“No?” His smile is cruel. “Then what would you call this thing between us? This force that drives you back to me, even knowing what I am?”
“Temporary insanity.”
He laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “Keep lying to yourself, Eve. It’s easier than admitting you might feel something real.”
“The only real thing here is your need to control everything and everyone around you.”
His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “If control was all I wanted, you’d be in a cell, not my bed.”
I wrench away from his touch. “Same difference.”
I let the heavy silence wrap around us, each second ticking by with the weight of unspoken words. My mind circles back to his declaration, analyzing every inflection, every pause.
“Are you hungry?”
The question catches me off guard. I turn to study his face, searching for any hint of manipulation beneath that controlled exterior. His features remain maddeningly neutral, giving nothing away. Those dark eyes meet mine steadily, patient, waiting.
The normality of the question throws me. After everything—the accusations, the revelations, the raw intensity of last night—he asks about breakfast like we’re any normal couple on any normal morning. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The mattress shifts as Remy rises. He retrieves his black pants from a nearby chair, sliding them on with practiced ease. The simple act feels strangely intimate, more so than our heated encounters. This is Remy unguarded, or at least appearing to be.
Before I can reach for my scattered clothes, he approaches with a thick robe. The fabric looks expensive and probably costs more than a month’s rent at my old apartment. He holds it open, waiting. When I don’t move, his lips quirk slightly.
“Let me,” he says softly.
I allow him to wrap the robe around my shoulders, his touch deliberate and gentle. The tenderness in the gesture unsettles me more than any show of force could. This caring version of Remy is harder to resist and harder to hate.
His hand extends toward mine, fingers ghosting across my skin. “Come on.” A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, transforming his usual stern expression into something warmer, almost boyish. The sight makes my chest tighten.
His fingers close around mine, tugging me from the bed. The contact sends sparks of awareness through my body, reminding me of how those same hands mapped every inch of me just hours ago.
I follow Remy through unfamiliar hallways, his hand warm against mine. The space unfolds like a revelation—all clean lines and understated wealth. No cameras are visible, but I know better than to assume they aren’t there. The walls hold abstract art in muted tones, nothing personal, nothing that speaks of the man leading me forward.
“Where are we?”
Remy glances back, his profile sharp in the morning light. “One of my properties. It’s under Marcus’s name. Just a precaution.”
“A precaution for what?” I narrow my eyes, studying the tension in his shoulders.
He stops, turning to face me fully. “For if I need to disappear.” His thumb traces circles on my palm, the gentle touch at odds with his words. “And for times like these.”
The kitchen opens before us, a masterpiece of chrome and marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, but the view offers no clues to our location. Remy guides me to a stool at the island, his hand lingering on my lower back before he moves to the coffee machine.
“You have bolt holes all over the city, don’t you?” I watch him measure coffee beans with precise movements. “Places where you can hide your secrets?”
“Not secrets.” The machine hums to life. “Insurance.”
“And which am I? Secret or insurance?”
His hands still on the coffee cups. “You’re neither, Eve.”
“No?” I lean forward, elbows on the cool marble. “Then what am I?”
He sets a steaming mug before me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You know what you are.”
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic, anchoring myself against the storm building between us. “Do I? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’m just another asset you’re trying to control.”
“Is that what you think this is?” His voice carries an edge that makes my skin prickle. “Control?”
