Page 17

"I’ve already told you why I did what I did," he says, his voice low, controlled. "There was no other choice.”
I stare at him, unflinching. "Bullshit. You’ll have to forgive me for not falling at your feet. While you’ve known I was alive, your miraculous resurrection is a bit new to me. You’ll have to give me time to adjust."
Tension crackles between us, thick, electric, unbearable.
Nick’s voice drops to a whisper against my ear. "You want a fight, Cherise?" His breath is warm, steady, deliberate. The way I used to love. The way that used to make me shiver. "Careful what you wish for. You might not like how I win."
My throat works around a swallow, but I refuse to back down. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
"You looking to get kneed in the balls again?" My voice is sharp, unwavering. "The fact is, Nick, you already lost a long time ago."
Something in his gaze shifts, sharp and lethal.
It shouldn’t hit him like a blow. But I see it—the flicker of something real before he locks it all down. The part of him that still remembers what we used to be.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders, shaking his head.
"Prepare yourself, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice dripping with promise. "You’re in my world now."
I blink. “What does that mean?” I ask, suspicion curling in my chest.
“Opus Noir is more than a cover for Cerberus here in Monte Carlo. It’s a lifestyle club to which I belong.”
He steps back, his expression cool, assessing.
"You want answers? You want my help? You want to be more to me than just another assignment?” His lips curve into something dark, something knowing. “If you want that… if you’re staying, you’ll act as my new sub.”
I stiffen, my mouth parting. I shouldn’t be surprised. Nick was always dominant and liked control. Even so, he’s now suggesting I will be his submissive partner? “Excuse me?”
"You heard me." He moves behind his desk, grabs a garment bag, and tosses it into the chair next to me. “We can’t move you to a safe house until after dark. You’re going to need something more appropriate to wear in order to move around the building without sticking out like a sore thumb.”
I unzip the bag, pulling out a corset, thong, and collar. My fingers curl around the fabric, my pulse hammering at the base of my throat.
“So that’s it? You’re giving me a collar and calling it protection?”
Nick arches a brow. "Would you rather I put you back on a train to Paris?"
Of course he wouldn’t. But I don’t answer. He lets the question hang in the air between us.
I glare at him, but I see the way his gaze tracks my every reaction—the way his pupils darken, the way his jaw clenches. He’s pushing me, waiting for me to fight him on this.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
He walks me toward the security office—a much smaller space filled with computers and no windows—his presence a solid heat against my back.
"I’ll give you a little privacy," he says, voice dropping into something dark and low. Commanding. "You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable." He pauses. "Unless you’d rather I dress you myself."
“That won’t be necessary. I can do it myself,” I say as I snatch up the bag and storm past him, disappearing inside, relieved to find he has already cleared the room.
I exhale sharply the moment I’m alone, my hands gripping the bag tight.
What the hell have I just agreed to?
6
NICK
Cherise is here. Yesterday I put her up in one of Opus Noir’s privacy suites, which is not ideal. I wonder fleetingly if she noticed the St. Andrew’s cross in the room or even understood its purpose.