Page 7

CHAPTER 6

Alana

There’s warmth beneath me.

Something soft. Not like the cold, hard tiles from before.

I blink, but everything is blurry.

The light stings my eyes.

My chest aches. Where am I?

The ceiling fan turns in slow, lazy circles above me.

My bedroom. I’m in bed.

My muscles twitch as if they still remember the panic.

My skin feels too tight.

Too raw. I shift slightly and realise I’m wrapped in a blanket, my favourite one.

The fluffy grey one from the couch.

A sound to my left. Quiet footsteps.

Hunter.

I don’t even have to look to know it’s him.

His energy fills the room like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.

He’s easily over six feet, muscular (lean, not bulky).

His movements are fluid.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

Like he’s afraid he’ll scare me.

“You’re safe. You’re okay.”

My throat feels dry, sandpaper against itself.

I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Water?” he asks. I nod, barely.

He moves quickly but gently, taking a glass from the nightstand and placing it in my hand.

He helps me sit up with a hand behind my back.

Everywhere he touches me, I ignite.

I feel too fragile to protest. Too tired to pretend.

I take a small sip. Then another.

The water tastes like relief.

I finally manage to look at him.

His jaw is tight. There’s something in his eyes, something between worry and regret.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His brow furrows.

“Don’t,” he says gently.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me like that. I don’t like anyone seeing me like that,” I start to say something, then notice I’m clothed.

What the fuck ?

“You picked me up off the shower floor—soaking, naked—and dressed me?! That is… horrifying.”

He goes a bit red in the face, but then gets it under control quickly and smirks.

Yes, smirks, as he says, “Ah, there she is …”

“Do not try to be cute! You crossed a line!”

“I thought dressing you would be better than waking up naked.” Handsome, cocky bastard.

I don’t know what’s worse.

I’m embarrassed. I need to deflect.

I need my sarcasm. My shield.

“Boundaries! Get out of my room. Do not come in here unless I instruct you to do so! And even then, knock first. Jesus.”

“As you wish,” he says and leaves the room.

He closes the door behind him.

Wait. Did he fix that himself?

Handy, cocky bastard.

I grab my pillow and scream into it.

It muffles the sound, but not the shame.

I don’t let myself sit in it.

The helplessness. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that wallowing only makes the silence louder.

So I move. I reach for my phone, groaning a little as my muscles protest. It’s on the nightstand, screen down, charging.

Of course he plugged it in.

I roll my eyes.

I press the screen and it lights up.

107 new messages. Jesus.

Most of them are from group chats, brand updates, news alerts.

But the ones that matter sit right at the top.

Dad:

Are you feeling any better?

You missed our morning check in.

I checked in with Hunter.

He says you are resting.

I exhale slowly, my fingers hovering for a second before I type.

Me:

All good, Dad.

Your overpaid bodyguard needs to learn boundaries.

But I’ll chat to you tomorrow morning.

Three dots appear. Then disappear.

Then reappear. I swipe out of the chat before he replies.

I can’t deal with a dad-spiral right now.

Below that, Tessa.

Tessa:

Babe are you okay?

Do you want to talk?

I can come over.

Don’t worry about work.

I’ve got everything handled.

My chest softens a little.

Of course she does. I start typing, then delete it.

Start again.

Me:

Alive.

Gross. Dramatic. As usual.

Thanks for covering.

I owe you carbs and gossip.

I look at the time. 10 a.m. Saturday.

My Pilates class was 7 p.m. on Thursday.

Fuck me. I lost a whole day?

I need to get moving.

Me:

Over brunch? At 11?

Our usual?

I stare at the screen for a second, thumb hovering over Send, then hit it.

There. That’s done. Seconds later:

Tessa:

Ahh she’s alive thank god!

Yes, let’s do that.

I’m running errands quick.

So I’ll meet you there?

Yes. Bury myself in routine.

That always works.

Tessa and I do brunch almost every Saturday.

It’s our ritual. A perfect decompression after a long week of work.

And I’m guessing it works just as well after a kidnapping?

I hop in the shower, wash my hair again, then jump out to blow dry it.

I stand in front of my cupboard, trying to decide what to wear.

It’s that awkward in-between weather today.

Not warm, not cold.

I throw on a pair of leather pants, a plain white tank and grab my Loewe Puzzle bag.

Heels, obviously. Then I layer on enough of my jewellery to ward off a bullet.

It feels like I’m putting the pieces of myself back together.

I go to sit at my vanity to start fixing my face.

I see the stitches and flinch.

It feels like everyone will see my trauma written across my skin.

I pause. Take a breath.

Then grab some surgical tape to put over it.

I do my makeup, grab a large pair of sunglasses and spray some perfume ( Versace Crystal Noir ), then make my way out the bedroom door.

I glance right. Salem’s sunbathing on the balcony.

I head in the opposite direction toward the kitchen.

Salem’s food and water bowls are still full.

I grab my car keys that are on the kitchen counter, head out the front door, step into the elevator and wait for the doors to close.

But a strong hand stops them at the last second…