"I'll be sure to contact you," I finish, standing on unsteady legs. "Was there anything else?"
He looks at me with something like pity. "Just be careful, Miss Sinclair. Men like Nathan Hale... they don't save people. They collect them."
"Thank you for your concern, Detective. But I'm exactly where I want to be."
The lie tastes like ashes, but I say it with conviction.
I leave my office before he can respond, walking out with my head high and my conscience in ruins.
***
When I return to the penthouse, Nathan is in the library, reading by the window. He looks up as I enter, his green eyes searching my face.
"How did it go?" he asks.
"Fine," I say, my voice hollow. "I didn't tell him anything." I move to stand beside him, my whole body trembling. "He's dead, Nathan. Bryce is dead."
He sets his book aside and pulls me onto his lap, his arms coming around me. "I know."
"You killed him." It's not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact that makes me want to vomit.
"I protected you," he corrects softly. "There's a difference."
I rest my head against his shoulder and look out at the city sprawling below us, tears burning my eyes. Somewhere out there, Detective Harding is writing his report. Lucy is worrying. And Bryce is dead because of me.
Because Nathan thinks he has to protect me.
I think about the woman I was three months ago. Independent. Ambitious. Free. She would be horrified by what I've become.
"I called Lucy," I say quietly, my voice breaking.
Nathan's hand stills on my back. "And?"
"And I think I lost my best friend." The tears fall freely now. "She thinks you've turned me into someone I'm not. That you've brainwashed me or manipulated me or broken me."
"Have I?" he asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice.
I turn to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face, the dark intensity of his eyes, the mouth that can be cruel or tender depending on his mood.
"No," I say finally, my voice raw with tears and truth. "You've just shown me who I always was underneath all the armor."
His smile is slow and satisfied. "And who's that?"
"Someone who wanted to be claimed," I admit, the words tasting like surrender. "Someone who was tired of being strong. Someone who craved exactly what you're offering—the safety of being utterly, completely possessed."
He cups my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away my tears. "You're not my prisoner, Eve."
"I know," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I'm your queen. You've told me often enough."
"And you believe me now?"
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of his gaze, the heat of his body, the absolute certainty of his claim. Feeling the loss ofeverything I was and the terrifying acceptance of everything I'm becoming.
"Yes," I breathe. "I believe you."
When I open my eyes, I see satisfaction and something deeper in his expression. Something that might be love, if love could be this dark and consuming and absolute.
He kisses me then, slow and deep and possessive, and I kiss him back with equal fervor. Because Lucy was wrong about one thing.
