The bruising around her eye is vicious—purple-black shadows that stretch down toward her cheekbone like she went twelve rounds with someone who didn’t bother pulling punches. A split lip gleams faintly under the incoming evening that filters through half-drawn curtains.
I don’t realize I’m moving until fire explodes along my ribs from sitting up too fast. A hiss escapes between gritted teeth, but I don’t care because all I can see is red now—anger boiling up from somewhere deep enough that it threatens to swallow me whole.
“Who?” The word rips out low and guttural before I can stop it. My voice sounds foreign—rough edges ground down by exhaustion but no less lethal for it.
Liv stirs at my voice, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, confusion clouds her features before recognition hits. She jerks toward me, a gasp of pain escaping as her body protests the sudden movement.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up.” Her voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion. The wince that crosses her face as she straightens only feeds the rage coursing through my veins.
“Who did this to you?” I demand again, my fingers itching to reach for her, to catalog every mark and bruise marring her skin. The effort of staying upright sends daggers through my ribcage, but I refuse to lie back down.
“Remy, please—” She starts to rise, but I catch her wrist, careful despite my anger.
“Tell me.” The words come out as a growl. “Was it Ano? Did that bastard—”
“Stop.” Liv leans forward, her free hand coming up to cup my jaw. The gentle touch shouldn’t affect me this much, shouldn’t make my breath catch in my throat. “You’re going to hurt yourself worse.”
“I don’t care about—”
Her lips brush mine, soft and careful, stealing the words before I can voice them. It’s barely more than a whisper of contact, but it hits me like a physical blow. The fury doesn’t disappear—it still burns hot and deadly beneath my skin—but it recedes enough for me to think past the red haze of violence.
When she pulls back, her thumb traces along my jawline. “You’re alive,” she whispers, and there’s something raw in her voice that makes my chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with my injuries. “That’s what matters right now.”
“Eve.” My hand slides from her wrist to tangle with her fingers. “What he did to you—”
“What he did to both of us.” Her other hand stays against my face, anchoring me as much as restraining me. “And he’ll pay for all of it. But right now, you need to lie back down before you hurt yourself even more.”
The pain claws at me like barbed wire embedded beneath my skin. Every breath is a shallow negotiation; my ribs scream for mercy I can’t afford to grant them. I fight through it because she’s here—because I need answers before I go mad watching her sit there, bruised and guarded like some soldier returned from war.
“Eve,” I rasp, my voice roughened by hours of screaming at Marcus’s fists. “What happened?”
She lifts her head slowly, blinking as if surfacing from deep waters. For a moment, I see raw exhaustion in her eyes—a fleeting crack in the armor she’s been wearing since the day we met again—but it seals over before I can reach it.
“You need rest,” she says softly, avoiding the question. Her fingers ghost over my hand where it rests against the mattress, tracing the knuckles absently. It’s such a small thing—a barely there touch—but it roots me in place more effectively than any sedative they could have pumped into my veins.
“Don’t deflect.” My voice sharpens despite the way my ribs threaten mutiny. “Tell me.”
Her lips press into a thin line before she sits back in the chair, straightening with deliberate care that only makes me angrier.
I listen in silence as she lays it all out—how she took everything we’d fought for and handed it over to the FBI in one fell swoop. How she made sure every piece of evidence was meticulously cataloged and delivered into hands that couldn’t be bought or intimidated by Montoni’s money or power. “The FBI has everything they need,” she says evenly, though there’s steel beneath the calm veneer. “My father’s empire is crumbling.”
I don’t miss the way her tone shifts—coolly calculating, devoid of sentimentality—and it stops me cold because I know that tone intimately. It’s mine when I’m dissecting a problem or weighing collateral damage against objectives that can’t afford failure. Hearing it come from her leaves something sour in my throat.
“You planned this.” It isn’t a question; it doesn’t need to be.
Her eyes meet mine then—steady but unreadable—and I realize with uncomfortable clarity just how much ground I’ve lost in this game we’re playing against each other and ourselves.
“Of course I did,” she says simply, folding her arms across her chest like she knows exactly what I’m thinking but refuses to dignify it with reassurance or regret.
I glance down at where her hand lingers near mine—still close enough that I can feel its warmth even though she isn’t touching me anymore—and wonder if this is what she felt all those years ago when she uncovered who I really was beneath all my charm and lies: fascination warring with something darker that tastes too much like fear.
“You’re ruthless,” I say finally because it feels safer than admitting how much admiration bleeds into those words despite myself.
Her lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough to mock me anyway—and when she leans forward again, resting her elbows on her knees so we’re almost eye level despite my prone position, there’s something defiant gleaming in those bruised eyes that makes my chest ache for reasons unrelated to broken bones or bruised pride.
“I corrupted you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, rough and raw against my throat. The admission costs me more than the physical pain radiating through my body.
Eve’s soft laugh catches me off guard. She leans forward, pressing her lips to my forehead in a gesture so gentle it makes my chest constrict. When she pulls back, her eyes hold mine with an intensity that pins me in place.
