39. Kiera
KIERA
Emil's body tenses beneath me. The relaxed, satisfied expression on his face vanishes, replaced by the cold, calculating look I've come to recognize as his business mode.
"Stay here," he says, lifting me off him and setting me on the hot tub seat.
Water streams down his muscular body as he climbs out, his wet boxer briefs clinging to every inch of him. Even now, even with whatever crisis is happening, I can't help but notice the way the fabric outlines his cock, still semi-hard from our encounter.
He grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it around his waist, then walks to the door. I watch the muscles in his back flex as he moves, the tattoos rippling with each step. The snake and panther seem to move in the dim lighting, predatory and dangerous.
"What is it?" Emil asks, opening the door just wide enough for Luca to enter.
Luca steps inside, his eyes carefully averted from me sitting in the hot tub in my wet bra and panties. He's professional like that, always respectful, even in awkward situations.
I climb out of the hot tub, water sluicing off my skin. My bra is soaked through, the white fabric now completely transparent and showing my nipples. My panties cling to my hips and ass, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I grab a towel and start drying off, trying to give them privacy while they talk. The spa room is large enough that I can move to the far side near the regular pool while they stand by the door.
Their voices are low, but I can hear the tension in Luca's tone. Something's wrong. Something serious enough to interrupt Emil's private time.
I dry my arms and legs, running the towel over my body while keeping one ear on their conversation. Words drift over to me. "Guest." "Demanding." "Won't cooperate."
I don't pay much attention. Emil's always dealing with some crisis or another. It's part of his world, the constant stream of problems that need his attention. I've learned to tune it out, to focus on my own thoughts while he handles whatever needs handling.
I wring out my hair with the towel, squeezing the water from the red strands. My skin is flushed from the hot water and sex, a rosy glow that makes me look healthier than I've felt in days.
Emil walks over to where his clothes are folded on a bench. He drops the towel, and I get a full view of his ass. Tight, muscular, perfect. Even after everything we've just done, the sight makes heat pool low in my belly.
He pulls on dry boxer briefs, then his jeans. The denim hugs his thighs and ass in a way that should be illegal. He reaches for his shirt, a dark blue button-down that he shrugs on without fastening.
I'm pulling on my own clothes, my jeans sticking slightly to my damp skin, when I hear my name spoken, instantly drawing my attention.
"The guest is demanding to speak with Kiera."
My hands freeze on the button of my jeans. I look up sharply, my eyes finding Emil's across the room.
"Absolutely not," Emil says, his voice hard.
"He won't talk to anyone else," Luca continues. "Says he'll only speak to her."
A cold feeling spreads through my chest. A guest demanding to speak with me. There's only one person it could be.
"Take me to him," I say, my voice cutting through their conversation.
Both men turn to look at me. Emil's expression darkens immediately.
"No."
"Emil." I walk toward them, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. "I know who it is. Take me to him."
"Kiera, you don't need to—"
"Now." I cross my arms over my chest, meeting his gaze with all the determination I can muster.
Emil studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face. I can see the war happening behind his expression, the desire to protect me battling with wanting to please me.
"Fine," he finally says.
We walk through the estate in tense silence. Emil's hand rests on the small of my back, a possessive touch that would normally make me bristle. Right now, I barely notice it.
My heart pounds as we move through the familiar hallways. The marble floors gleam under the soft lighting, a perfect framework for the expensive art on the walls.
But as we walk, the surroundings begin to change. The marble gives way to plain tile. The artwork disappears. The lighting becomes harsher, more utilitarian.
We descend a set of stairs and the hallway grows darker, more industrial. The temperature drops as we go deeper. It's cooler down here, almost cold. I rub my arms, wishing I'd grabbed a jacket. My damp hair makes me shiver.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Emil asks quietly.
I nod, not trusting my voice. We stop in front of a heavy metal door. Luca opens it, and the three of us step inside.
The interrogation room is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here. Sparse, cold, and intimidating. A single chair sits in the center under harsh fluorescent lighting that buzzes faintly overhead.
The smell hits me first. Sweat and blood and fear. It's a smell I recognize from the last time I was in this room, watching Emil beat a man who'd failed to pay his debts.
And tied to that chair is Arnie.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Emil wasn't supposed to touch him. To hurt him. He'd promised me! I didn't know what his men did with Arnie that night at the club when they'd taken him out, just before the bullets flew. I'd pretty much forgotten about it. But now?
His face is a mess. One eye is swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black. Blood has dried under his nose and on his split lip. His shirt is torn, revealing bruises on his ribs and chest. Some of the bruises are fresh, dark purple and angry. Others are older, yellowing at the edges.
When he sees me, his eyes go wide. Wild.
Panicked. He starts squirming in the chair, the ropes binding his wrists and ankles creaking with the movement.
Muffled sounds come from behind the gag in his mouth.
He's trying to say something, trying to scream, but the fabric muffles everything into desperate, animal noises.
"What happened to him?" I demand, whirling on Emil. "What did you do?"
Emil's expression doesn't change. He looks at Arnie with the same cold detachment he might give a piece of furniture. There's no anger in his face. No satisfaction. Just… nothing.
"We looked at your hospital records," he says calmly. "From when you were with him. Cracked rib. Multiple bruises. Contusions consistent with being grabbed and shaken."
My stomach drops.
"We talked to your neighbors," Emil continues. "The ones who heard you crying through the walls. The ones who heard him yelling at you, calling you names."
"Emil—"
"We talked to your coworkers. The ones who noticed when you came to work with makeup covering bruises. The ones you lied to about falling down stairs."
I can't breathe. The room feels too small and suddenly too hot despite the cold air.
"So we gave him what he gave you." Emil's voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "Cracked rib. Bruises. And then some."
Horror crashes over me in waves. I look at Arnie, at his battered face and terrified eyes, and I feel sick.
He did this for me. Because of me. The realization settles in my stomach like a stone. This is exactly what I told Emil I didn't want!
"Let him go," I say, my voice shaking. "Right now. Untie him and let him go."
"No."
"Emil, I'm serious. Let him go."
"Not happening." Emil moves to stand beside me, his presence solid and immovable. "For all we know, he could be behind the shootings."
"That's ridiculous." I gesture at Arnie. "He was there both times someone shot at us. He couldn't have anything to do with it."
"He could have hired someone," Emil counters. "Paid a professional to take you out. He was conveniently present at both scenes, which means he knew where you'd be."
"Or it's a coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidences." Emil's jaw tightens. "We're not letting him go until we know for sure he's not involved."
I stare at him, at this man I've been sleeping with, this man I agreed to marry. The man who just made me come twice in his private pool. And I see a stranger.
"He doesn't deserve to walk this Earth anyway," Emil says quietly. "Not after what he did to you. But out of respect for you, we've kept him alive."
Kept him alive. Out of respect for me. As if that's some kind of gift. As if I should be grateful that Emil hasn't murdered my ex-boyfriend.
As if keeping someone alive is a favor he's doing for me.
I look at Arnie again. He's still squirming, still making those muffled sounds behind the gag. His one good eye is fixed on me, pleading. Begging.
He hurt me. He did terrible things to me. But this? This is something else entirely. This is kidnapping and torture. Bile rushes up to my throat and it's all I can do not to vomit right there.
"Did you think this would make me happy?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Did you think I'd be grateful?"
He doesn't answer and doesn't see anything wrong with this. He doesn't understand why I'm upset. To him, this is justice and protection. This is what you do for someone you care about.
The nausea rises in my throat, sharp and acidic.
"I can't do this," I whisper.
"Kiera—"
"No." I back away from both of them, from Emil and Luca and the broken man tied to the chair. "I can't. This is too much. This is…"
I can't even find the words. How do I explain that seeing Arnie like this makes me feel complicit? That knowing Emil did this because of what happened to me makes me feel responsible?
And if I stay here, if I marry Emil, that voice will get louder. It will grow until I can't hear anything else. Until I become someone who thinks torture is acceptable. Someone who thinks violence is justice.
"The wedding is off," I say, my voice stronger now. "I'm not marrying you."