A Lovely Kind of Madness (Pretty Savage #2)

Chapter 1

SOPHIA

Paris smells like rain on old stone and warm butter from the bakery two streets over.

I hate every breath of it.

It’s been twenty-four days since the mountain house cracked open and spilled blood across the floor like cheap paint.

Five hundred and seventy-six hours since Reth stood in the wreckage, karambit dripping, eyes already sliding into that flat, lethal calm, and told me to go like the word cost him pieces he’d never get back.

Thousands of minutes since my life changed irrevocably.

While Ian steered me onto a private jet—untraceable, paid for in shadows and offshore accounts I don’t want to know about—I begged him to at least try to contact Reth. To make sure he’s okay. But Ian made it clear that he couldn’t, under any circumstances, fuck with the plan.

The plan is simple, brutal, and non-negotiable.

Get me out of the country. Keep me protected twenty-four-seven. And absolute radio silence. No calls. No messages. No contact whatsoever. We’re supposed to live like Reth doesn’t exist.

That last part is the one slowly carving me open, because my memories don’t give a damn about the plan.

My heart doesn’t care about logistics or safety protocols.

Every time I close my eyes, he’s there—blood on his scar, voice low against my skin, whispering my name like it’s the only thing still anchoring him to this world.

The plan also means Ian is completely iced out. No emails. No updates. No whispers from Andrei or anyone else on Reth’s team. His only job—his entire world right now—is me.

I hate it.

Not because I mind being babysat by a sarcastic, lethal shadow with great hair.

I hate it because I can see what it’s costing him.

Ian has been Reth’s brother in every way that matters for years.

And now he’s cut off from the only family he’s known, reduced to playing glorified bodyguard in a city that isn’t home, all while the man he would bleed for is somewhere out there, alone.

We are both grieving the same ghost.

I’m barefoot in the kitchen staring at a stainless-steel espresso machine that looks like it could launch rockets.

The apartment is warm, spacious, expensive in that quiet, intentional way, thick walls, tall windows, silence that money buys.

Ian didn’t go into specifics, just said that Reth made sure I wouldn’t want for anything material.

The cruelty of it sits heavy in my chest. I’d trade every perfect inch for one night on a bare mattress with his weight pinning me down and his hands on my skin.

I wrap my arms around my middle and listen to the rain tap against the glass. Somewhere out there is the Eiffel Tower I’ve dreamed about since I was little. The one Reth painted on a wall next to Takada Castle, a broken version of it tattooed on his chest.

We’ve been here for weeks, and I can’t get myself to leave the apartment because what’s the point of Paris if the only man I want to see it with isn’t here.

If anyone had told me four months ago that I’d be in Paris refusing to go outside because I’m pining over my stalker, I’d have laughed in their faces. Maybe slap them.

The bedroom door opens behind me. Ian’s footsteps are soft but never sneaky anymore. He’s learned the exact rhythm that doesn’t make me flinch.

“Coffee?” His voice carries that dry, lazy edge he uses like armor. “Or are we pretending we’re still on mountain time and surviving on spite and tap water?”

I don’t turn around, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “Spite’s free. Coffee costs whatever black-market price Reth’s paying for this place.”

He snorts, moving past me to the machine. “Private jet, fake names, untraceable accounts—man’s thorough even when he’s bleeding out. Least he could do is stock decent beans.”

The espresso machine hisses to life. I watch his back—broad, relaxed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still messy from sleep.

I’ll never admit it out loud, but I like that he’s here.

That I’m not alone with the quiet that wants to eat me alive.

He just exists in the same space with that easy, sarcastic rhythm of his, like a steady pulse keeping the worst of the silence from swallowing me whole.

He slides a cup toward me. Black. No sugar. No cinnamon.

I take it, fingers brushing his for half a second. “Thanks. For… all of it. The plane. This place. Not leaving me alone with my own head.”

Ian shrugs one shoulder, leaning back against the opposite counter with his own mug.

“Don’t thank me. Thank the control-freak who wired half his offshore accounts into motion before the first window even broke.

I’m just the witty sidekick with a lower body count.

” He takes a sip, eyes narrowing at me over the rim.

“Speaking of which—Crazy. You look like shit. And not the cute, brooding kind of shit. The ‘I haven’t seen daylight in weeks and my hair is staging a coup’ kind. ”

I snort softly into my coffee. “Charming.”

“I try.” He sets his mug down, crosses his arms, and gives me the full once-over—the one that says he’s done being patient. “Right. New plan. You’re getting dressed. We’re going out.”

My stomach drops. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Ian—”

“Crazy.” He pushes off the counter, stepping closer but still keeping that careful foot of space.

His voice stays light, but there’s steel underneath.

“You’ve been in this apartment for weeks.

Paris is literally right outside doing its whole romantic, overpriced, croissant-filled thing, and you’re treating it like a war zone.

Reth didn’t have me drag you out of that bloodbath so you could rot in here feeling sorry for yourself.

He did it so you could keep breathing. So get dressed. ”

I shake my head, backing up a step. “I don’t want to see Paris without him.”

“How old were you when you started dreaming about seeing Paris?”

I scowl at him. “That’s not—”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say fifteen years, give or take?”

“Something like that.”

Ian takes another step closer, tilting his head like he’s genuinely puzzled.

“Fifteen years you’ve been fantasizing about this city, and now that you’re one shower and an elevator ride away from actually tasting it, you’re gonna say no…

because you don’t want to see it without the guy who stalked and kidnapped you? ”

I open my mouth. Close it. The words sound ridiculous when he says them out loud like that—flat, logical, and completely unfair.

“He didn’t just kidnap me,” I mutter, setting the coffee down harder than necessary. “He… changed everything.”

“Yeah, well, so did the Black Death, but people still went outside.” Ian folds his arms, that wicked little grin creeping back. “Come on, Crazy. Get dressed.”

I shake my head. “I’ve always wanted to come here, yes. But not like this. I want to see Paris with him. And I don’t care how crazy that sounds, or how insane it makes me, it is what it is.”

Ian’s expression softens for half a second, then his smirk slides back into place. “Touching. Truly. But here’s the thing. If Reth finds out I let you turn into a hermit, he’ll take that pretty little Indonesian tiger-claw knife of his and get real creative with my insides.”

“I’m not—”

He doesn’t wait. In one smooth motion, Ian bends, hooks an arm behind my knees, and tosses me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—half shock, half genuine.

“Ian! Put me down!”

“Nope.” He starts walking toward the bedroom, one hand casually patting my ass like I’m a sack of flour. “You had your chance for dignity. Now we’re doing this the fun way.”

I squirm, but there’s no real heat in it. His grip is steady, careful, nothing like the violence I’ve seen him unleash.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Accurate.” He shoulders open the bathroom door and sets me down on the cool tile and opens the shower faucet.

“Please do not make me force you to take a shower. That would require stripping you, and Reth will make me swallow my balls for that. I’m rather attached to them.

They’re pretty. Do me a solid and handle it yourself. ”

I stare at him, cheeks warm, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. The absurdity of it—of this sarcastic, lethal man playing reluctant babysitter—cuts through the fog for the first time in days.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Effective, though.” He taps the side of my nose with one finger. “Ten minutes. I’ll pick something warm. We’re walking to that little café on the corner. You can scowl at pastries while imagining all the creative ways Reth would insult them. Deal?”

I exhale, the fight draining out of me. He’s not pushing because he doesn’t care. He’s pushing because he does—in his own loud, annoying, life-saving way. “Fine. But if I cry in public, it’s your fault.”

“Cry away, Crazy. I’ll just tell everyone you’re allergic to French air.” He steps back toward the door, that easy grin flashing again. “Besides, if you melt down, I get to carry you home over my shoulder again. Win-win.”

He closes the door behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the steam already rising in the shower.

I strip slowly and step under the hot spray.

The water beats against my skin, but it does nothing to dull the ache buried deep in my chest. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—out there somewhere, bleeding or making others bleed, slowly being stripped of the man who whispered my name like it was the only prayer he still believed in.

Ian still won’t tell me who she is. I’ve asked.

Multiple times. He always finds a way to dodge, crack a joke, or change the subject.

And I don’t push too hard because I know where his loyalty lies.

Reth doesn’t want me to know. That much is clear.

But the not-knowing is its own kind of violence.

It keeps me awake at night imagining what she’s doing to him. What she’s turning him back into.

I tilt my face into the water and let it run over my cheeks, mixing with the tears I refuse to acknowledge.

When I finally step out, I wrap myself in one of the oversized towels and pad into the bedroom, then pause when I see the fresh bouquet of soft-pink peonies on the side table. Ian must have just brought them in.

When we first got here, there were white ones delivered on the same day, along with a new diary. One with ‘Cherry-red’ on the cover.

Six days later, purple peonies arrived. Six days after, coral. And now these… six days after the last.

It’s a pattern now.

Reth knows peonies are my favorite, that I once wrote in my diary about how their soft, messy petals remind me of things that look delicate but refuse to fall apart.

My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.

These flowers are the cruelest kindness.

Proof that he’s alive, that he’s thinking of me, and yet every bloom feels like another reminder that he’s not here to hand them to me himself.

That he’s somewhere else, paying for my safety with pieces of himself I may never get back.

I reach out and brush a fingertip across one velvet petal, and it trembles under my touch. God, I miss him so much it feels like madness.

I dress quickly in the clothes Ian laid out for me—soft black leggings, a cream cashmere sweater that’s far too nice for someone who’s spent three weeks in tears, and thick socks.

My hair is still damp when I pull it into a loose knot.

I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m anything other than what I am right now.

After pulling on my knee-high boots, I step into the foyer.

It’s smaller than the rest of the apartment, intimate and warm, with dark oak floors.

A large mirror in a simple brass frame reflects the soft light from the crystal chandelier overhead.

It feels like the kind of space people pause in before stepping out into the world—except I’ve been avoiding that world for twenty-four days.

Ian leans against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a black coat over a dark sweater. He looks effortlessly put-together, as always. When he sees me, his mouth curves into that familiar half-smirk.

“Well, look at you. Almost human.” His eyes flick over me approvingly. “Cashmere suits you, Crazy. Makes you look less like a feral raccoon who lost a fight with her own head.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite in it. “You picked it out.”

“Obviously. I have taste. You have… emotional attachment to sweatpants.” He pushes off the wall and holds out my coat. “Ready?”

I hesitate at the door, fingers tightening around the collar of the coat. The city is right there, one elevator ride away.

Paris.

The place I used to dream about in quiet moments between case files and cheap takeout. Now it feels like a betrayal to even want to see it.

Ian watches me, his usual sarcasm softening just a fraction.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “One café. One croissant. One walk in the rain. If it sucks, we come straight back and I’ll let you wallow in silence for the rest of the day. Deal?”

I swallow hard, then nod once. “Deal.”

He opens the door and gestures for me to go first, that wicked little grin returning as I step past him. “Try not to cry on the pastries. The French take that shit personally.”

“God,” I roll my eyes, “I’m already regretting this.”

Ian chuckles softly behind me as I walk toward the elevator. He closes the heavy door, locking the apartment—and the soft-pink peonies—behind us.

Six days. Another bouquet will arrive in six days.

I can already picture it, fresh stems, perfect petals, chosen with the same ruthless precision Reth uses for everything. A silent message from wherever he is right now, bleeding or breaking or becoming something worse.

The question isn’t whether he’s still alive. The question is how much of the man who painted my words on ceilings and made me come while reciting my diary will still be left when he finally finds his way back to me.

I pull my coat tighter against the cold Parisian wind and follow Ian into the rain-soaked street, heart beating too hard for someone who’s only going for coffee. Because the flowers keep coming, and I’m terrified that one day soon… they might stop.