Page 40 of Claimed By the Enemy

“Thank you, Patrice. That will be all.”

She nods and withdraws, closing the door behind her. I wait until I hear her footsteps fade before opening the envelope.

The message is brief. Typed on the same plain paper as before.

I’ll take Sophie first. Then I’ll come for you. Both Moretti and Bellini blood will pay for what was done.

My hands clench around the paper, crumpling the edges.

I’m out of my chair and moving up the stairs, down the hall, to Sophie’s room. I don’t knock.

The room is empty.

“Sophie?” I call out, checking the walk-in closet.

Nothing.

“Sophie!”

“What?” Her voice comes from behind me, and I spin around to find her standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her hair and confusion written across her face. “What’s wrong with you?”

Relief hits me so hard I almost stagger. She’s here.

“Where were you?”

“Shower. In the guest bathroom down the hall because the hot water in here is being temperamental.” She steps into the room, frowning. “Dom, what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I consider telling her, but looking at her now—hair damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a robe that shows too much skin—I can’t form the words.

“Nothing,” I say finally. “I just… needed to ask you something.”

“What?”

“It can wait,” I say, backing toward the door. “I should let you get dressed.”

“Dom.” Sophie catches my arm as I try to leave. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Everything. I’m not telling her that someone wants to kill her. That I’ve been receiving death threats for weeks.

“Nothing important,” I lie.

“Don’t.” Her grip tightens on my arm. “Don’t shut me out. If something’s wrong-”

“Everything’s wrong, Sophie.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Everything about this situation is wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“What situation?”

“This. Us. The fact that I can’t tell anymore if I’m protecting you or imprisoning you.”

Sophie’s eyes search my face, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her.

“Maybe they’re the same thing,” she says quietly.

“Maybe they are.”

We stand there for a moment, connected by her hand on my arm and the weight of everything we’re not saying. I could tell her about the letter. It could explain why I’m really here, why I needed to see that she was safe.

Instead, I pull away.