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"That temper," he said, producing a handkerchief to dab at a speck of my blood on his knuckle. "Always your weakness. I spent so much time trying to train it out of you, and now look. Worse than ever."

"Not worse. Stronger." I spit blood at his feet, taking savage satisfaction in how he stepped back to avoid it staining his perfect shoes. "Tyson doesn't train me like a dog. He loves me as I am."

"Love?" Cruz's laugh echoed off the warehouse walls. "Is that what you think this is?”

“I know that’s what it is.”

"He's quite talented, your soldier. Did you know he once held a position for seventy-two hours, no food, minimal water, waiting for one perfect shot?" Cruz scrolled through more files. "He saw you as another mission. Save the damaged girl, add meaning to his empty life."

"Stop."

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" He moved closer, voice dropping to intimate levels. "You traded one owner for another, princess. At least I tried to elevate you. He's dragging you down to his level. Look at yourself—purple hair like some teenage rebel, clothes from discount stores, living in that pathetic apartment."

"That pathetic apartment is home," I said quietly.

"And what happens when he gets bored? When the mission is complete and he needs a new purpose?" Cruz's fingers ghosted over my bruised cheek, the touch so light it might have been imagination. "Men like him don't do domestic bliss. They need conflict, danger, purpose. You're just this year's cause."

Each word was calculated to hurt, to plant seeds of doubt that would grow in the dark. But I'd learned something about myselfin the months since leaving him. I was stronger than his words, deeper than his shallow understanding of love.

"You're wrong," I said simply. "Tyson sees me. Not a project or a possession or a mission. Me. Messy, complicated, bratty me. And he stays anyway."

"Because you spread your legs for him." The vulgarity sounded strange in his cultured voice. "Because you let him play out his savior fantasies. What happens when reality sets in? When he realizes you're still broken?"

"I'm not broken." The words came out firm, certain. "I never was. Just bent under your weight. And you know what? Even if I was broken, Tyson wouldn't try to fix me. He'd hand me the tools and trust me to fix myself."

Cruz stepped back, studying me with something that might have been genuine confusion. "He's ruined you. My sweet, eager-to-please girl, replaced by this . . ." He gestured helplessly. "This creature who spits blood and talks back."

"Not ruined. Set free." I smiled then, knowing it would infuriate him. "I laugh now, Cruz. Real laughter, not the polite sounds you trained me to make. I have friends. I make my own choices. I have orgasms that don't require me to pretend you're someone else."

The words hit exactly as intended. His face went white, then red, hands clenching and unclenching. The other men smirked, and I knew fury was comning. For a moment, I thought he'd kill me right there. Part of me welcomed it—better than whatever re-education program he had planned.

But Cruz had always been about control more than violence. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, rebuilt his composure brick by brick until the urbane mask was back in place.

"We'll see how long that attitude lasts," he said mildly. "I have a lovely room prepared for you. Comfortable, quiet, perfectfor remembering who you really are underneath all this . . . performance."

He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Lena? That necklace was quite clever. GPS tracker hidden in a piece of jewelry. Very romantic." He ground the compass rose under his heel, the crunch of breaking electronics echoing off concrete. "By the time your boyfriend realizes you're gone, you'll be far away from here."

"He'll find me." I put every ounce of faith I had into those three words. "He'll come for me."

"Oh, princess." His smile turned pitying. "No, he won't. Want to know why? Because dear Eddie is going to tragically die in a warehouse fire tonight. Such a shame—faulty wiring in these old buildings. Your boyfriend will waste time chasing ghosts while I remind you of your place."

He nodded to the Serpents. "Bring her. Gently—damaged goods are worth less on delivery."

As they moved to flank me, I held onto one thought like a lifeline: Tyson would come. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but he'd tear the world apart to find me.

I just had to survive until he did.

Chapter 19

Tyson

Thecoldhitmefirst. Not air conditioning cold or early morning cold—the specific absence-cold of sheets that should have held warmth but didn't. My hand swept across empty fabric, searching for purple hair and soft skin and finding only the ghost of her vanilla scent.

"Lena?"

Her name came out rough, sandpaper against the silence. No answer from the bathroom. No coffee sounds from the kitchen.

Then I saw the note.