Page 82 of Twisted Fate

I shove my cock back into my pants, zipping myself up as I grab the knife. If she wakes up faster than I think she will, I don’t want anything sharp nearby. The dining room is a mess, but I don’t have time to deal with that.

I toss the knife into the sink as I stride past the kitchen and toward the stairs, my mind racing. I need to get her out of here. Now. Before she wakes up, before whoever sent her realizes she's failed. I have no idea what her protocol was, what she was meant to do after she killed me, if there was a clock on her mission. Likely there was. There would be an extraction. Cleaners. Someone is expecting her to check in, and I could have minutes, or hours. Probably not days, based on how long it’s been already since she’s come into my life.

For some reason, she waited this long. A part of me wants to think that she was letting the clock run out—that she was pushing it off, taking as long as possible.

My father would say that’s weakness, thinking that there’s anything but cold calculation in a woman like that, that she might have started to develop some of the same feelings, that there was some kernel of truth to everything we’ve shared together.

For once, he might be right.

I take the stairs two at a time to the upper level where the master bedroom is, footsteps echoing as I shove the door open. The bedroom is pristine—the bed neatly made, everything in its place. This morning, it felt warm and inviting when I leftSophiain the bed, when I took one last look at her before I left for the day, marveling at how beautiful she looked tangled up in my white sheets. When I thought she was my wife—when I believed the lie that there was anus.

I grab a duffel bag from the closet, throwing it onto the bed before yanking open drawers. I don't have time to be selective. A handful of my shirts, pants, underwear. Toiletries from the bathroom. My fingers hesitate over her things, rage threatening to overtake me again.

She tried to kill me.

Mywifetried to kill me.

I’m used to the idea that there might be attempts on my life—it’s part of why I trained so thoroughly in self-defense and weapons, because I didn’t want to rely on security all of the time. I wanted to be able to have privacy at times. It’s why I bought this penthouse. I didn’t want to always have to have a bodyguard.

I just never expected the danger to come from someone so close to me.

I grab a few of her things—underwear, a couple of pairs of jeans, a dress, a few shirts. I don’t have a plan for what comes next after we get out of here, but I can tell from the amount of clothes I’m shoving into the bag that I don’t plan on killing her. If I did, she wouldn’t need clothes.

You’re just taking precautions. In case she has a better explanation.I don’t know what explanation there could possibly be, but I know that a part of me doesn’t want her dead.

I slide open the nightstand drawer with a soft sound, and grab a pair of police-grade handcuffs out of it. I’d had ideas for these, and my jaw tightens at the thought that I’m going to be using them on my wife in a very different capacity than I’d imagined. The tangle of emotions in my chest feels almost impossible to sort through—rage, betrayal, resentment…and alonging for this to be different, for a resolution that isn’t the one that seems the most obvious right now. I look at the handcuffs as I zip up the duffel bag and throw it over one shoulder, and despite everything, I feel my cock twitch at the thought of Valentina cuffed and stretched out on the bed, her wide eyes staring up at me with that look of desire that I know so well.

Disgust and desire ripple through me, twining together in a way that feels so unfamiliar that a shudder runs down my spine. I go to a drawer, grabbing cash, a burner phone, and a gun, and shove the latter into my waistband as I spin on my heel and hurry back down to where I left her.

Back downstairs, she hasn't moved. Her chest rises and falls steadily, her face peaceful in unconsciousness. It's hard to believe this woman tried to kill me minutes ago.

Kneeling beside her, I snap one cuff around her wrist, then shift her limp body onto its side until I can secure her other wrist behind her back. The metal clicks into place, and I check to make sure they're tight enough she can't slip free if she wakes up en route, but not so tight they'll cut off circulation.

I shouldn't care about her comfort. She didn’t care about mine when she was trying to kill me, when we were fighting our way through the apartment. But some part of me still does, even though I know it’s foolish.She’d try to kill me if she were awake and free right now.

But I don’t entirely believe that. We both had our moment, the point in the fight where she could have killed me, and I could have killed her. We both hesitated. There’s a reason for that, I know.

One that I can’t think about right now.

Her skirt is still hiked up around her waist, her thighs bare and sticky. I tug the fabric down to cover her, a strange sense of protectiveness warring with my anger. I need answers more than anything else right now.

I hoist her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, her body warm and pliant against mine. She's not light—all lean muscle beneath those slender curves—but at least all of my weightlifting is coming in handy. I adjust the duffel on my other shoulder, and I head for the private elevator that leads directly to the parking garage.

The ride down is silent except for the mechanical hum of the elevator and my own breathing, and I avoid looking in either of the mirrored walls, keeping my gaze fixed on the doors in front of me. I don’t want to see her slung over my shoulder like this, unconscious and helpless. I keep expecting her to wake, to start fighting, but she remains still.

I wonder if her name really is Valentina. If a single thing that’s come out of her mouth has ever been true.

The garage is empty and silent at this hour. Not many others live in the building, with most of the floors built to have one or two lavish, sprawling apartments per floor, and I rarely see the other residents. There’s a handful of other luxury vehicles parked here, but I head toward the back where my collection is waiting. I pass by the Porsche, the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, and head for the black Mercedes G-Wagon. Practical but powerful, with tinted windows and reinforced everything, taken to an aftermarket specialist who makes sure crime bosses and gangsters of all types have cars resistant to bullets and anything else he can proof them against.

Right now, I want bulletproof glass between me and whoever hired Sophia—Valentina. Or whatever her name actually is.

I lay her in the passenger seat, careful not to bang her head against the doorframe. Her hair falls across her face as she lolls back against the headrest, and I resist the urge to brush it away, my chest clenching at the same moment that my fist does. Instead, I secure the seatbelt across her chest, clicking it into place. If she wakes while we're driving, at least she'llbe restrained by more than just the cuffs. And if some other accident were to befall us, I don’t want her harmed.

If anyone or anything is going to harm her, it’s going to be me. But only once I know the truth—and once I know ifeverythinghas really been a lie.

I throw the duffel into the backseat and circle around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel. The engine purrs to life, and I pull out of the garage, nodding to the night security guard at the exit gate, who doesn't question why my wife appears to be sleeping in the passenger seat.Good, I can’t help but think as I pull out onto the road. He's paid well not to ask questions.

The Miami streets are still busy despite the late hour. The sidewalks are clogged with locals and tourists alike, the echo of music from the clubs filtering faintly through the air from outside, neon lights reflecting off the windshield as I navigate through downtown. I keep glancing sideways at my unconscious wife, watching for any sign she's waking up. So far, nothing.

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