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The place smells like aged wood and old whiskey. Voices murmur beyond a closed door. A bar. It’s crowded, familiar, but not enough for me to know where we are.

My eyes lock on Cillian’s phone tucked tight in his back pocket.

I need him to pull it out, just for a second. And then I need to take it. Everything depends on that.

He mutters something under his breath, then yanks open a back room and pushes me inside.

His movements are tighter now, jittery and desperate.

This didn’t go the way he planned. Good.

He faces me, his voice low and clipped. “This is what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna act like everything is fine. Like you’re with me willingly. You understand?”

I nod slowly. “Of course. I want to go with you. I’ve always wanted to be with you, Cillian.”

There’s just enough truth in that—just enough of the past—to make me nauseous. I’m disgusted with the girl I used to be, the one who wanted someone like him.

“Good,” he says, his mouth twisting into something like a smile as he unbinds my wrists. “That’s a good girl.”

When Matvei says that, it burns through me in a way that makes me ache. When Cillian says it? I feel like I’m going to throw up.

But I keep my expression soft. Keep the lie alive.

He pulls out his phone.

My heart starts to pound. Not yet, but close.

So fucking close.

“If my suspicions are right,” he says, “he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Snort.

That’s where he’s wrong. So, so wrong.

“We’re going to have to go out there,” he says, eyes narrowing. “No funny business. I’ll press that fucking button—you know I will.”

Something about the way he talks—he’s unraveling. Like he’s losing his mind, losing his footing. Unsteady. Dangerous.

He’s always had a temper, a vicious one. And when his plans don’t work out exactly the way he envisioned? He doesn’t pivot but explodes. I need to use that against him, need to needle him, make him slip, then take control.

“What’s the matter?” I ask softly, feigning innocence. “Something go wrong?”

He growls, “You don’t need to know the details.”

“Of course not,” I say sweetly. “I trust you.”

I’m definitely going to throw up.

He brushes his hand over the back of my head in this awkward, almost-too-familiar way. “That’s a good lass. Sit at the bar and have a drink. Behave yourself.”

I have to stroke his ego. The narcissist’s poison.

“You’re so strong-willed. It’s what I’ve always loved about you. Especially when you’re in charge like this.”

He gives me a half smile and winks. My stomach flips. Fucking asshole.

He leads us to the furthest corner of the bar.