Chapter 2
Evelyn's POV
The smell of burning skin fills the air. Blisters form instantly on my shoulder where the cigar burned into my skin.
Natalie covers her nose and steps back, one hand on her stomach.
"Oh my God..." Her voice shakes. "I'm sorry, the smell of blood makes me sick..."
She turns to Grayson, eyes welling up. "This is all my fault..."
"You didn't do anything wrong." Grayson steadies her, then looks at me. Cold. "Still on the floor? Planning to put on more of a show?"
I push myself up against the wall.
The burn on my shoulder and the hole through my palm flare at the same time. Pain makes me shake, but I bite down and don't make a sound.
Lucas stands next to Natalie. He doesn't look at me once.
I turn toward the stairs.
I try the master bedroom door.
The fingerprint lock flashes red.
"Mrs. Hart." The housekeeper comes down, carrying my suitcase. "The master bedroom belongs to Miss Sterling now. Your things are packed. Mr. Hart has arranged for you to stay in the storage room."
The storage room is at the end of the first floor.
The moment I open the door, that familiar tightness grips my throat.
Less than a hundred square feet. A single bed against the wall, my luggage beside it.
Designer dresses stuffed carelessly into the case, expensive fabric wrinkled and crushed.
Broken glass in the corner.
I walk over and see the shattered frame.
Our wedding photo. We never had a marriage certificate, but I begged for weeks before he agreed to this one picture.
Someone scratched out his face.
My throat tightens.
The claustrophobia started seven years ago. Hiding from enemies, we lived in every cramped space you can imagine. Basements, car trunks, safe rooms.
He knows about this.
But he put me here anyway.
I remember the first time he brought me to this house, holding my hand as we walked upstairs.
"This is your home now." He opened the master bedroom door. "Our room."
That day he'd just survived a shootout. Blood still on his suit.
"Once I deal with those bastards, I'll give you a wedding the whole city will talk about."
Now a wedding dress hangs on the master bedroom balcony.
The fabric moves in the night breeze, crystals catching moonlight.
Hers.
And I'm locked in a storage room, struggling to breathe.
Two in the morning. The door opens.
Grayson comes in with a medical kit, no lights, just his phone for illumination.
"Don't move."
His voice is low, like he's worried about waking someone upstairs.
He pulls my hand over, takes out a suture needle.
When the needle goes through the skin, I clench my jaw.
He stares at the blood seeping out. His breathing gets heavier. Something sick flickers in his eyes. Years of violence did that to him.
After stitching my hand, he pushes my shirt aside.
The scar below my collarbone is visible.
Seven years ago. The first bullet. Grazed bone, tore open flesh, wouldn't stop bleeding.
His fingers trace it, then move to the same spot on his collarbone.
There used to be a scar there too.
He carved it into his own skin with a knife. Blood dripped on the floor.
"We're the same," he said.
Now that scar is gone.
Plastic surgery. Clean work. His skin looks untouched.
Because Natalie said scars look ugly.
He speaks quietly. "I'll get your mom's insurance back. I'll call them tomorrow."
I push him away.
I notice the tattoo on his inner wrist. Ornate letters. Her initials.
That skin used to have a lipstick mark I used to leave there.
Every time we made love, I'd mark that spot. He'd keep it for days without washing it off.
Our private game.
Now permanent ink covers it.
I shove him back. Start retching.
Black blood comes up.
He frowns and stands. Pulls a black card from his robe, tosses it on the bed.
"Take it. Stop saying you're broke."
He adjusts his robe, irritation written all over his face. "You know what I went through getting you back from Eastside? I just made peace with them. Then you show up on their turf."
I look at him. "Why don't you ask why I went there?"
"Why?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "What's your excuse?"
"Because she told me my mother's ashes were in that warehouse."
A few seconds of silence.
His expression shifts from annoyed to angry.
"This again?" His voice drops. "Threatening me with your mother?"
"I'm not threatening you." I keep my voice level. "She said someone took the urn from the funeral home. Said she found out it was in that warehouse. When I got there, the urn was smashed. Ashes everywhere. Then his men showed up. She planned the whole thing."
He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his temper.
"Enough! Your mother is fine! She's in the hospital! Stop making shit up to go after her!"
I laugh bitterly. "Believe what you want. The ashes are gone either way."
His fists curl, veins standing out.
"Last warning." He steps closer. "Say anything like this again, I'm not just canceling your mom's insurance. You won't see Lucas either."
He turns toward the door.
He stops at the threshold. "Three days. The wedding. You're playing piano."
"Get yourself together." He doesn't look back. "We need live music. You used to be professional, right? That's all you're good for now."
