My hands shook as I held the photo. The red ink looked like blood under the study's dim lights. Five years ago. I looked so different—softer, before I knew how to pick a lock or disappear into a crowd. And the man standing next to me… the man I had spent half a decade trying to forget…
The lock on the study door clicked.
I didn't have time to hide the folder. I barely managed to shove it back into the drawer before the heavy oak door swung open. Kyle walked in, his jacket off, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked exhausted, but the second his eyes landed on me, that sharp, predatory focus returned.
"You're still awake," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Hard to sleep when I'm locked in a room like a piece of evidence," I snapped, my voice cracking just enough to give me away. I stood up, my back to the vanity. "Who is Marcus, Kyle? Really? Because he didn't look like a director. He looked like a man who knew exactly how much that collar cost."
Kyle stopped in the middle of the room. He poured himself a glass of scotch, the ice clinking against the crystal with a sound that felt like a countdown.
"Marcus is a necessity. Like the locks on these doors," Kyle said, his voice flat. "He's the one who handles the things I'm too 'clean' to touch. But he's overstepping. He thinks because he knows my history, he has a seat at my table."
"And what history is that?" I stepped forward, my loud mouth acting as a shield for the fear crawling up my throat. "Does it involve kidnapping girls from Rome? Or is this just a hobby you picked up recently?"
Kyle's glass hit the table with a thud. In a heartbeat, he was across the room. He didn't grab me this time. He just leaned over me, his hands on the vanity behind me, pinning me between his body and the wood.
"You're digging for things that will bury you, Valentina," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "You think you're a player? You're a child holding a match in a room full of gasoline."
"Then let me go!" I shouted, my hands coming up to push against his chest. "If I'm such a danger to your 'clean' life, throw me out! Call the cops! Do something other than staring at me like I'm a prize you've already won!"
"I can't let you go," he rasped. He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the diamond collar, his touch surprisingly gentle—which was far more terrifying than his anger. "Because the man in that photo? The one Marcus showed me? He's not dead, Val. And he's coming for what he thinks belongs to him."
My heart stopped. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. "What are you talking about? He died in the fire. I saw the building—"
"You saw what he wanted you to see," Kyle interrupted, his eyes dark and possessive. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my forehead. "He's been looking for you for five years. The only reason he hasn't found you is because I found you first. I didn't just catch a thief tonight, Val. I intercepted a target."
I felt the room tilt. My "loud mouth" finally failed me. I just stared at him, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"So what?" I whispered. "You're my savior now? My big, arrogant hero?"
"No," Kyle said, his grip on my waist tightening, pulling me flush against him so I could feel the hard, steady beat of his heart. "I'm the man who's going to keep you. He wants you as a trophy. I want you as my life. And I don't share, Valentina. Not with ghosts, and definitely not with enemies."
He picked me up, his movements sudden and effortless, and started walking toward the bedroom.
"Put me down!" I managed to find my voice, but it was weak.
"No," he said, his voice a low, final command. "Tonight, you stay in my bed. Not because I'm going to touch you, but because I need to know you're still breathing. Tomorrow, the game changes. Tomorrow, we stop pretending this was an accident."