“The rules are simple,” he says. “You don’t leave the estate. If you do, I’ll hunt you down, and you won’t like the consequences.”
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It cuts clean.
“You answer the phone when I call. You show up for dinner every night.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. Doesn’t blink. “You can walk around the mansion. Order what you want: clothes, books, food. You have your space.”
Then that smirk again. A dark, dangerous curve.
“But if you try to run, if you try to kill me…” He pauses. “You’ll lose all privileges and stay locked in your room like a misbehaving pet.”
He leans in. One hand grips my chin tight, forcing my eyes to stay on his.
“Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” I snarl, teeth clenched, but he only smiles wider.
He steps closer; his lips graze my ear.
“Call me that again.”
Chapter Seventeen
Autumn
Isit in my bedroom; it’s empty, silent. Some woman brought me lunch earlier; she barely said a word. I’m guessing everyone here was ordered not to talk to me. Fine. I don’t care.
Now it’s mid-afternoon, and I have nothing to do and nothing to wear.
My camera.
The thought hits, and I jump from the bed, striding down a hallway that seems to never end, down the stairs, and turn right into a living room, or at least one of them.
“Great. I’m lost,” I murmur.
“Flynn’s in his office.”
I turn fast. Kaden’s sitting on the corner couch, a cigar in one hand, a book in the other.
“Jesus—” I snap. “So you’re mafia too?” It sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves my mouth. I’ve seenThe Godfather; that’s as close as I’ve ever been to this world. I half expect a horse head to appear one night just for the irony.
“Head of security,” he says around a slow exhale of smoke.
“Of course you are.” I roll my eyes. “Flynn?”
He points to the opposite side of the hall. I don’t say another word; I just follow the direction until I reach the double doors from early. They’re closed, so I push them open without knocking.
Flynn’s behind the desk in a white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ink winds up both forearms, black lines cutting over muscle and veins. His skin looks warm against the fabric, the veins on his hands thick and raised like cords when he sets down a pen. He looks up, slow, lazy almost, and leans back in his chair, crossing those broad arms over his chest. The movement makes the fabric strain across his shoulders.
“Yes?” he asks, voice low, eyes locked on me.
“I need clothes. Warm ones. Pajamas, and underwear.” I stop, heat creeping up my neck. “And I need…women stuff.”
“Women stuff?” His mouth curves, just slightly.
“Come on, Flynn, you know what I mean.” I roll my eyes, but my voice betrays me.
He stands, and the air in the room shifts. He’s big, easily a head taller than me, all lean muscle under that white shirt. When he moves around the desk, his stride is unhurried, confident, and I step back as he comes closer.
