Page 6 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Ruby

I couldn’t stay here. I knew that. I knew it from the moment I got into the car, but I particularly knew it when I woke up in a tangle of limbs in a small twin bed. Kieran was holding me so close I could hardly breathe.

It was still pitch-black outside. “What time is it?” I whispered.

He mumbled into my hair.

“What?”

“It’s still dark. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m going to check on Rosie,” I said.

At first, I thought he would keep me here—-my desires be damned. But he slowly disentangled from me, then flung his arm over his eyes and went right back to sleep.

I peeled myself out of bed, shivering as my feet hit the tile.

The house was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.

I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and padded down the hall, the only sounds the ancient furnace groaning and the hush of snow piling up against the windows.

Rosie’s door was cracked, a slice of lamplight spilling out.

She was asleep, one foot dangling off the bed. Her little face was mashed into the pillow, hair flung all over. I stood in the doorway and watched her—the slow rise of her chest, the armload of blankets on top of her. I crept in and tucked her foot back in the covers.

I lingered at the door, hand pressed to the cheap wood, and whispered a prayer in Spanish—a habit from when I was little and scared.

It helped, a little. If Kieran was right, if the threat was real and not just some recycled trauma, then this—these hours where she was untouched by the world—was all that mattered.

I walked away, making my way downstairs, leaving her door cracked open so I could come and stare at her whenever I wanted.

I started coffee, found the process almost restful.

The kitchen was completely unknown to me, every drawer a Russian roulette of hotel-grade utensils and forgotten cutlery.

I butterflied a filter, tamped down the grounds, and didn’t realize I was shaking until I set the glass carafe and heard the tap-tap of nerves echo up my arms.

Kieran appeared then, or his silhouette did. He wore sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Do you want some clothes?” he asked. “You’re still only wearing a blanket.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t exactly pack a bag.”

“There are clothes here,” he said. “Check the closet in the master bedroom. Many of them won’t, you know, fit. But we keep them here just in case.”

“Whose clothes are they?”

He shrugged. “Mostly Ade’s.”

“Adriana Callahan? You want me to wear Tristan Callahan’s wife’s clothes?”

“I want you to wear clean clothes someone else doesn’t wear,” he said. “Who they belong to, I mean…how much does that matter?”

“I was hoping for a Target run, but sure. Fine.”

Digging up some dignity, I made my way upstairs, blanket trailing behind. Rosie didn’t even stir as I crept past her room.

I had to be quiet—Rosie was still asleep—but it became clear fast that she was crashed as I opened the closet door.

The closet was ridiculous—cashmere everywhere, nothing under $200, half of it black, half of it never worn.

I grabbed the softest hoodie I could find and a thermal shirt that dwarfed me, then dug around until I found a pair of leggings, Marshalls tag still attached.

I ripped it off with my nails, resisting the urge to bite it off with my teeth.

No underwear. Figures.

I really needed to go on that Target run.

The walls in the master bedroom were a pale, elegant blue.

Adriana’s perfume, or maybe just the echo of her, clung to the walls with an odd, sour persistence.

I could imagine her here, perched delicately at the vanity, winding her hair into a high, strategic bun, aligning her features for crisis or conquest. I wondered if she even liked Kieran, or if he was just a family obligation.

More and more I had begun to realize that in the world of Callahans, love and utility were never more than one step apart.

I checked for my phone again, which of course, was pointless. Kieran still had it. He wasn’t going to give it to me.

The urge to run crept up strong. I could sprint past the kitchen, grab Rosie, drag her out to the car, and try to snake down the mountain before someone cut the power or jammed the ignition.

But what would happen then?

I’d end up on the evening news, a Missing White Mom story with an ethnic twist, maybe even a helicopter over Route 8. Except it would be worse, right? Not just a Missing White Mom. Missing White Latina District Attorney. The press would have a fucking field day.

Fuck.

So I did the only thing I could do. I went back down to the kitchen.

Kieran was waiting, two mugs of coffee already on the table. The light was watery, we’d slept through the storm—thin, mean rays slicing through the blinds.

He looked tired and smug at the same time, but less like a kidnapper now…so that was good, at least.

Little victories.

“I thought you’d stay with her,” he said.

“Would you have let me?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

His mouth flattened. “You always have a choice.” He slid the mug my way. “If you think I’d keep you here by force, you obviously haven’t been paying attention.”

If I’d had more willpower, I’d have upended the coffee straight into his lap. But my hands were already curling around the mug, drinking in its heat. “Thank you for the clothes,” I said.

He laughed. “They look better on you anyway.”

I caught myself almost smiling. “Can I have my phone now?”

Kieran set his mug down, hard. “Not yet. There’s still a chance they could triangulate, even off a cold ping. Give it another day.” He stared down into the dark of his mug as if it contained a message from the future.

“What’s the plan, Kieran? How long are we going to be here for?” I asked.

“The plan is to lay low. That’s it.”

I sighed deeply. “That can’t be the fucking plan, okay?” I asked. “I have to go home. She has to go home. She has school…a family. I have a job. I have friends. You have—”

He interrupted. “A job that will get you killed if you keep pushing it. Rosie is out of school right now. You’re technically on vacation. But even if you weren’t, Rosie doesn’t need school right now. She needs you alive.”

I set the mug down hard enough that coffee splashed over the rim “I can’t just hide. You know that. Have you met me?”

He looked at me for what felt like a very long time. “I know.”

We stared at each other over the kitchen island.

There was a crack in him, just for a second. Maybe I could get through. Maybe I could talk him into taking us back to Boston. I had to try.

I pushed, gently. “You could help me, you know. Instead of hiding me, you could let me do my work, let me make an actual case. Against whoever is behind this.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

I picked up my coffee again. “What don’t I get? The least you could do is explain.”

“There isn’t a case. There isn’t a forensic path. There’s just people killing other people, and if you stay near it, you’re next.”

“Why do you think that?”

He sighed. “Before, uh…before Tristan knew that Rosie was mine,” he said. “He sent someone after you with a molotov.”

I raised my eyebrows, my heart drumming hard in my chest. “So it’s your brother who’s after me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not anymore. You’re not after me anymore, right? You’re not after the Callahans. The whole anti-corruption thing was just an empty campaign promise from you.”

“Right. You made sure of that.”

“Well, don’t sell yourself short. It was a team effort,” he said, no humor in his voice. “The bottom line is that Tristan isn’t after you anymore; he’s confident you won’t come after me.”

I rolled the mug between my hands, not sure if it was warming me more or just giving my fidgeting somewhere to go. “But if it isn’t them, who is it? Who would even care that much? You’re making this sound like I’m a target in some Netflix miniseries, but last I checked I’m not that interesting.”

He stood, not threatening, just filling up the space. He opened the fridge, then closed it, bracing himself like the door might collapse under his hands. “You’re very interesting. And you shouldn’t be alone.”

“From what you’re saying, there’s always someone watching.”

He returned to the kitchen island and sat. “I’m not doing this for fun, Ruby. There are things you don’t see coming until they’re inside your house. Like Mickey Russell.”

“That’s not fair. You can’t throw that in my face.”

He shook his head. “It is fair. That Crew app—if you think it only traffics in cheap harassment, you need to stop giving the world the benefit of the doubt. These aren’t Callahan-level jobs.

We do our business in person. This is way fucking scarier.

This app thing…they’re freelance, decentralized.

Anyone with enough money can pick a target, put out a contract.

Half the enforcement world uses it as a back channel when unions get too strong.

It’s the coldest fucking capitalism there is. ”

I blinked, once, letting the adrenaline hit settle. “You sound…almost scared,” I said, softer than I meant.

He laughed at that, but it was a deep, silent laugh. “I’m always scared. That’s why nobody gets in close. That’s why I had to get you out of town before whoever was after you even realized you’d gone dark.”

“Who could be after me?” I said, shaking my head. “Look, the DOJ told me not to leave town. I’ve left town. I’m literally disobeying an order from a special counsel because you kidnapped me.”

“That’s why you need to listen to me.” Kieran’s face was blanched, the color in his cheekbones almost translucent.

“The Feds are only playing one angle. There are other...stakeholders. Some of them have money and time. They don’t care about the courts or the news.

Don’t you get it? I have to protect you from all of them. ”

I stared him down. If I’d had my phone, I would have thrown it at his head.

“So what, I just sleep here until the goons get bored and pick someone else? You think that’s enough?”