Page 31 of Once A Villain

After my shower, I wrap a towel around myself and face the mirror. My hair’s a mess, my skin pale, and bruises from the basement blossom across my skin. There’s a nasty cut on my arm from where the concrete scraped me.

This isn’t who I am. I refuse to be a victim, not to him, not to anyone.

Axel Hawthorne will not break me.

I blow-dry my hair and brush it until it falls around my shoulders like it used to—smooth, voluminous. I take my time with my makeup, layering on concealer, blush, and mascara like war paint. I need to look perfect, to claw back a sliver of my old self.

When I’m done, I slip into beige wide-leg trousers and a cropped silk blouse that shows off my toned abs and accentuates the curve of my hips.

Then I strut to the closet and grab a pair of gold strappy heels. This outfit is perfect and exactly what I need to boost my confidence. The bruises are hidden, and I look like the Rory Valentine I remember—minus the disgusting metal collar locked around my neck.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway. Kane trailing at my heels. I head downstairs, exploring my prison.

Weak light filters through the windows, but it does nothing to soften the shadows stretching across the floor. At the back window, I pause. A pool glitters under the sun, framed by a wall of dense forest.

Walking through the house, the wealth is impossible to ignore—exquisite paintings, polished sculptures. But it all feels so cold and empty, like a showroom rather than a home. This place might be beautiful, but it’s a fucking mausoleum. Just like the man who brought me here.

On the main level, my phone buzzes with another flurry of texts from Spencer. I assure him I’ll be there and ignore the rest of his messages. Kane trots beside me, tail wagging, as I navigate the maze of this gilded prison.

I finally stumble into the kitchen: sleek, modern, and excessively shiny. White cabinets, black granite counters, stainless steel appliances—every gadget imaginable. There’s a massive center island, multiple refrigerators stocked with every conceivable food and drink, and a grand fireplace that dominates one wall. The dining table could easily host a small army.

“Mrs. Hawthorne.” A woman’s voice startles me. She’s older, with short black hair and warm brown eyes. “I’m Rosa. Can I get you something to eat?”

“Please call me Rory.”Mrs. Hawthorne?Not in this lifetime.

I notice her Italian accent and, with a hint of my rusty Italian, ask where she’s from in Italy.

“Di che parte d’Italia sei?”

Rosa’s eyes widen, then brighten with a smile that reaches her eyes. She pulls me into a warm hug and reveals her family is from Milan. We exchange stories while she gives me the grand tour of the kitchen.

My mother adored Italy. She had a villa in Venice and spoke fluent Italian. I spent every summer there as a kid, soaking up the language and culture. Rosa seems delighted to chat with me, and her company is a welcome distraction.

She’s been with the Hawthornes for years and knows their history inside and out. I’m not interested in Axe’s story, but the rest of the family? That piques my curiosity.

“You speak Italian?” A deep voice startles me, and I turn to find Griffen standing in the doorway. I’d noticed him at the wedding—could’ve sworn I was seeing double. He and Axe are like mirror images, though Axe is bulkier and has more tattoos. “Well, that’s unexpected. I’m Griffen, Axel’s cousin.” He winks, and I can’t help but smile.

Rosa mutters something about him being the messy Hawthorne in Italian, and I stifle a laugh.

“Rory,” I introduce myself, sizing him up.

He’s got that laid-back vibe I didn’t expect—tousled brown hair, a scruffy face, and casual black T-shirt and joggers that show off his muscular body.

Another Hawthorne? Meh. But Griffen looks more approachable than Axe.

“So, what other surprises are you hiding?” His playful grin is almost contagious as Rosa slips out, leaving us alone.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” I reply with a shrug, playing along with his teasing.

He hums, his eyes lingering on my exposed stomach. “I think I’d like that.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re not so bad for a Hawthorne,” I tease. “Do you live here?”

“I do. Crashing in one of the guest rooms between missions. It’s convenient.” His easy charm catches me off guard, his humor slipping in where I don’t expect it. Compared to his cousin, Griffen’s a goddamn breath of fresh air.

I glance at the clock, frustration creeping in.

His brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

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