My heart is doing that stupid racing thing again, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something infinitely more problematic.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
Oh, God. Is this—? No. That’s insane. He’s not—
He opens it.
Not a ring. Thank Christ.But jewelry that looks like it will never fit into any budget I could afford.
A watch. Delicate, gold, with a face that catches the light like captured starfire. Beside it, a matching bracelet that looks like liquid sunshine.
“Cartier,” he says, like that explains everything.
I stare at the jewelry. “Why?”
“Because you need them.”
“I need a Cartier watch?”
“You need to be tracked.”
The words sink in slowly, like stones dropping through water.
“Tracked.”
“GPS in the watch. Audio recording in the bracelet.” He lifts the watch from the box, and his fingers are steady as he reaches for my wrist. “We’ll know where you are. Who you’re talking to. What you’re saying.”
I jerk my hand back. “That’s— That’s completely invasive.”
“That’s completely necessary.”
“I’m not wearing spy jewelry.”
“Yes, you are.”
The certainty in his voice makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time.
“What if I refuse?”
He steps closer. I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow there’s even less space between us now. His chest is inches from mine, and I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
His hand comes up slowly, fingers curling around my wrist with gentle, implacable pressure. His thumb finds my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating.
“Because you’re smart enough to know the difference between protection and prison,” he says quietly. “And smart enough to know which one keeps you breathing.”
His touch is warm. Steady. Completely at odds with the threat in his words.
I should pull away. Should tell him to go to hell. Should definitely not be noticing how his thumb is tracing small circles against my skin.
Instead, I stand there like an idiot while he fastens the watch around my wrist.
The metal is cool, deceptively light for something that’s basically a tracking collar. Beautiful enough that no one would ever suspect it’s anything more than expensive jewelry.
“Perfect fit,” he murmurs, and something in his voice makes my stomach clench.
