My breath catches, and I spin toward the door, already moving, already reaching?—
The lock disengages.
But it’s not him.
Three guards fill the doorway. Their expressions are blank. Professional. The kind of blank that means they’ve been trained not to react, not to show anything that might be used against them.
“Miss Murphy.” The tallest one speaks. His voice is flat. “You need to come with us.”
“Where’s Elio?”
“We’ll take you to him.”
“Where is he?”
No answer. Just that empty stare. Waiting.
The contrast is chilling. Hours ago, there were hands on my skin, warm and wanting. A voice murmuring my name. A body pressed against mine, inside mine, learning every inch of me. Now there are gloved hands. Distance. The cold formality of men following orders.
“Miss Murphy.” The guard’s voice is patient. Implacable. “Now, please.”
They step into the room. Not threatening. Not yet. But the message is clear.
This is not a request.
I look back at the bed. The twisted sheets. The indent where his body lay beside mine mere hours ago.
Then I follow the guards out of the room.
26
VIOLET
“Where’s Elio?” I ask the guards as they guide me out of the room.
Nothing.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll find out.”
This is routine, I tell myself as we walk down the corridors.He’s probably dealing with whatever emergency pulled him away. They’re bringing me to him. This is fine.
But the coldness in their eyes says otherwise. These aren’t the guards who nodded at me in the hallways, who pretended not to notice when I wandered the villa barefoot. These men don’t see me as Elio’s. They see me as cargo.
“One minute to change.” The lead guard steps aside, gesturing toward my bedroom. “We leave in sixty seconds.”
My hands shake as I close the door. Through it, I hear them conferring in rapid Italian. Too low and fast for me to catch more than fragments.
Focus. Think.
I strip off Elio’s shirt and pull on jeans, a thick sweater, my boots. Practical clothes. Armor. Some part of me knows what I’m doing, choosing clothes I can run in, fight in, survive in.
The mirror catches my reflection, and I freeze.
His marks are still on my skin. A bruise low on my neck, almost hidden by the sweater. Lips still swollen from his mouth.
Less than eight hours ago, I was safe in his bed, in his arms. Now I’m being escorted by strangers to god knows where, and no one will tell me anything.
