Chapter 10
HOURS TO KILL
SARAH
Eight hours until the gala. Eight hours until I face Ray again and try to undo a lifetime of my father’s poison.
Eight hours with a husband I never planned on and a wedding ring that won’t stop catching the light.
We should go back to the room. Prepare for tonight. Review strategy, refine my approach, anticipate Ray’s objections, and craft counter-arguments.
Instead, I let Levi lead me out of the conference into Vegas daylight, and I pretend it’s about maintaining our cover.
“Where to?” He’s already walking, that loose-limbed stride that suggests he’s never met a plan he couldn’t ignore.
“We should prepare for tonight.”
He glances back, grinning. “Newlyweds don’t hide in hotel rooms. Well—” The grin sharpens. “Not during daylight hours.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I blame the sun.
“Fine. But nothing ridiculous.”
“Define ridiculous.”
“Anything involving gondolas, wax museums, or—”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun.”
“The sofa says otherwise.”
I don’t have a response to that. He knows it. His grin widens.
Vegas during the day is a different animal from the creature I glimpsed last night at the casino. The neon sleeps. The fountains dance for families in matching T-shirts. The desperate and the hopeful walk the same sidewalks, separated only by the weight in their pockets.
Levi narrates as we walk. The Elvis impersonator who’s clearly nursing a hangover. The bachelorette party already drunk at noon. The couple fighting in whispers outside a jewelry store, her mascara running, his jaw clenched.
“Twenty bucks says they’re married by sunset.”
“That’s absurd. They’re clearly breaking up.”
“Nope. That’s a ‘we almost didn’t make it, but we’re going to’ fight. See how she keeps touching her ring? And he hasn’t walked away even though she’s crying in public. They’ll be at a chapel by midnight.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I know people.” He shrugs. “It’s a gift.”
“It’s speculation.”
“Same thing.”
I want to argue. But he catches my eye, and something in his expression—confident, amused, alive—makes the argument dissolve.
A sound escapes me. Rusty. Unfamiliar.
Laughter.
It startles me so badly that I stop walking.
“There she is.” His voice is soft. Almost gentle. “Wondered when you’d show up.”
“I laugh.”
“Do you?”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it.
When was the last time I laughed? Actually laughed, not the polished chuckle I deploy in meetings or the dry acknowledgment of wit at diplomatic functions?
I can’t remember.
“Come on.” He takes my elbow, steering me forward. “We’ve got our cover to maintain.”
The sex shop appears without warning.
One moment, we’re walking past a souvenir store; the next, there’s a storefront with the word CUPID’S in pink neon and a window display featuring items I refuse to identify.
I look away immediately. Keep walking.
Levi stops.
“Newlyweds.” His grin has turned predatory. “We should at least browse.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on. It’s practically required.”
“There is no universe in which I’m walking into—”
He’s already pulling me toward the door. I dig in my heels, but he’s stronger than his wiry frame suggests, and before I can form another objection, his mouth is at my ear.
“It’s for the act.” His breath is warm. Close. “Phoenix is watching. Newlyweds shop for toys.”
Mission logic.
I hate that I can’t argue with mission logic.
The door chimes as we enter. The interior is bright—clinical, almost—with merchandise organized into neat sections. Not the seedy back-alley establishment I expected. This is upscale Vegas, where even sin comes with good lighting and helpful signage.
A bored employee behind the counter perks up as Levi strides in like he owns the place.
“Welcome to Cupid’s. Let me know if you need any help finding—”
“We’re newlyweds,” Levi announces to the entire store. “First time shopping together.”
The employee’s smile turns knowing. “Congratulations! We have some wonderful couples’ packages—”
“We’ll browse first.” He’s already moving, pulling me toward the lingerie section. “Come on, babe.”
Babe.
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him, hide his body, and tell Ghost he died heroically.
“What do you think of this?” He holds up something sheer, red, and barely there.
“It’s—fine.”
“Fine?” He looks wounded. “We’re newlyweds. I need better than fine.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You’re not even looking.”
I force myself to look. The lingerie is beautiful, objectively. Silk and lace and tiny straps designed to slide off shoulders.
“It’s not really my—”
“Style? Color? Or you’ve never worn anything like this?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
His eyes sharpen. He puts the lingerie back without comment.
We move deeper into the store. Past the massage oils. Past the “games for couples.” Into territory that makes my throat tighten.
“What about these?” He’s holding two blindfolds. One black silk, one deep purple satin. “This one? Or this one?”
I stare at them like they’re enemy combatants.
The idea of not being able to see. Of surrendering that most basic awareness. Of trusting someone else to …
“I don’t—I wouldn’t …”
He watches me. Something calculating in his gaze, but not cruel. Curious.
“Interesting.” He puts them back.
We keep moving. Past the section labeled RESTRAINTS in tasteful gold lettering.
He picks up a pair of cuffs. Pink velvet, lined with something soft. A delicate gold chain between them.
One eyebrow rises.
“Absolutely not.” My voice comes out too fast. Too sharp.
“They’re velvet. Very gentle.”
“I said no.”
“Okay.”
But he doesn’t put them down. And I can’t look away from them. The pink seems absurd—juvenile, almost—but there’s something about the velvet, the promise of softness even in restraint—
I force my eyes away. Find them landing on something worse.
A hood. Black. Designed to cover everything—eyes, ears, and mouth. Total sensory deprivation.
I step back without meaning to. Something visceral clawing up my throat.
Levi follows my gaze. His expression shifts. He puts the cuffs down immediately and steps between me and the display, blocking my view.
“Not that.” His voice is different. Quieter. “That’s not play. That’s something else.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why my hands are shaking.
He just steers me toward a different section, and I’m grateful enough to let him.
“Now this …” He picks up something that looks like a cross between a feather duster and a riding crop. Soft leather strips mixed with what appears to be ostrich feathers. “This is barely serious. It’s basically a prop.”
“Then why does it exist?”
“Because some people like to play, Sarah.”
The way he says my name. Like he’s teaching me something. Like he knows I’ve never had a teacher.
“Play?” I repeat the word like it’s foreign. “I don’t—”
“I know.” He sets it down. “That’s becoming increasingly clear.”
Before I can respond, he’s moved to another display. Picks something up. Studies it with theatrical thoughtfulness.
A vibrator. Curved. Purple. The display card boasts about “ten settings” and “whisper-quiet motor.”
“This one has good reviews.”
“I don’t need—I don’t—that’s not …”
My face is burning. Actually burning. I’m going to combust right here between the bondage section and the “solo pleasure” display, and they’ll have to explain to Ghost that Director Vance died of embarrassment in a Vegas sex shop.
“Relax.” His grin is insufferable. “This one’s for me to play with.”
“… What?”
He winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
At the register, he piles his selections onto the counter. The vibrator. A silk eye mask—not a full blindfold. Something easier. Less absolute. The pink velvet cuffs. A ridiculous feather boa in hot pink. The soft flogger with its feathers and gentle leather.
The cashier rings them up without batting an eye. “Someone’s having a fun honeymoon.”
“The funnest.” Levi is chatting like they’re old friends, exchanging Vegas recommendations, discussing the relative merits of various “couples’ resorts.”
I stand rigid. Staring at a point on the wall. Calculating the probability that I will spontaneously develop the ability to teleport.
The probability is zero. The universe is cruel.
“All set.” The cashier hands over a discreet black bag. “Have fun, you two.”
Levi thanks her. Takes the bag. Leans in close enough that I feel his breath on my ear again.
“Breathe. It’s just props.”
But his eyes say something else entirely.
Outside, Vegas daylight feels like a different planet. I’m still flushed. Still trying to reconcile the last twenty minutes with any version of reality I recognize.
“That was completely unnecessary.”
“That was completely necessary. We’re supposed to be newlyweds.”
“Newlyweds don’t …” I gesture vaguely at the bag. “Purchase entire arsenals.”
“The good ones do.”
I don’t have a response. He knows it.
We walk. I try to regain equilibrium. Fail.
“You’ve never, have you?”
The question lands like a punch.
“Never, what?”
“Any of it. The blindfolds. The restraints. Any of it.”
The silence stretches. Condemning.
“My life doesn’t allow for that kind of vulnerability.”
“Vulnerability?” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s close to solving. “Or trust?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer.
We pass a jewelry store. An antique shop. A window full of chess sets—marble and crystal and hand-carved wood.
I stop without meaning to.
One piece catches my eye. A queen. Silver, delicate, designed as a pendant on a thin chain. Not costume jewelry—actual craftsmanship. The kind of thing I’d never buy myself because it serves no practical purpose.
I move on. Window shopping is inefficient.
He doesn’t follow.
When I turn back, he’s already inside the shop. Through the glass, he points to the display. The clerk opens the case. He pulls out his wallet like it’s nothing.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say when he emerges, the small velvet box in his hand.
“I know.”
“Then why?”