Enough to hurt me? Probably not.
But the worst part, the part that sits in my chest like a brick, is that now that I know he’s alive?
I fucking hate him more.
Not for the fact that he’s a murderer or a psychopath. I already knew that was on the table and made my peace with that.
But…Six years?
Six years of nightmares, therapy sessions I never finished, guilt I never shook off. He left me thinking he was gone for six fucking years.
He just decided not to exist for me anymore.
My fingers tremble around the coffee. I have to put down the cup before I spill it.
So, whatisclear now?
That man on the floor, the one Kasien executed like he was swatting a fly, said something that actually matters. Adrien and Kasien aren’t the ones planning to kill me.
Great. Gold star. Except someone is.
Lucien.
I heard it in the chaos, sharp and cold, like a hit I didn’t see coming.
So what does that make him? Head of The Vermilion Organization? Some kind of puppeteer? And where does Kasien fall in that hierarchy? Enemy? Asset? Traitor? Guard dog? Did he kidnap me to use me? To save me? To leverage me?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
All I know is that I’m locked in a gothic castle in the middle of nowhere, absolutely not in the city judging by the view from my goddamn princess windows, and the only thing more confusing than the murder politics here is him. Alive, breathing, bigger, colder.
And somehow still capable of making every muscle in my body forget what it’s supposed to do. I rub my face with both hands like it’s going to help me stay sane.
I get up, yank the suite door open—no hinges anymore, thanks to my little DIY jailbreak—and I step into the hallway with one foot, resting my body against the door.
My two mutes, my dear anonymous guardians, are still sitting there, staring at me annoyingly.
“Morning, boys,” I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “I really like our one-sided conversations, but I’d like to speak to the undead, emotionally damaged skyscraper formerly known as my boyfriend.”
One of the bodyguards gives me a look like he wants to punt me back inside.
“My offer still stands,” I say sweetly. “Tell me your names, and I’ll shut up for a whole hour.”
Nothing.
All they said to me for the last two days wasyour lunch, Miss Soldan. Your dinner, Miss Soldan. Your coffee, Miss Soldan.
Ugh.
“Okay. Great talk.” I roll my eyes.
I point at the one with the skinhead: “I will call you Bruce. Because you look like Bruce Willis.”
I point at the other one. “And you’re Roberto.”
Roberto’s eyebrows shoot up like I just guessed his childhood trauma.
Perfect.
