His typing pauses. “You haven’t seen my control issues yet.”
I study him from my position, noting the changes time has carved into him. The sharp cut of his jaw looks harder, his shoulders broader beneath that expensive suit. Power radiates from him in waves, more dangerous than before.
“The system will alert me to any unauthorized programs or external devices.” His voice carries that familiar, commanding tone that used to make my skin prickle. It still does, if I’m honest.
“And if I need to check my email?”
“Through the secure server only.” He swivels in the chair to face me, positioning himself between me and the door. Not subtle at all. “The parameters are clear.”
I nod, the picture of compliance, while mentally reviewing the layers of encryption protecting my real files. Let him think he has control. Let him believe I’m cornered.
“Eve.” His dark eyes lock onto mine, intensity crackling between us. “If you want to survive, you’ll have to trust me.”
The irony of those words hangs heavy in the air. Trust. The very thing I shattered eight years ago when I exposed his operation and disappeared.
“Trust works both ways,” I say.
His laugh holds no humor. “You surrendered that privilege eight years ago. Remember?”
I remember. The weight of the flash drive in my pocket. The silence of his apartment. The way he slept so peacefully while I—
“Your security protocols are noted,” I say, cutting off the memory. “Anything else?”
I pull items from my duffel with deliberate care, aware of Remy’s scrutiny from the doorway. Each movement feels like a choreographed dance—show enough vulnerability to be believable but not enough to raise suspicion.
“The dresser’s empty,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar authoritative tone. “Make yourself at home.”
I arrange my meager collection of clothes in the top drawer, fingertips grazing the hidden compartment in my bag where my real phone lies concealed.
“How domestic,” he drawls.
“Except for the armed guards and surveillance cameras.” I place my toiletry bag on the dresser, catching his reflection in the mirror. That predatory focus hasn’t changed—the way he tracks every movement, analyzing, calculating.
He pushes off the doorframe and approaches. My body tenses, remembering too well how it feels to have him this close. “You’ll need your own security code for the front door.” His presencebehind me radiates heat, his cologne mixing with that inherent masculine scent I’ve never quite forgotten.
“Because I’m such a valued guest?”
“Because I need to track your movements.” His hand reaches past me to tap a sequence into the keypad beside the dresser, and I force myself to stay still. “Memorize this.”
I nod, focusing on the numbers rather than how his breath stirs my hair. The real challenge isn’t remembering the code—it’s ignoring how my skin prickles with awareness at his proximity.
“There’s a panic button by the bed.” He moves closer, guiding my attention to the small device on the nightstand. His lips nearly brush my ear as he speaks, and memories of those same lips on my neck eight years ago threaten to derail my concentration.
I step away, needing distance to think clearly. “Planning on giving me reasons to use it?”
His dark laugh raises goosebumps on my arms. “That depends entirely on you, Eve.”
The way he says my name—like a caress and a warning wrapped into one—makes maintaining my facade harder than expected. I busy myself with arranging my few possessions, each item placed to support my carefully constructed story of desperation.
“I’ll leave you to settle in.” He pauses at the doorway. “Dinner’s in an hour.”
Only when his footsteps fade do I allow myself to exhale. Eight years, and still, his presence affects me more than I anticipated. I have to stay focused.
The moment his footsteps fade, I begin my systematic sweep of the room. Years of investigative work have taught me to look for the subtle details others miss. The obvious cameras are likely decoys—Remy would definitely prefer hidden surveillance.
I run my fingers along the crown molding, checking for pinhole cameras while appearing to straighten my clothes in the dresser mirror. The angle of the visible camera leaves a blind spot near the ensuite door. Useful.
The bathroom provides minimal coverage from prying eyes. No visible cameras, but knowing Remy, that means nothing. Steam from the shower might interfere with surveillance—another detail to file away.
