Chapter 12 Annie #2
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.
The cottage is small—I can see that much from the bedroom doorway.
There's a living area with a stone fireplace, a tiny kitchen, and what looks like a bathroom down the hall.
Everything is neat and clean but impersonal—clearly, no one has actually occupied this place for a long time.
"Elio?" I try again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
My heart is racing now, that familiar fight-or-flight response kicking in. I should check the other rooms, should look for signs of a struggle, should do something other than stand here frozen with fear. But my legs feel like jelly, and I can't seem to make them move.
And then I see it—a piece of paper on the nightstand that I missed in my initial panic. My name is written on it, and Elio’s initial is at the end.
With shaking hands, I pick up the note and read it.
Annie,
I had to go back to the city to handle some business and throw Ronan off our trail. You're safe here—there are two guards outside, and they have strict instructions not to let anyone near the house except me.
I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't leave the cabin for any reason.
E
Relief floods through me so suddenly that my knees buckle, and I sink back down onto the bed. He didn't abandon me. He's coming back. I'm safe.
But even as I tell myself this, the fear doesn't completely fade. I’ve never minded being alone before—I actually prefer the fact that I have my own place now—but after last night, the solitude feels suffocating.
I look around the room again, looking for details I missed before, but there isn’t much more to take in.
There’s a small closet, a mirror above the dresser.
No television in this room, although I think I saw one in the living room.
There are several pillows on the bed—whoever decorated wanted it to be comfortable, at least.
My reflection in the dresser mirror makes me wince. My copper hair is a tangled mess, my makeup is smeared beyond recognition, and there are dark circles under my blue eyes that match the bruises on my wrists and the reddish-purple marks on my throat.
I should shower. I should clean myself up and try to wash away the memory of his hands on my skin. But the thought of being naked and vulnerable, even alone, makes my stomach churn.
Instead, I crawl back into bed, wrapping my arms around myself and breathing in the scent of Elio’s clothing, already fading, much to my dismay.
The cottage is quiet except for the sound of the wind in the trees outside and the occasional creak of settling wood.
It should be peaceful, but every small noise makes me jump.
I close my eyes and try to recapture the dreams from last night—the ones where Elio touched me with reverence instead of Desmond’s violence, where his hands brought pleasure instead of pain.
But in the harsh light of day, those fantasies feel foolish.
Elio is helping me because he's a good man, because we have history, because I begged him to protect me. Not because he wants me the way I want him. And in the light of day, desire feels much further away for me, too. I’m no longer sure if I want Elio to rewrite the feeling of hands on my skin.
I’m no longer sure if I ever want to be touched ever again.
I think of his hands on me last night, cleaning me up, and a pleasant shiver runs through me.
I curl into a ball, wanting to feel as close to him as I can.
Being alone here is bringing back too many memories.
Too many reminders of all the things that used to exist between us that don’t any longer. That can’t.
Even as a teenager, I knew Elio was different from the other boys who hung around our house. While my brothers' friends were loud and boisterous, Elio was quiet and observant, watching everything with those sharp green eyes. He hung back, not wanting to ever overstep.
Except when it came to me. A few times. When neither of us could take it any longer.
I used to make excuses to walk past whatever room he was in, hoping he'd notice me, hoping he'd see me as more than just Ronan's little sister.
Sometimes I'd catch him looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read, but whenever our eyes met, he'd look away quickly, like he'd been caught doing something wrong.
Then, later, when we were older—sixteen, almost seventeen, he stopped looking away so quickly.
At seventeen, we started flirting with danger.
And at eighteen…
The sound of a car engine in the distance makes me bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. But the engine fades without stopping, and I realize it was probably just someone driving past on whatever road leads to this place.
I need to calm down. I need to stop jumping at every shadow, every sound. But it feels too fresh, too immediate. There hasn’t been a chance for anything that Desmond did to me to fade, and I feel as if I’m going to come out of my skin at any moment.
The irony isn't lost on me that I'm hiding from one kind of violence in a house owned by someone who involves himself in another kind entirely.
But there's a difference between the calculated brutality of the mafia and the personal violation of what Desmond tried to do to me.
One is business, cold and impersonal—usually.
The other is intimate and cruel in a way that cuts deeper than any knife ever could.
I trusted Desmond. I thought he’d never hurt me, not after what happened to his sister. Even if he was a little too jealous, too possessive, I made excuses for him. Chalked it up to the way that our world encourages that in men.
And he betrayed that trust. That urge to think he was better than he turned out to be.
I roll over, my mind spinning frantically to stop from going back over what happened last night again and again.
I wonder what Elio is telling Ronan right now.
Is he lying outright, or just omitting key details?
Either way, he's risking everything for me—his position, his relationship with my brother, possibly his life. The thought makes my chest tight with guilt. If something happens to him because of this, it’s my fault.
Was what happened last night my fault? Should I have known better? Said no sooner? Not gone home with him?
Part of me wants to call Mara to tell her everything and ask her what to do, but I have no way of doing that right now.
My phone is somewhere in the wreckage of last night—probably still in Desmond's apartment where I left my clutch. If he’s smart, he’s gotten rid of it by now, so it can’t be traced to his penthouse.
I’m cut off from the world in a way that's both terrifying and oddly liberating.
No one can reach me here. No one can demand explanations or ask questions I'm not ready to answer. And after all, that’s why I asked Elio to bring me here.
So I can figure out what to do next in my own time.
Process this before Ronan starts demanding answers.
But that also means I can't reach anyone else. If something happens to Elio, if Desmond somehow tracks us down, I'll be completely on my own.
The thought sends another wave of panic through me, and I have to focus on my breathing to keep from hyperventilating. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to ten. Remember that I'm safe, that there are guards outside, that Elio will be back soon.
But "soon" is a relative term, and every minute that passes feels like an hour.
I consider getting up, exploring the cabin more thoroughly, maybe finding something to eat. But the bed feels like the only safe space in this unfamiliar place, and I can't bring myself to leave it. Instead, I pull the covers up to my chin and try to lose myself in memories of better times.
A summer afternoon, out by the pool in my bikini. Elio walking out onto the deck, wearing swim trunks. The way I felt seeing his chest, his abs, thoughts awakening in my mind that I hadn’t even considered before.
His gaze sliding over me. Falling on the book in my hands.
“Good book?” Before I’d realized it, he’d walked over to me. I couldn’t breathe. He smelled like sunscreen and warm male skin. I was too hot suddenly, and shivery all at the same time. I didn’t understand what I was feeling. Only that I wanted… something, and it all had to do with him.
"It's okay," I managed, suddenly tongue-tied in his presence.
"What's it about?"
I said it was a horror novel, too embarrassed to admit it was a romance. And then, two seconds later, realizing that the cover gave it away, and he knew I was lying.
There was a smirk on his lips when he saw it. His eyes slid over me, and I wanted him to look. Wanted him to like what he saw.
I’d never wanted a boy to look at me like that before.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires snaps me out of my reverie, and this time the engine doesn't fade away. It gets closer, then stops altogether. A car door slams, followed by the sound of footsteps on what must be a front porch.
My whole body goes rigid with fear. It could be Elio coming back, but it could also be Desmond. Or Ronan, ready to demand answers.
I hear voices outside—low, masculine tones that I can't quite make out through the walls. One of them sounds familiar, but I can't place it from this distance. Is it Elio?
Then I hear the front door open, and my heart stops beating altogether.
"Annie?" Elio's voice carries down the hallway, and I nearly sob with relief.
"I'm here," I call back, my voice cracking with emotion.
His footsteps are quick on the hardwood floor, and then he steps into the bedroom doorway.
He’s wearing suit trousers and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and he looks rumpled and exhausted.
His dark hair is disheveled like he's been running his hands through it, and there are lines of stress around his green eyes that weren't there before.
But he's here. He's safe. I’m safe. And for the first time since I woke up alone, I can breathe properly again.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice gentle as he steps into the room.
"Better now that you're back," I admit, then immediately feel foolish for being so transparent. I feel my cheeks heat up, and I swallow hard, sitting up against the pillows as I bring my knees up to my chest.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. He moves closer to the bed, and I catch a whiff of his cologne.
"I'm sorry I had to leave," he says, sitting on the edge of the mattress, giving me plenty of space. "I didn't want to wake you, and there were things I needed to take care of."
"What kind of things?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I can see him weighing how much to tell me. "I had to meet with Ronan. He's… concerned about your disappearance."
The understatement of the century. Ronan is probably tearing the city apart looking for me, and here I am hiding in a safe house with the one man who should have told him immediately where I was. Guilt floods me yet again, and I bite my lip.
"What did you tell him?"
“That I’d look for you, too,” Elio says simply. "That I’d do anything I could to help him find you.”
I swallow hard. "And he believed you?"
"For now." His jaw tightens. "But he's not stupid, Annie. If we don't figure this out soon, he's going to start asking harder questions."
The weight of what we're doing—what I've asked him to do—settles over me like a heavy blanket.
I've dragged him into this mess, made him complicit in my deception, put his entire future at risk.
And for what? To spare Ronan some pain that he's probably going to feel anyway when the truth eventually comes out?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
Elio runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe not,” he says wryly, his green eyes meeting mine.
I feel a jolt that runs all the way through me, a reminder that we’re alone, far away from anyone else.
The closest and most isolated together that we’ve been in years.
“But we’re here now, Annie. We’re doing this.
So whatever I can do to help you, whatever you need, just tell me.
I’ll get you through this however I can. ”
I believe him, absolutely. I know he means every word. And as he looks at me, his gaze calm and unwavering, I realize that I have no idea what I need.
Except for one thing—him.