The guards didn't say a single word as they dragged me down the hallway. I twisted, kicked and tried to wrench myself free, but their grip only clamped harder. The metal digging into the bruises that were blooming beneath my skin. Their footsteps were heavy, unbothered, hauling me like cargo across the corridors.
And through it all, his taste still burned on my mouth.
Syrup dried sticky against my chin, a humiliating reminder of the mess we've made. No matter how hard I tried to shove the memory aside, it clung to me. The rough way he grabbed me. The way he kissed me, with all his rage, his hunger. The damn near ruin of it. My mind couldn't stop replaying it all, over and over, like it was refusing to let go.
When we finally reached my bedroom door, they stopped. I leaned forward, trying to glimpse the way they unlocked it, but one guard shifted his body, blocking the view. The other jammed a key into my cuffs. Their movement on autopilot, like they've done this a million times.
Then the metal around my wrists finally clicked open.
I barely had time to jerk my hands away, maybe run, claw at their faces, something, before one of them shoved me so hard, the breath snapped out of my chest. I hit the ground on my knees, palms slapping the cold floor as my room swallowed me whole.
Pain shot up my arms. Fury followed.
I surged to my feet and launched myself at them, but they were faster.
The door slammed in my face.
And the lock slid into place with soft, final clicks. Too gentle a sound for how violently they had trapped me inside.
"Fuck you all!" I snarled, slamming my fist against the wood. Pain shot up my bandaged wrists like fire, and I hissed through my teeth, clutching it. "You'll pay for all this! You'll pay for it! Mark my words!"
Silence.
Just my breath, uneven and shaking. My heartbeat pounding too hard in my chest. The dull ache of all my bruises beginning to bloom.
I pressed my forehead to the door, wincing as my wrists throbbed. Every part of me shook. Rage, exhaustion, humiliation, hunger...each one of them knotted into the other until I couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
And honestly, I didn't have the strength left to untangle any of it.
Tears stung the back of my eyes.
He had kissed me like he despised himself for wanting me. Like the hunger between us was something filthy, something he couldn't control. It made something inside me twist and burn, until I wanted to scream, because I didn't understand it myself either.
He was supposed to be my enemy. The man I was ordered to kill.
So why couldn't I do it? Why the fuck did I save him?
If I hadn't gave in to my instincts so recklessly, I would already be on my plane home. Preparing to marry Dario. Preparing to inherit my family's empire, the legacy every man in our Famiglia would've died for. The one seat no woman had ever been given, except me.
And yet...thinking about it left me hollow.
I slid down the door until my knees hit the floor with a dull thud. I curled forward, my head resting against the wood. Until finally, fucking finally, I broke.
The tears came raw and silent, shaking out of me. For being weak. For being pathetic. For not knowing what the hell I wanted anymore.
Power. Respect. The empire waiting back home.
I had been raised to take it all.
So why did the thought of killing Alexandre, turn my stomach? Why did he feel wrong? And why did that ache felt worse than anything?
"Isolda," a woman's voice called from the other side of the door. Familiar and calm, almost annoyingly so. Olga.
I sucked in a shaky breath, wiping my tear-streaked face with the back of my hand as I waited for whatever came next.
"I know you're crying," she said. Her thick Russian accent wrapped around the words like it always did. Blunt and unbothered. "Get away from the door."
My spine stiffened. How the fuck did she know?
"There's a camera inside your room," she added, as if she was merely commenting on the weather. "Did you not notice?"
My brows shot up. Of course. Of fucking course.
I turned slowly, scanning the room until I spotted it. Tucked into the corner where the wall met the ceiling, small enough to blend in, angled perfectly at the bed, and the door I was sitting in front of.
A hot wave of humiliation crashed into me.
"Are you kidding me," I whispered under my breath. "That motherfucker."
I shot up to my feet, grabbed the nearest object, a heavy lamp, and hurled it across the room with all my strength. I barely felt the pain on my wrists as I hurled it, fueled with all my rage. I just relished on the satisfaction when I saw it flew.
The lamp was too bulky. Too slow. It only arced upward, fell short and smashed against the wall in a useless explosion of ceramic.
Shards scattered across the floor.
And that camera still stared down at me, steady and unblinking.
Just like he would.
I didn't even register the click of the door behind me. The moment I spotted one of the larger broken pieces, I lunged for it. I barely wrapped my fingers around it before Olga yanked me sideways. My body slammed into the bed, my palms hitting the mattress, fingers twisting into the soft sheets as a sharp pulse of pain shot through my hands.
That was when I realized, that they had switched the bed while I was gone.
It wasn't the cold, hospital bed anymore. This one was a queen-sized frame with four carved wooden posts anchoring each corner. Dark and heavy, matching the rest of this suffocating room I was confined in. I hated it instantly.
I groaned and pushed myself upright just as the maids rushed in, silently sweeping up the shattered remains. Olga pried the jagged piece from my tight grip. Blood dripped onto the floor. Mine. But I didn't care.
One by one, the maids filed out, shutting the door behind them. I heard the lock turn. Leaving only Olga and I.
I wouldn't have known they were maids if not for the cleaning supplies. None of them wore uniforms. Neither did Olga, still dressed in her dark shirt and trousers.
"And here I thought you were the best assassin your clan ever produced," she snapped. "You didn't even notice the enormous camera staring right at you. And instead of preserving your strength, you act like you've got a death wish, constantly throwing yourself into trouble."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to look away. She was right, and I hated it. But I wasn't about to hand her the satisfaction of hearing me admit it.
"I don't care," I bit out. "I'm being kept here against my will. And I'll claw my way out if I have to."
Olga let out a humorless huff, dragging a hand down her face. I couldn't help but notice how beautiful she must've been, when she was younger.
"Of course you will," she said dryly. "You'd rather bleed out on the floor pathetically like this, than admit you're overwhelmed. You and Alexandre are exactly the same."
My breath hitched.
She continued, her voice sharp but tired, from years of experience, like she had been holding this back for far too long.
"Both of you were too stubborn to see what's right in front of you. He won't see you for what you truly are and you—" she jabbed a finger at me "—you just wouldn't pushing his buttons. You act like he's just your enemy, but trust me, lady, if her were only that, you'd be dead by now."
A pulse of heat shot through my chest. Anger, embarrassment and something else, twisting right beneath my ribs. I shoved it away.
"You're wrong—"
"Oh, spare me," she snapped. "You two are the most stubborn people I've ever met."
Her glare cut through me. Sharp and menacing. Too sharp, even. Too knowing.
"You're both looking right at the truth," she said, quieter now. "And still refusing to see it."