The city lights blend in streaks of red and gold as we cut through the night. I can finally let myself breathe as Nate puts more and more distance between us and the party. At a stop, he leans back just enough for his words to carry over the engine.

  “Was the party worth the lecture you’ll be getting from my brother?”

  “I don’t even understand how parties like that exist,” I say flatly, trying and failing to erase the images from my mind.

  Nate chuckles, but it’s not lighthearted. It’s dark. Like he knows. “Locke hired you for your skills. Clearly, not your common sense.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I reply, not entirely sure I’m hiding the embarrassment in my voice.

  “It just might do you some good to listen to my brother for once.”

  I arch a brow. “Oh, you mean just let him control everything I do? Because the jail threats aren’t enough?”

  Nate just shrugs. “You brought this on yourself, girl. All the lying and stealing has finally caught up with you.”

  I don’t reply. I know what he’s saying is the truth; I just don’t think I’m ready to face it.

  Nate keeps quiet for the rest of the ride home. It’s only when he’s parked his motorcycle at the top of Locke’s gravel driveway that he speaks again.

  “Listen. Do your job. Stop acting like you have something to prove.” He pauses to light another cigarette. I can’t help but shake my head. These men and their smoking habits.

  “Most importantly, get to know him. You might be surprised at how much the two of you actually have in common.”

  My brow furrows at him. “How could you possibly know what we have in common?”

  He shrugs. “You both give off the same ‘lone wolf, can’t trust anyone but myself’ vibe. You must have something in common.”

  I can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up in my chest.

  Nate’s phone lets out a loud *ding* that echoes through the night's calm air. He glances at it, then back up at me.

  “Locke is on his way. He said you should pack a bag; you have a flight in an hour.”

  Chapter 20

  ARDEN

  I’m basking in the small mercy of a hot shower when Locke walks through the door. I hear him call out for me as I turn the water off and wrap a plush white towel around my body.

  My overstuffed duffel bag is already packed and waiting on the bed. Without any details about the trip, I packed everything that fit.

  I throw on my most comfortable sweatpants and hoodie. I have no idea how long this flight will be, and wherever we’re going, I want to be comfortable.

  Locke’s voice echoes down the hallway as he makes his way to my room. “Arden?”

  “I’m almost ready!” I call back.

  “Are you dressed?” is all he says before turning the handle and opening the door.

  I level him with a flat stare as he walks in and makes himself comfortable on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Well, I’m dressed. Why do I get the feeling that you were hoping I wasn’t?”

  He doesn’t laugh or smirk. The corners of his lips don’t even twitch. He’s just looking at me with that unreadable expression I’ve become all too familiar with. I just wait, taking the moment to towel dry my hair.

  “Never do that to me again.”

  I blink at him. “To you?”

  “Yes, to me. Do you even realize what that’s like? To watch you sneak away? Knowing you’re going exactly where I told you not to, just to spite me?”

  He’s completely serious. This doesn’t seem like just a control issue. He’s actually hurt?

  “I don’t think you understand what this place is actually like. You could have gotten into some deep shit.”

  “I don’t think I understood how deranged it actually is. But trust me, after the glimpse I got tonight, I fully believe you.”

  I walk over to the bed, my footsteps soft against the carpet, and stop at the foot. I pretend I want to add my makeup bag to the practically overflowing duffel, the zipper straining as I close it back up. But truly, I just want to feel his warmth near me.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he mutters.

  “Thanks for coming to get me.” I stare down at him. The way he’s hunched over. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, eyes glued to the floor. He looks exhausted.

  He turns his head, and his gaze lifts to mine. “What else would I have done?”

  I just stare. “You could have… not come.” I shrug. “No one’s ever come to save me before,” I admit, batting my eyelashes playfully, trying to make light of it. But it’s the honest truth.

  His lips finally twitch; there’s a hint of a smile there now. Just enough to let me know he’s no longer angry.

  He stands, grabbing my bag and throwing the long strap over his shoulder. “We should go. It’s a long flight to Italy, and we’re on a rigid timeline.”

  Italy. I don’t even have a passport in my bag, but somehow Locke makes it sound inevitable. Like I was always going, whether I wanted to or not. I swallow the hundred questions fighting their way up my throat and give him a smile instead.

  Despite the shock, Italy sounds amazing. I’ll trust that he has the details worked out.

  Minutes later, I’m being shoved into a car. It’s just after 2 a.m., and I desperately want to be sleeping. Instead, we’re being driven to the airport in another blacked-out SUV.

  Of course we don’t pull up at a normal airport. Why would we? We arrive at a sleek building with mirrored windows that looks more like a private club than anything air-travel related. No signs. No lines. Just a guy in a suit who quickly opens the door and helps me out of the car. Locke doesn’t say a word as he exits behind me.

  The same guy grabs our bags as Locke guides me through the sleek sliding doors with his hand on the small of my back. He’s been doing that a lot.

  I’m still processing the fact that I’m about to hop on a plane with a man I was shamelessly flirting with in front of his supermodel ex-girlfriend a few hours ago, who also just helped me escape a party straight out of hell.

  Someone tell me how this became my Friday night?

  The inside of the terminal, if you can even call it that, has velvet chairs, a small coffee bar, and someone handing me a flute of champagne as I walk in. I still can’t get used to these minor details that are somehow normal in this world.

  Before I can get comfortable, or make a cup of coffee, we’re already being ushered onto the tarmac. At least the plane looks normal from the outside. Smaller than other planes I’ve been on, but normal. I walk up the small set of stairs, Locke following behind me, and step in.

  I lied. This is anything but normal.

  I’m met with a view of wide, cream-colored leather seats, two facing each other on each side of the aisle. There’s a small sitting area with a couch lining the wall and a TV stand across from it. Wood panels conceal another space in the back, but I’m too stunned to wonder what might be behind them.

  I sink into one of the plush seats; it’s far more comfortable than any other plane seat I’ve ever been in, and there’s plenty of room to stretch my legs.

  Locke chooses the seat directly across from me. I’m still holding my champagne as a woman in a fitted navy uniform sets a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the ledge next to him. She mutters something about takeoff and mentions the length of our flight: eleven hours.

  Eleven hours in the sky. With him. With my own thoughts. I’m not sure which is worse.

  “Why, exactly, are we suddenly on a plane to Italy?” The words spill out before I have a chance to ponder why he might be keeping that information from me.

  His lips spread in a wide grin. “It’s a surprise.”

  “A surprise? For me?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t like surprises. Can’t you just tell me?”

  He chuckles, shaking his head slightly and sipping his fresh glass of whiskey. “Nope, you’ll just have to wait.”

  I cross my arms, pouting for a moment before leaning back and downing what’s left of my champagne. Then, I close my eyes, hoping I’ll finally be able to get some sleep after the long night we’ve had.

  They don’t stay closed long before I hear his familiar voice.

  “Another?” My eyes snap open, and I see Locke standing right in front of me.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk already?” I snap back.

  He shrugs. “Just trying to make this flight tolerable.”

  “For you or for me?”

  He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches like he’s amused by the question.

  “I don’t want to get drunk; I just want to sleep,” I add.

  He says nothing in return. Instead, he drops into a crouch, his shoulder brushing my knee as he unlatches a hidden compartment at the base of my seat.

  He pulls out a small, plush blanket, shaking it open in front of him. The movement makes me flinch. It’s a small reaction, but he notices and pauses.

  I spent years tucking blankets around a woman who didn’t even seem to feel them, checking for a pulse that eventually wasn’t there. I don’t need his version of care. I don’t want anybody looking after me.

  Still, as he leans in to drape the cashmere over my lap, his smoky, woodsy scent hits me. Suddenly, I forget I don’t want this. I forget how to breathe.

  “Get comfortable,” he mutters, the words sharp in the quiet space, but he doesn’t move. He stays right in front of me, waiting, his gaze unwavering.

  I don’t move, just mutter a quiet “thanks” before closing my eyes again.

  Then, he slowly picks up his glass and relaxes back into his own seat.

  Chapter 21

  LOCKE

  It’s been over an hour, and neither of us has slept. We haven’t said a single word to each other either, but we don’t need to.

  Every second on this plane tightens the tension between us. I should say something, break the silence, maybe tell her what surprise is waiting for us in Italy. But I can’t rip my eyes away from the curve of her perfect lips.

  The events of the night play on a loop in my head. Nate dropping her off at my door, Luke’s party, whatever that moment was in front of Sienna. Any of those should have shaken her up. Instead, she’s sitting across from me with her head tilted back and eyes closed. Pretending to sleep again, or trying to.

  Her eyelashes flutter, and she crosses her legs slowly. Can she sense that I’m watching?

  “Are you always this fun on international flights?” I ask. A playful overtone lacing the words.

  She doesn’t move right away, but it’s like a challenge when she fully opens her eyes. “Are you always this annoying at 3 a.m.?” she shoots back, with fire in her eyes and a raspy voice from the half-sleep.

  There she is.

  I find myself huffing a quiet laugh; the sound vibrating in the small space between us.

  “What’s so funny?” she demands, her eyes narrowing as she shifts in her seat.

  “Oh, nothing,” I murmur, ice clinking against the glass as I pour another whiskey. “I was just thinking about the look on Sienna’s face earlier. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone leave her that speechless.”

  Her expression falters for a split second, her gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. “I was just playing her game.”

  “Playing?” I arch a brow, my voice dropping to a low rumble. “You were marking your territory, and we both know it.”

  That gets to her, at least a little. She doesn’t admit it, but she doesn’t deny it, either. She hesitates for a second too long before responding.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Locke,” she whispers, though her pulse is visibly thrumming at the base of her throat. “I just wasn’t about to let a woman like that think she had the upper hand.”

  My gaze drops, snagging on the curve of her lips again. I can practically feel the heat coming off her.

  “And you think you have it?” I murmur, my voice dropping lower. “The upper hand?”

  Before she can answer, I reach for the bottle again, the amber liquid catching the dim cabin lighting as I pour a second glass. I hold it out to her, forcing her to lean into my space to take it. She takes the glass and grabs the bottle with her other hand, placing it on the ledge next to her seat.

  I watch her lips part, just a fraction, like she’s caught between a retort and a confession. We lock eyes, and her gaze burns hotter; it almost reminds me of the night we met. For a second, part of me wonders if she’ll close the last few inches between us and straddle me right here.

  But she doesn’t.

  Instead, those perfect lips close around the glass, and the whiskey disappears in one swift motion. She doesn’t look away. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Locke,” she says, her voice regaining that sharp, untouchable edge.

  “Is that a warning?” I murmur, leaning across the aisle until I’m inches from her. “Because I’ve never been one to play it safe.”

  She lets out a dry, breathless laugh. “It’s an observation. You like the idea of me. The mystery. But you’d have no idea what to do with the reality once you actually have it.”

  “Then give it to me,” I challenge, my voice dropping to a rough rumble that vibrates in my chest. “Let’s find out exactly how much reality I can handle.”

  I stand, desperately needing to move, and when I step in her direction, I ensure it’s with intention. I lean over her to reclaim the bottle from the ledge, and the air between us practically sparks.

  She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back. Instead, she tilts her chin up, her gaze slowly raking over me with an intensity that makes my blood turn to fire.

  “No, Locke,” she whispers, the corner of her mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. “I think you should go to sleep.”

  The words are a dismissal, but the look in her eyes is a dare. It’s a punch straight to the gut. She’s calling my bluff, telling me to back off because she knows exactly how close I am to cracking.

  A slow, sharp smile of my own takes shape. Not because I’m happy, but because the gloves are officially off. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s enjoying every second of watching me struggle.

  “Fine,” I say, my hand tightening around my glass.

  I take a final, heavy pour of whiskey, the scent of her jasmine perfume and the sharp sting of the alcohol blurring into one intoxicating haze.

  She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat as if the conversation is over. But the quickened rise and fall of her chest give her away. She isn’t sleeping. She’s waiting.

  I drop back into my seat across from her, my heart hammering a frenzied rhythm I can’t control. I know one thing for sure: I won’t be sleeping one goddamn minute of this flight.

  I don’t sleep.

  I don’t even close my eyes.

  I just sit, watching her. The way her pulse flutters in her throat. The way her lips part when she exhales. She’s trying to pretend she’s calm, but I can feel her tension. I can almost taste it.

  She has no idea what she’s done to me. I swore I’d never let another woman get this close. Never give Luke another target to aim at. It’s too late now; I’m already past the point of no return.

  When we step off this plane and she tries to pretend none of this ever happened, I already know I’ll touch her again.

  Not because I want to.

  Because I need to.

  Because she’s mine, whether or not she wants to admit it yet.

  Chapter 22

  LOCKE

  We land in Verona around 10 p.m. Street lamps spill pools of golden light onto the cobblestones, and the rhythmic clicking of her boots echoes through the cool night air as we head toward the car. Every step she takes draws my attention like a magnet I can’t pull away from.

  She says nothing. Just slips into the back seat, legs crossed, eyes forward like I’m not even here. I slide in next to her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, but I keep my hands to myself — for now.

  The driver is a shadow in the front seat, quiet and discreet. The silence inside the car rings even louder in my ears than the jet engines we just left behind.

  Outside, Verona creeps past the windows in slow motion. Candlelight flickers on tables in crowded piazzas, where clusters of people linger over late dinners and last glasses of wine. Warmth glows from behind shuttered windows and spills over balconies heavy with flowers.

  It’s the kind of beauty that asks nothing of you, just exists to be admired. Arden tries to hide it, but I see that glimmer in her eyes. She can’t get enough.

  I’m not looking at any of it, not really.

  I only see her.

  I watch the way she bites the inside of her cheek, the tension in her shoulders, the flicker in her eyes she can’t hide. She’s trying not to betray herself, not to give anything away. But I can see the cracks forming in her armor.

  The drive stretches on, agonizingly slow, until we finally roll to a stop in front of the villa. It’s a weathered stone building, with a wrought-iron gate and candles flickering in the windows, casting jagged shadows across the ivy climbing its walls. It’s the kind of place that would be soft and romantic if the air between us weren’t already so charged it feels ready to explode.

  She steps out first, and I follow immediately, close enough to catch the sway of her hair, the jasmine scent of her perfume rolling off her body. Every step she takes is mine to anticipate. Every glance she thinks she hides, I see.

  It’s almost laughable how she still carries herself with that untouchable poise, pretending she’s in control when we both know the very air between us is a live wire.

  The moment we’re through the door, the energy shifts. There’s no staff. No distractions. No aisle between us. Just stone walls, low lights, and the heavy silence of the villa.

  “Arden.” Her name is a low vibration in my throat. I don’t hide the hunger anymore. The flight is over. The wait is, too.

 

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