Silk sheets. Actual silk sheets tangled around my legs, the kind that whispered against my skin and cost more than my monthly car payment. I was sprawled across a king-sized bed with an ornate headboard carved from what looked like mahogany, all scrollwork and expensive craftsmanship—cherubs and vines intertwining in patterns that probably had some symbolic meaning I was too hungover to decipher. The mattress underneath me felt like sleeping on a cloud made of money, the kind of support that cradled every vertebra with obscene precision.
Above me hung a crystal chandelier, dimly lit and scattering golden light across cream-colored walls like fractured sunlight through champagne. Real art—oil paintings with visible brushstrokes, the kind you saw behind velvet ropes in museums—decorated the walls. A Persian rug stretched across hardwood floors polished to an obscene shine, reflecting the light in dancing patterns.
To my left, floor-to-ceiling windows draped with heavy velvet curtains in deep burgundy, the fabric so thick it could probably muffle a scream. To my right, an antique dresser topped with fresh flowers—roses and lilies, their perfume thick in the air—arranged in a cut crystal vase.
This wasn't just a bedroom. This was what happened when you had more money than sense and wanted everyone to know it.
This definitely wasn't the store. Could it be Xabat's ship and somehow he....
Xabat!
Anger and grief cleared the drug-induced cobwebs in my mind with the intensity of a slap, sharp and sudden.
The cops! But they weren't cops because before they'd drugged me, one of them shot Xabat. The memory of him falling to his knees, eyes glazing over as blood poured from a wound at the back of his head, came back with such vivid color it made me gag, my stomach lurching with the force of it.
Xabat was dead.
The sob came from somewhere deep inside. A place I'd locked away after Seth died. But here it was again—that raw, throat-ripping sound that clawed its way out of me like something feral and desperate. I'd lost the two men I loved to a bullet.
And I'd loved Xabat.
The thought hit me with the force of a freight train, undeniable and devastating. Not the way I'd loved Seth—Seth had been comfort, the warm weight of familiarity, like slipping into a worn hoodie that smelled like home. The kind of lovethat wrapped around you like a blanket and whispered that everything would be okay, even when it wouldn't.
But Xabat? Xabat had been wildness and abandon. A live wire I couldn't stop touching, even though I worried it might burn. He'd touched a part of me I didn't know existed. He'd found something raw and hungry in me, something that wanted more than survival, more than just getting through another day. He'd made me want to live instead of just existing.
With Seth, I'd felt seen. With Xabat, I'd felt discovered.
But now it was gone. All of it, gone.
The tears came hot and fast, soaking the silk pillowcase that probably cost more than my sofa. My chest heaved with the type of grief that left bruises on your ribs from the inside out.
I curled into a ball on the luxury sheets and bawled. Grief, regret, fear, everything I felt came out in a torrent, and I gave in to it, letting myself spiral. Part of me could have lain in that bed and cried for the rest of my life, but another part wouldn't let me. Something deep down in my soul made me sit up and wipe my face.
I remembered nothing after Xabat got shot, save for the prick of a needle at the back of my neck. Those guys definitely weren't cops. Mercenaries like the guys that invaded my beach house? Maybe. Whoever they were, it was a good guess that the person after me had caught me. I just needed to find out who and why. I needed knowledge and understanding.
I needed to escape.
I owed Xabat that much—to fight. He'd given his life to protect me, and I wouldn't let his sacrifice be in vain. I wouldn't let his death be just another tragedy in a life that seemed to collect them like other people collected stamps. I was a cop's wife and a warrior's mate. About time I started acting like it.
I threw off the silk sheets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood felt cool against my bare feet, polishedsmooth as glass. Someone had changed my clothes while I was out. Gone were my sweats, replaced with a white cotton nightgown that fell to mid-thigh. Simple. Expensive. The kind that looked innocent but probably cost three thousand dollars.
The violation made my skin crawl.
I stood, testing my balance. My head swam for a moment, residual effects from whatever they'd pumped into my veins, but I stayed upright. Small victories.
The room had two doors. One directly across from the bed, probably leading to a hallway. The other to my right, partially open—a bathroom, judging by the glimpse of white marble and gold fixtures.
I moved toward the windows first, keeping my steps light despite the rage and fear churning in my gut. The velvet curtains felt heavy in my hands as I pulled them aside, revealing….
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. A view. A lush lawn led from the window to the cliffs and an expanse of ocean beyond.
Beautiful. Isolated. Completely useless.
I pressed my palm against the glass. Warm. Not a window, really, more like a wall. One of those floor-to-ceiling panes that didn't open, purely decorative. Even if I smashed it, I was at least two stories up, maybe three, too far to jump.
I let the curtain fall back into place, my heart hammering against my ribs. Trapped... for now.
