The words die in my throat. Because he’d looked at me with those dark eyes, laid his soul bare with three words—“I love you”—and I’d stood there like a coward, silent and frozen. Now he’s paying for my weakness with blood and broken bones.
“I never told you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool wall. “I never fucking told you.”
My father’s voice slithers through my thoughts.“Just like your mother—all righteous fury until someone you love pays the price.”
Love. The word catches in my chest, undeniable now. I love Remy. Not despite his darkness, but because he wields it like a shield around me, while my father uses his power like a blade against throats.
I push away from the wall, pacing the length of the room. Evidence surrounds me—papers, files, testimonies. Justice within reach. But what good is justice if Remy dies thinking I didn’t—couldn’t—love him back?
“Think, Eve. Think!” My hands tangle in my hair, tugging sharply. Going alone means death. Waiting means watchingRemy break piece by piece. Marcus’s betrayal leaves me without allies, without—
I freeze mid-step. Before leaving, Remy had pressed a piece of paper into my hand. “If everything goes wrong,” he’d said, his expression grave. “If I don’t come back. Call this number.”
The memory hits like a punch to the gut. I’d tucked the paper away, refusing to acknowledge what it meant. Now, my hands shake as I retrieve it from my jacket pocket.
One number. One last lifeline. A stranger that Remy trusts with his life and hers.
My father’s deadline echoes in my head: sunup. The evidence or Remy’s head.
My fingers hover over the phone, the weight of choice pressing down.
My trembling fingers dial the number, each tone stretching into eternity. One ring. Two rings. Three. The paper crumples in my white-knuckled grip as doubt creeps in. Maybe I misread the digits. Maybe Remy made a mistake. Maybe—
The line connects with a sharp click. Silence follows, heavy and expectant. No greeting, no acknowledgment. Just the weight of someone listening.
“I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “I need your help. Remy is in danger.”
More silence. My heart pounds against my ribs as I wait, wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake. The person on the other end breathes, measured and controlled.
“Please,” I whisper, hating the crack in my voice. “Remy gave me this number. He said… he said if everything went wrong—”
“Location.” The voice is male, deep, with a hint of an accent I can’t place.
I grip the phone tighter, torn between relief and fresh fear. “He’s at my father’s estate. Ano Montoni. Marcus betrayedhim. He’s being—” I swallow hard, remembering the sounds of Remy’s pain. “They’re hurting him.”
The man says nothing for three brutal heartbeats. Then: “Stay where you are.”
“But I—”
“Stay. Where. You. Are.” Each word falls like a command, brooking no argument. “My name is Declan. You did well to call me. I’m a friend. I’m on my way.” The line goes dead before I can respond.
Chapter 25
The knock shatters my concentration, nearly making me drop the messenger bag filled with my investigation documents. Was it Declan?
Another knock cuts through the silence, harder this time. Remy’s warning echoes in my mind: “If you ever need help, this number will reach people I trust.”
Thirty minutes. The speed of his arrival sets off warning bells. No one should have made it here this quickly.
“Who is it?” I keep my voice level, drawing on experience from countless dangerous interviews.
“Declan Rush.” His voice resonates with authority, controlled and deep. “Open up. We’re short on time.”
I check the security camera screen. The man fills the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, with a rigid military bearing that screams training and discipline. He holds up an ID, but what catches my attention is how he positions himself—slightly angled, giving him an optimal view of both ends of the corridorwhile minimizing his exposure. I’ve observed this all too often during my work in the Middle East.
A thin envelope slides under the door. My hand shakes slightly as I retrieve it, the letter opener still gripped in my other hand. The ID inside is heavy cardstock, detailing Declan’s credentials with several private security firms and military contractors. The holographic seals look authentic, but in my line of work, I’ve seen perfect forgeries.
His green eyes scan the corridor with methodical precision, and even through the screen, I catch the outline of a concealed weapon beneath his tactical jacket. His hands, when he adjusts his stance, bear the telltale scars of someone intimate with violence.
