Page 7

A NOTHER WAREHOUSE, really?

Sylvain was rather cryptic when he told me after breakfast that we had somewhere to go.

And now this.

I stare through the tinted windows of my husband's bulletproof limo as we pull up to a massive structure of corrugated metal and concrete. Seriously, what is it with mob bosses and warehouses? Is there some secret handbook that says all criminal activities must take place in such big ugly death traps?

The car rolls to a stop, tires crunching on gravel. My husband exits first, his movements fluid and controlled like always. He turns, extending his hand to help me out.

Surely this isn't a trick?

I reach for him, my fingers just grazing his—when he steps back suddenly, leaving me to stumble forward, barely catching myself before I fall flat on my face.

Knew it.

I straighten up, brushing invisible dust from my dress, dignity intact if slightly bruised. Behind me, I hear his security team coughing, but when I glance at them over my shoulder...

Huh.

I feel like we've suddenly played a game of Red Light, Green Light without meaning to, and I'm that awful robot in pigtails trying to blast any of Sylvain's bodyguards I catch laughing.

Oh, whatever.

Sylvain glances at me with a raised eyebrow when I catch up to him. "Everything alright?"

" Oui ."

But my husband, though...

"Are you alright?" I ask uncertainly.

Because the shadows in his eyes aren't the usual ones. This isn't the predatory darkness I've grown accustomed to. This...is something else. Something strained and haunted. Something...tormented.

"Do you trust me, Liana?"

Oh no.

It's never good when Sylvain answers my question with another question. That's like Rule Number One in the "Your Husband Might Be Planning Something Terrible" handbook.

"Tell me what's happening. Why are we here? What is this—"

"Answer me." A quiet command, underscored by something I can't quite put my finger on. Urgency? Desperation? Both seem impossible for a man like him.

What are you not telling me, mon roi?

"Do you trust me?"

Agitation now colors Sylvain's voice, and underneath it, a pain that calls out to me.

Because I'm in love with him.

There's no hiding from this now.

Even though it doesn't make sense...

I love him, and so his pain is my pain, and that's why...

"I trust you with my life."

His jaw clenches as I say this, and I have an awful feeling that he wants to believe me...but doesn't.

"I hope you mean it."

Si seulement...

If only I could find the courage to give him the words.

Oh, if only I could.

We enter the warehouse, the massive door groaning on its tracks as Sylvain slides it open just enough for us to slip through.

It's completely dark save for the slice of sunlight coming from outside, and then that's gone, too, with the door automatically sliding shut behind us.

"Sylvain?"

I can't even see my hand in front of my face.

A second later, light flares into life, but what my husband holds in his hand is a lighter, not a cellphone.

Classic .

The small flame illuminates Sylvain's face from below, casting dramatic shadows that make him look like a man with the face of an angel...but the heart of a sinner.

"Something's wrong," he says tautly.

What does he mean—

No. No. No.

I smell it before I see it.

Gas hissing from somewhere in the darkness, its scent familiar because once upon a time, his men used the same thing on me, too.

This can't be. No. Not again.

Darkness rushes up to claim me, and the last thing I see is Sylvain trying to reach me in time.

But he's too, too late.