“Feisty,” he murmurs. “I should’ve guessed.”
“Go to hell,” I snap.
That earns a laugh—not loud, but real. It’s the first sound from him that doesn’t feel like an order.
“Not tonight,” he says. “Take him inside.”
The Romano men tighten their grip. I twist once, twice, but it’s useless. They drag me across the snow toward the front steps. The cold bites at my bare ankles; the ribbon at my throat feels like it’s pulsing with my heartbeat.
Inside, warmth hits like a slap. The house is nothing like ours—sleek, modern, all sharp lines and glass walls. The kind of place that doesn’t pretend to hide what it is. Every surface gleams. A grand staircase curves upward, wrapped in a strand of white lights that look more like frost than decoration.
Lucian follows at his own pace, coat half-unbuttoned, blood still trailing from his hand. He doesn’t bother to wrap it. He just watches me as if trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or just stupid.
“I could’ve had your tongue cut out for that,” he says.
“You still should.” I shoot back, breathless. “You’d have one less problem to deal with.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then: “You’re not a problem.”
He gestures for one of the men—Vincent, I think—to take me upstairs. We start moving again. The house smells like cedar and clean smoke, faintly expensive. Somewhere above us, music plays—soft piano, the kind that doesn’t belong in a house full of bloodlines and guns.
When we reach the top of the stairs, the man opens a door to a guest suite that’s bigger than my entire apartment downtown. I’m shoved inside.
Vincent lingers in the doorway. “Don’t try anything stupid. There are guards on every floor.”
“Good,” I say. “I’d hate to get lonely.”
He smirks, shuts the door, and leaves me in silence.
The first thing I do is pull the damn ribbon off my neck. It’s slick with melted snow, the knot tight enough that it leaves a faint red mark on my skin. I throw it across the room. It lands on the bed like a threat dressed as a gift.
The room itself is absurd—white sheets, silver lamps, a view of the frozen lake out back. I should be grateful. I should be terrified. Instead, I’m both, which feels worse.
I pace for a while, just to keep from sitting still. My reflection in the window looks like someone else—hair messy, lip split, blood drying at the corner of my mouth.
Lucian’s blood.
The thought shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but it does. It’s not the taste I can’t forget—it’s his reaction. He didn’t hit me. Didn’t even raise his voice. He looked at me like I’d done something interesting. Like I was worth noticing.
I hate that part the most.
Because under all the fury and humiliation, there’s something else crawling in my chest—a curiosity I don’t want. I’ve grown up around men like him, men who kill for profit and call it protection, men who love the sound of their own power. But Lucian isn’t like them.
He’s quieter. Controlled. Dangerous, sure, but not loud about it. That kind of calm scares me more than shouting ever could.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. The whole situation feels surreal. Hours ago, I was asleep in my own house. Now I’m in enemy territory, a living message wrapped in a bow.
My father’s words echo in my head.You’ll be treated well if you behave.
Yeah, right.
There’s a knock at the door. My body tenses automatically. It opens before I answer.
Lucian steps inside, no guards this time. He’s changed into a black sweater and slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The cut on his hand has been cleaned, but not bandaged. The faint smear of blood is still there, a reminder.
He closes the door behind him and studies me. “Comfortable?”
I glare. “Depends on your definition.”
