THALIA POV

"She's awake. Set the table."

Not Marcus's voice. Not Vaughn's.

I open my eyes-complete darkness. I'm blindfolded.

"You're playing a dangerous game." Damien's voice, unmistakable.

I test my limbs. Legs free. Arms unbound. I'm on a bed, and the scent surrounding me is familiar: bergamot and vanilla. My custom candle-the one I make because store versions never match my father's recipe.

"I'm making things fast and easy for her." Carlos, closer than expected.

Footsteps retreat. A door closes.

I rip off the blindfold. Carlos stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching with dead eyes.

Fuck. He captured me.

"Took you forever to wake up. Bathroom's there." He points forward but I refuse to look in case he stabs me

" Get dressed. Let's continue from last night."

More words than I've heard him speak at once. My throat is sandpaper-dry. He could have killed me while I was unconscious.

The room is massive-double the lounge's size. Everything dark: black furniture, charcoal walls, slate curtains. But there on the nightstand burns my candle.

"This isn't my room."

"True. It's mine. Go wash up."

He disappears through another doorway.

I'm in Carlos's bedroom.

Adrenaline floods my system. My mission crashes back into focus.

I find my purse on the bed.

Fuck!

I dump the contents. Scissors, Q-tip. I open the hidden zip-all three cameras still there. Relief makes me dizzy.

My gun. Where's my gun?

I search frantically, find it under the pillow. He left it within reach while I slept, vulnerable and unconscious.

What game is he playing?

No time. I check the clock: 5:14 AM.

My wake up time.

The room's layout becomes clear as I move. The bathroom faces the bed. Another door sits across the his bed, down three small steps. I creep toward it, cameras clutched in my palm.

It's an office. His office. Empty.

I don't let myself look around. I place the first camera underneath his desk with the mic facing out. The adhesive holds immediately.

One down.

I peek through the doorway-the bedroom remains empty.

Back in the bedroom, I position the second camera behind his bedside lamp, angled to capture the bed and the room's main entrance.

Confirm, Mic on.

The third one goes back in my purse. If I'm lucky, I'll find somewhere more valuable to place it later. A safe room. A weapons cache. Something that will give Shadow the leverage we need.

I should call Marcus. I search for my phone but can't find it.

𝐻𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ it

I scoff. It's clean as grave thanks to Vaughn's tech knowledge.

Least of my worries. I'll find a way to reach Marcus later.

A smile spreads across my face . Marcus will see everything through these feeds-meetings, phone calls, vulnerabilities. The reality settles in: after six years, I'm inside his sanctuary

I'm finally, finally making progress.

I actually do a small victory dance toward the bathroom.

Then I stop cold.

All my products lined up on the counter. My shampoo. My specific Portland body wash. My toothbrush.

But no clothes. Just his-the shirt from last night, boxer briefs that might be clean.

How does he have all this?

Twenty minutes later, I emerge drowning in his clothes. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh.

Carlos sits at a small table positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows. A chessboard waits between two place settings. Toast. Coffee. Water

"You can't be serious. It's not even six AM."

"We had a deal. But you passed out."

His hand is bandaged. White gauze.

The blood.

I scan the room quickly

No sign of anyone except the peppery, woody scent that I'm beginning to recognize as distinctly Carlos. We're alone. I'm trapped if he becomes a threat.

"How did you get my candle?" I ask as I sit.

"I had someone pick it up." He moves his knight.

"The candle is custom-made. Not available retail."

"Then I guess it's not that special."

His nonchalance is more unsettling than anger. He either broke into my apartment or knows more about me than he should.

Neither is good.

We play. He's calm, composed. I lose pieces carelessly.

"You must be trusting, bringing a stranger home."

His eyes travel down my body slowly-lingering on how his shirt maps every curve, nipples visible through thin fabric.

I match his stare. He picks up my half-eaten toast and bites exactly where my mouth was.

My lips part, breathe hitch

He leans back, legs spreading wider as he chews. Each movement hammers in my chest.

Tank top showing muscled arms. Hair down. Tongue piercing visible when he licks his lips as he stares a bit longer between my lips and chest

Dangerous edges and casual dominance.

"You intend to hurt me, pretty doll?"

Cocky amusement. Like the thought is laughable.

"I can try."

He quirks an eyebrow, gaze back at my visible nipple.

"It's rude to stare"

"You're wearing my shirt"

"You didn't give me another option"

I make another move. He doesn't look away from my face when he plays

"You're 𝑛𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑑 underneath my shirt"

He enunciates the word and I roll my eyes.

Carlos eyes never left my body

It's past seven when I finally win. Now he's handing me his bag, rattling off his schedule: Warehouse, shipments, meetings,

as we wait for the elevator.

"What am I expected to do at this job?"

"Be you."

I snort.

"If I've heard of ways to get killed quickly, it's by being yourself."

He chuckles-low and rusty.

"Think ahead. Be discreet. Intelligent. Comfortable around the men and woman I meet."

Woman. Singular. Not women.

Maybe that's why he needs a female PA.

"What's my pay?"

"Enough to ensure you never need money again."

"Like a billion dollars?"

"Yes."

Of course.

"Can I have my phone now?"

"As my PA, it's being checked for security. You'll get it back later."

"As my PA, it's being checked for security. You'll get it back later"

I mimic his voice under my breath. His mouth twitches

Surprise... His car is white.

No driver.

I slide in, hyperaware I haven't contacted Marcus since last night. My smartwatch is gone too.

Carlos starts the engine.

"Where are we going?"

"Your apartment."

My head whips toward him as I grab his wrist with force that could've caused an accident.

"NO."

Every surveillance photo is in that apartment. Every note. Four years of intel hidden behind a false panel. My TV connects to field cameras. If he walks in. Goes wrong room, press my TV...

Six years of work. Gone.

"We can't go there."

He drives ignoring me

"We can't," I say again, desperate.

He doesn't respond. Just pulls out and heads toward the exit.

No watch. No way to signal Marcus. No way to warn him Carlos is about to walk into evidence of my obsession, my hunt for revenge.

My heart hammers in my throat.

Live to kill Carlos.

But right now, I'm not sure I'll survive the next hour.

CHAPTER FIVE:

THALIA POV

Less than two minutes and we arrive at what he calls "my apartment." He simply drove us behind his building-a route I've never been able to track because I always lose him at some point during my surveillance.

Standing outside this so-called apartment, with a garden situated at the corner, his penthouse looms just across a stretch of manicured trees and rooftops. Close enough to watch. Close enough to control.

He's putting me in a cage and calling it a job.

"How is this my apartment?" I ask, but like earlier, he ignores me and heads inside.

The building is compact but luxurious. A mini-duplex with clean lines aan pool that overlooks the city. I hate pools, especially large ones. Their vastness always reminds me how alone I am. But this one is different-contained, controlled, like everything else in Carlos's world.

I scan for cameras while he's not looking. Three visible-one by the entrance, one covering the living area, one aimed at the pool. Standard security. Another reason this PA job is a hard no.

"The intercom by the gate connects directly to my building," he says, running his fingers along the marble countertop.

"When I call, you answer."

He's nuts.

"If I was meant to be a slave, I'd have been born in the 1600s."

He doesn't acknowledge my insult, just continues.

"New clothes will be delivered in..." he glances at his Hublot watch

"-fifteen minutes. Select what you want and return the rest."

"Can I say no?"

But he's already moving deeper into the apartment, inspecting every corner.

Currently, I'm drowning in his shirt and jeans-a humiliating reminder of last night. I'd demanded my own clothes back, but he'd simply said "dry cleaning" with the kind of finality that brooked no argument. The jeans hang loose despite the tie he provided as a belt, and his shirt drapes over me like I'm playing dress-up.

My fingers find the third camera in my pocket. Still there. I need to plant it somewhere-the VIP club or his warehouse.

"I can't be a personal assistant," I say to his back as he examines the security panel by the door.

"You need someone submissive."

He opens cabinets, checks the refrigerator that's already been stocked. Everything planned, everything controlled. Just like him.

"That's not me. But I can cook, supervise, any w..."

He turns so suddenly I don't have time to balance myself or imagine the blood his hands symbolize before they close around my waist as he lifts me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion.

The marble is cold against my thighs, but his hands burn through the fabric. I'm tall, but perched here with him standing between my legs, he still towers over me.

My stomach lurches. Not from the height. From the proximity.

My mother's throat. My father's chest. My brother's-

"What's in your apartment that made you almost kill us getting away from it?"

His voice cuts through the spiral. I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Marcus's training: Stay present.

"My husband."

The lie comes out steadier than I feel. His eyebrows draw together, and something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes.

"Husband." He repeats it with a deep tone and furrowed brows.

"He doesn't like other men around me. If he sees you..." I let the sentence trail off, watching his eyes narrow.

Carlos steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. His hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressed against my ribs. Making me feel everything Vaughn made me feel before.

Push him away. Reach for the gun at your ankle. Do something.

Gun. He knows I have a gun. I need better lies. He tilts his head to the side.

I don't move. Shouldn't. Because buried beneath the revulsion is something worse: curiosity. The same sick fascination that makes people slow down at car accidents.

"If he sees you, it won't end well."

His eyes turn dark and glaring, making his face a mask of something raging.

He lets go of me, but I can still see his neck veins protruding as he walks over to the mini-bar in the living room. He doesn't find what he wants.

A loud slam makes me jump

Before I can move to climb down, he strides toward me. Three seconds. That's all the warning I get before he's in front of me again, cigarette smoke curling between us like a threat as his hand wraps around my throat.

Firm enough to hold me in place, not enough to cut off air. An unwanted heat pools between my thighs.

"Is that why you have a Colt Mustang strapped around your knee?"

His voice lays something heavy on my throat.

"Tha...lia." My name drags out like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, and I'm drawn to the bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"Your... your gender isn't trustworthy."

I gaze away from him, but his grip turns me back to face him.

Empty silence heightens the awareness of us together. His eyes search me-from my eyes to my lips, then down my seated body before hovering on my lips again.

He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, puffing his cigarette before letting go of my throat.

My feet hit the floor and I walk past him, feeling his gaze glued to my back.

Within seconds, footsteps echo from behind me. Fast.

Then my head snaps back. Pain shoots across my scalp as he fists my hair and yanks me back against his shoulder.

I gasp, hands flying up instinctively to grab his wrist. The position forces my back to arch, my throat to expose, my body to curve into his.

Out of instinct, I twist his finger. He winces but doesn't let go.

I should fight harder. Heel to his toes. Move.

But I don't. Because when he pulls me flush against his chest, his scent gets me pinned: citrus and oud and something darker underneath. The same scent I've been inhaling from his shirt all day, that's been surrounding me like smoke.

"Does your husband know you're in my apartment?" His other hand slides to my lower back, fingertips pressing just above my waistband, igniting currents through me. I hate it. Hate that my body responds to the same hands that-

"Wearing my clothes, smelling like me, about to get your life to revolve around me?" His nails dig further into my waist.

A startled rush of air slip from me.

I elbow him in the side, but he just presses tighter.

"Careful."

"Careful"

That's all he says as he holds my hand hostage, pulling me closer to his chest and my traitorous nipple harden beneath his shirt as I lean into his touch.

You're sick. This is sick.

"Does he, pretty doll?" He rumbles low into my ear. The sound is a feathering touch to my nerves, I clench my stomach and core together.

"You have my phone. I'm not doing this job, and I don't answer to any man." Despite my words, I close my eyes and breathe him in when he pulls me closer.

"You must not know me if you think you can enter my house, disobey me, then waltz out on your own accord."

The deepness of his voice and the authority take hold of me.

Before I can speak, he lets me go.

The absence of his touch feels like cold water. I should be relieved-I AM relieved, but my skin still burns where his hands were. My scalp tingles from where he pulled my hair. My throat remembers the pressure of his fingers.

I'm standing here in his apartment, surrounded by him, wanting him, and I can't remember the last time I hated myself this much.

My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists before he can see.

I need air. Time away from him. Before I forget why I'm here.

"We're going to the warehouse," he says, tossing car keys at me.

I catch them midair. Warehouse? Great!

Carlos eyes me, and I control the smile that's trying to surface.

"I can't wear your clothes in front of your men!"

But he's already out the door.

Good. Perfect time to establish boundaries.

I head to the kitchen and grab cereal, milk, a bowl. The apartment unsettles me. The layout matches mine too closely to be coincidence.

Same lilac wall paint, structure but I push the thought aside.

I settle on the sofa and eat slowly, deliberately.

The TV won't turn on. Probably controlled by his system.

Everything here is controlled by him. Except me.

The door slams open.

I don't look up. Just take another bite of cereal, letting the crunch fill the silence between us.

Seven steps and he's in front of me.

I raise the spoon to my mouth-

He snatches the bowl and hurls it at the wall. Ceramic shatters. Milk drips down the wallpaper.

Before I can react, I'm upside down over his shoulder, his arm an iron bar across the back of my thighs.

"I'm not your fucking puppy!" I thrash against his grip, but it's like fighting stone.

He doesn't answer. Just carries me outside into cold air and dumps me into the driver's seat of his car.

"Drive."

The rumble of his voice and darkness of his eyes should make me obedient, but as I said, I'm no puppy.

"No can do. If I needed to be controlled, I'd have come with a leash."

The venom in my words bypasses him. He looks amused instead of disrespected.

"Your husband didn't get you a leash?"

I roll my eyes.

"Our sex life is no business of yours."

My words come out as harsh as intended.

Something cold replaces the darkness that marred his eyes earlier. They stay glued on me, searching, calculating.

Whatever he sees takes him out of the car and over to my side.

"You can go home."

Confusion creases my forehead.

"You can go meet your husband." He takes the keys from me, lifts me out, then drives off.

I stand there, confused and cold. Facing "my apartment." Surrounded by empty road and trees.

The more I look at it, the more it resembles my building. Not just the size, but the architecture.

I walk to the back of the house. A large gate separates me from his glass doors. Luxurious, sleek, proof of wealth.

He really lives in a comfortable apartment, and that stings. He should be burning, buried with my family, miserable.

The need to crash through his glass surges up, but I calm myself. He has cameras that will capture me, and the glass is highly likely reinforced, unbreakable.

Instead, I do something else.

I pluck a few flowers from the mini garden and squeeze their juice onto each CCTV lens.

Minutes later, happy with myself, the sun is already a burning glow. I take a few steps outside his premises, and a van arrives.

Two men and a woman step out.

"Good morning, ma'am."

I scan their faces, then the van's name. The clothes.

"Are you Miss Thalia?" one guy asks.

"Yes, I am. You're here with my clothes, right?"

All three beam.

"You'll deliver them somewhere else, but drop me at the bus stop first."

They look wary. As they should be.

"From Carlos for Thalia. His PA?"

They bite their lips, and one of the men takes in my outfit.

"Or should I say his wife?"

The woman's eyes widen. The men gulp.

Wife. I should correct them. Should make it clear I'm just an employee, barely even that. But something stops me. Let the rumor spread. Let Carlos hear it from his own people. Let him deal with the mess of assumptions.

"Let's go." They oblige.

En route, I book a ride home.

Two gifts: free clothes and time off.

I feel great.