Page 15

Still, he didn’t turn the car around. Didn’t abandon me. Just kept driving—fast, focused, like a man with a plan.

And now here we were, pulling through the towering wrought-iron gates of a private compound hidden deep in the hills.

A long, tree-lined driveway stretched before us, flanked by perfectly manicured hedges and black marble statues that glinted under the moonlight.

It was quiet out here—too quiet. Like the world didn’t even know this place existed.

Then the mansion appeared.

Massive. Regal. A fortress wrapped in opulence.

The exterior was all sleek black stone and gold-accented fixtures, with floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed from the inside like the house was alive.

Balconies wrapped around the second floor.

A lit-up fountain gurgled in the circular drive, and luxury cars were tucked into the garage bays like sleeping dragons.

This wasn’t just money.

This was power.

As we stepped through the front door, the scent of garlic and merlot hung in the air. That’s when I saw her—an older woman with honey-brown skin and silver-streaked curls, sitting at the kitchen island with a half-empty glass of red wine and a bowl of something steaming.

She looked up, surprised. Her eyebrows shot up even higher when she saw me.

“Riot?” she said, squinting. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in New York all week.”

“I was,” he said, locking the door behind us. “Plans changed.”

Her eyes darted to me again, then back to him. “And she is?”

“This is Allure. Allure, this is Madeira. She’s my house manager and my aunt.”

Madeira stood quickly, straightening her cardigan. “Oh! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you. Let me get you something to drink. Water? Wine? Tea?”

Riot chuckled and waved her off. “You’re off the clock. Chill. I got her.”

Madeira hesitated, clearly not used to seeing him with anyone—especially someone like me. But she nodded and offered a soft smile before excusing herself, muttering something about nosy old women and her wine getting cold.

I liked her already.

And I liked this place . It wasn’t cold and clinical like Boaz’s compound. There weren’t guards hovering or marble floors you could slip and crack your skull on. The air here didn’t reek of rot behind roses. It smelled like a life being lived.

Riot led me through the house, pointing things out along the way—“this is the den, this is where I do most of my reading, that’s where I smoke when I need to think…

” It was quiet, curated. Minimal but personal.

Paintings on the walls, a few sculptures, framed photos that didn’t feel staged.

Nothing about it screamed “trap house” or “cartel money.”

He stopped at a wide door at the end of the hallway and opened it.

“This is my room,” he said. “You’ll be sleeping in here.”

I froze. “ In here? ”

He looked at me, calm. “Yeah. The bed’s big enough for the both of us. You good?”

I nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room. It was masculine without trying too hard—dark wood floors, blackout curtains, king-size bed with navy sheets and a soft-looking comforter.

“I’ll grab you something to sleep in,” he added, heading to the dresser. He tossed me a pair of sweats and a plain white tee.

I caught them mid-air. “Anything but white.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I hate the color,” I said, quieter this time. “I’ve worn nothing but white for the last ten years.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. My bad.” He rummaged again, then handed me a soft navy-blue t-shirt.

“Better?”

“Much.”

I slipped into the en suite bathroom, locked the door, and changed quickly.

When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.

My makeup was still perfect. My curves filled out the shirt in ways that made me feel powerful.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t look like someone’s prisoner.

I looked like a woman who had options.

When I stepped out, Riot was already shirtless, lounging on the bed in a pair of black basketball shorts. His tattoos caught the light—bold, detailed ink running down his arms and chest like armor. His abs were carved, his shoulders broad, and that damn grill flashed when he looked over at me.

My heart began to race.

And there it was again.

That heat. That ache between my thighs that only he seemed to trigger.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded, climbing onto the far side of the bed. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

He sat up slightly, checking his phone. “I’m gonna monitor the situation with Boaz. I got someone on the police force up there. He’s solid. Might be able to give me the real play-by-play before anything hits the news.”

I watched him from the corner of my eye, the glow of the screen highlighting his jaw, the curve of his neck.

“You need anything?” he asked, already rising.

“No. I’m okay.”

“Alright,” he said, walking toward the door. “Try to get some sleep. You’re safe now.”

The door clicked softly behind him.

But sleep?

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Not with my thoughts racing—about the girls in the basement. About Irina, dancing and clueless. About what would happen once Boaz found out I was gone.

And about Riot.

The man who risked his peace for my freedom.

The man who didn’t even know what kind of spell he was putting me under.

I curled into the sheets, pulled his shirt tighter around my body, and closed my eyes.

Just for a little while.