Page 149 of Black Castle

Foul.

She gags, tears pouring down her cheek. Her throat tightens, but before she can swallow it, a violent shudder wracks her body. The pressure coils in her chest and churns in her gut until she doubles over the bed, retching onto the floor.

A sigh—soft, almost disappointed, breaks out of Zev’s lips.

The fingers, cool and steady, slip into her hair, sweeping it away from her face as another wave of nausea overtakes her.

“You’re alright.” His voice is smooth, almost soothing as he strokes her hair with unsettling tenderness. “As long as you’ve learned your lesson.”

Chapter Forty-six

Vivienne

I’ll be going back to Russia tomorrow.”

Vivienne doesn’t flinch, and no movement from her body indicates that she heard or cares about the information the man sitting beside her just shared.

Her head rests on the window, empty eyes staring into nothing as the news of Ian Griswyk’s passing replays like a video on a loop in her head.

It has been nearly 72 hours, yet the buzz surrounding his death has refused to fade—unlike James Fadden’s, which though still under a futile investigation, barely made an impact. The media and law enforcement have latched onto the case, but every headline only deepens the frustration. It’s as if they are chasing a ghost.

How can a killer walk into a man’s house—walk, because with all they gathered, there was no sign of breaking in—stab, dismember him, claw out his heart, and set him on fire, and yet, no evidence has been found?

The killer was so professional he wiped his traces clean.

This issue made her begin to think about Isadora Rivera a lot. For some sick, twisted reason, it feels like she is starting to miss her, and she wonders why because her absence has been made obvious by the lack of new, fresh scars.

She knows if Isadora was around, she would have cracked this case already. She is a smart woman, always thinking ten steps ahead. If not for the treachery going on in her unit, she was supposed to have received multiple promotions by now. But because she is the ex-wife of a serial killer, the team doesn’t think she deserves more than she has been offered. This is another reason why her hatred for Vivienne is justified. Her father killed people, but Isadora is left to suffer for it.

But if she were here, she would have cracked the case by now. The process would have driven her mad. She would have drowned herself in alcohol, thrown tantrums, and needed a punching bag—her. But she would have unraveled the truth and exposed the monster sitting beside her. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be suffocating under this guilt, a relentless parasite gnawing at her soul, a cancer metastasizing in her chest.

“Did you catch what I said?” His gruff voice racks her back into the black SUV gliding down the familiar road that leads to her house. It has been another seven hours of school. But she would be lying if she remembered anything she was taught today. How can she concentrate when the news of Ian’s murder is what everyone seems to be talking about? And because she was once the man’s supposed girlfriend, she ended up as the main target of questions and fake sympathy.

“You are coming with me,” he says with a tone of finality. As if she is just supposed to nod her head to this like a subservient little dog. As if she is a child that has no right to an opinion.

“I can’t.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Too drained and emotionally wrecked to shape the words into the fury clawing at her from the inside.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says, his eyes fixed on his iPad, his tone infuriatingly calm.

Her fingers curl on her lap. “So what, is this an order?” She raises a brow, something maddening stirring in her gut as she glares at his though perfectly structured side profile.

“It’s not a request.” He still doesn’t spare her a glance. “We live at dawn.”

“No.” She shakes her head, defiance crackling through her like a live wire. “No, seriously, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to put me on a leash and drag me around like some pet then expect me to obey.”

He finally lifts his gaze. “You are not on a leash.” A pause. Then with a quiet, lethal certainty, “You’re mine. Which means you belong wherever I am.”

Vivienne lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yours?” Her voice rises, drenched in venom. She has had enough.

“You know you are literally so fucking delusional, right? Like what makes you think that just because you fuck me, you own me? Do you think that’s how relationship fucking works?” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I am not yours. Not your girlfriend. And God forbid, not your wife. So no, I’ll not be following you to some strange country because you’ve decided to play commander, Mr. Soldier.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. Something dark flickers in his gaze, brief but lethal, before he inhales sharply and shifts his attention to the soldier behind the wheel.

“Turn the car around.” The word slices through the air like a blade.

“What?” The questions spill from her lips, raw and breathless.

“To St. Michael’s Basilica,” he says, and though she can already spot the roof of her house a couple of blocks away, the tire screeches as the driver makes a bold U-turn until the car is skidding down the road again.

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