess," he says with a mock bow. "Still breathing, I see."
"No thanks to your friend," I reply, but my usual fire feels dampened.
Matteo's gaze shifts between Noah and me, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. He shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair.
"What's with you two?" he asks, not bothering with subtlety. "Feels like I walked into a funeral."
"Nothing," Noah and I say simultaneously.
Matteo snorts. "Yeah, that's convincing." He moves to the kitchen, opening Noah's fridge like he owns the place. "You know, if you're going to lie, at least try to be good at it."
Noah shoots him a warning look. "Drop it, Matteo."
"Fine, fine." Matteo grabs a beer, twisting off the cap. "But whatever's going on, fix it. We've got bigger problems than your little domestic drama."
I cross my arms over my chest. "We're not?—"
"Save it, princess." Matteo takes a long drink. "I don't care what you two are or aren't. I'm just here to make sure you stay alive and Noah doesn't do anything any more stupid than he already has."