"Claus... don’t..."
The sound of my own voice pulled back like a hook under the ribs.
Slurred. Weak.
Barely human.
But still mine.
Then—nothing.
Darkness again.
A soft, thick void that slled like antiseptic and fear.
When I clawed my way out of it next, voices were already cutting through the haze. Muffled at first, like they were underwater.
Then clearer.
Sharper.
"I told you to leave it at ho."
"I didn’t think—"
"You never think. And now he knows."
Claus.
And soone else.
I blinked against the harsh ceiling light.
Cold tal against my back.
My side ached—stretched tight with stitches.
I was still in the sa place.
The table.
The surgical lights.
So awful humming in the air, like a power generator or maybe my own nerves.
The pain was real enough to ground .
So was the bitterness rising in my throat.
I let out a breath.
"I must be dying if that’s the first thing I hear from you again, Claus. A lecture."
His head snapped toward .
His face was pale.
His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in years.
"Luther—"
I interrupted, forcing my voice steady.
"Don’t. You don’t get to look like that."
Tears were already welling in my eyes.
Godd-mmit.
Not now.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of the other bastard.
"You okay?" Claus moved toward .
"No, Claus. I’m not okay. I woke up with soone’s thread inside my gut, my mouth tastes like hospital and tal, and you’re here, playing hero in a horror movie you helped write."
He flinched.
That made smile.
Just a little.
"You have no idea what I’m doing for you—"
"I know exactly what you’re doing."
My voice cracked.
I hated how my lip trembled.
"You’re trying to rewrite what happened back then. Trying to get revenge—maybe. Are you really that financially broken that you needed to sell your childhood best friend’s liver?"
"Luther, you don’t understand."
My eyes flicked to the other man, still silent, watching with that blank curiosity.
"And who exactly is he?"
"He’s—he’s helping."
"Oh."
My laugh was wet.
"Helping. Great. Was that before or after the brick was thrown in the back of my head?"
Claus stepped closer.
"I never ant to hurt you—"
"Of course you didn’t. You never an to."
I blinked fast.
The tears weren’t stopping.
My voice dipped, trembling.
"I never chose any of this, Claus. I didn’t choose what I am. I didn’t choose to trigger your heat. I didn’t choose to ruin your life. And now you’ve handed over to soone I don’t even know, in so freezing butcher’s room, like I’m a gift basket."
His jaw tensed.
"You ruined nothing."
"You left."
I swallowed hard.
"You left when I needed you. And now you’re back just to hurt ."
For a second, Claus looked like he might say sothing.
But then—
"Alright," the stranger said, stepping into the light.
His voice was dry.
Slow.
Unimpressed.
"This is all very touching. Heartfelt, really. But it’s also loud, and I’m tired of listening."
He approached with a syringe, the vial already prid.
"What the hell is that—" Claus began.
"Sedation," the man said coolly. "He’s crying. You’re shouting. And I have things to do."
"No—wait—"
I tried to move.
My arms felt like sandbags.
The man pressed a hand to my arm, too gentle for how cruel his eyes were.
"Relax. You’ll feel better after a nap."
"I don’t even know you. At least take to dinner first."
"Pity," he replied. "You won’t rember anything sweet about ."
The needle slipped in.
Cold fire blood under my skin.
And yet again I was put to sleep.
I surfaced slowly, like I was being hauled up from the bottom of a lake.
No cold tal this ti.
No blinding lights.
Just the scent of coffee—real coffee—and sothing buttery and warm.
My body felt less like a corpse and more like a hangover.
Every muscle ached, but at least I wasn’t stitched to a table.
I opened my eyes.
Sunlight stread in through wide windows.
The room was... too nice.
Polished floors.
Minimalist decor.
A dining table set for two.
Emiliano sat at the head of it, in an open black shirt and slacks, sipping espresso like this was a brunch date and not a post-kidnapping recovery.
"You’re awake," he said without looking up from the newspaper.
"Oh, don’t act surprised," I croaked. "You drugged , not buried ."
His eyes finally t mine—dark, unreadable.
"And yet, here you are. Still dramatic."
I pushed myself upright with a wince.
I was wearing a button-up pajama top I didn’t rember putting on.
The stitches on my side tugged, but soone had at least bandaged them well.
"So... was this your idea of foreplay? Drug, stitch, and dine?"
"If it were foreplay," he said, folding the paper, "you’d be dead. This is hospitality."
I glanced at the food.
Eggs.
Pastries.
Fruit sliced into obedient little shapes.
My stomach growled, which was a betrayal I wasn’t emotionally prepared for.
Still, I didn’t touch it.
"Where’s Claus?"
He didn’t answer imdiately.
Just poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the table like we were negotiating real estate.
"Gone."
He smirked, like I’d made a clever joke.
"I like you better like this. Quiet. Defensive. Bleeding from the inside but still trying to look cute."
"I’d throw this coffee in your face if I thought you hadn’t poisoned it."
"You’ll drink it anyway," he said. "Because it’s hot, and you’re cold, and you’re not stupid."
I hated that he was right.
I picked up the cup, sipped, and scowled.
It was good coffee. Italian and expensive.
He stood.
"Eat. You need strength for later."
"For what?" I asked, not bothering to hide the venom.
Emiliano didn’t answer.
Just walked to the window and looked out over the garden like he hadn’t just casually kidnapped .
"I don’t know who the hell you are," I said. "But if this is supposed to be so villain monologue breakfast, I’m gonna need more toast."
Emiliano smiled faintly.
"Luther Wilkers. Parliantary golden boy. Oga of the hour. You’re not as funny in person."
"Try catching on a day when I haven’t been gutted and abducted."
His gaze slid toward .
"And yet, here you are. Sipping my coffee. Wearing my clothes. Sitting in my house."
"Oh, how romantic. Should I be swooning?"
"Not necessary. You already cried yesterday."
My throat went tight.
I looked away before he could see the heat crawling back up my neck.
His phone buzzed on the table.
He didn’t look at it at first. Just stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then, finally, he answered and put it on speaker.
A smooth, cold voice slid through.
"I know you have him." I heard Killian’s voice.
"I have a lot of things," said Emiliano, gesturing to shush.
"Now, how about we make a deal?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)