“You can go wherever you want,” he says. “No one will find you.”
Freedom.
From Gabriel. From this city. From him.
My fingers curl against my palm. I don’t move. Because instead of relief, I feel something tight and uneasy unfurl in my chest.
My stomach drops, then twists. The card hovers between us like a loaded gun. I pick it up slowly, the edges cool against my skin.
He’s not looking at me. Not really. His gaze is fixed somewhere over my shoulder, jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle flicker.
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer.
My fingers close around the card before my brain catches up. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
I should say thank you. I should walk out. I should take the lifeline and run before Gabriel figures out where I am, before I get in any deeper with a man who can shut me out this completely after letting me in for five fucking minutes.
But I don’t move.
I don’twantto leave.
The realization lands like a slap.
My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “If I keep it… can I still stay?”
For the first time since we walked in here, something flickers across his face—confusion, maybe. Or suspicion. Or awe. It’s gone so fast I can’t pin it down.
“Stay?” he repeats.
I nod.
“Yes.” I swallow. Force myself to say it clearly. “Can I still stay with you?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
For a moment he just looks at me, like I’ve said something he didn’t plan for. His jaw shifts. The faintest hesitation.
Then the cold settles back into place.
“Yes.”
The word hangs there, simple and final. But then he keeps going.
“But—” His voice drops lower, rougher around the edges. “You stay, you’re mine.”
My breath catches. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat it.
Instead he rounds the desk in one fluid motion, closing the distance so fast I barely have time to step back. My spine hits the wall behind me—cool against my shoulder blades.
He plants both hands on either side of my head, caging me in. So close that I can feel the heat rolling off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the sharp edge of whatever storm’s brewing under his skin. The ink on his arms shift as his muscles flex.
“You said you want to go wherever I go,” he says, voice low, almost conversational except for the way it vibrates against my skin. “And I did that, didn’t I?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
