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Our eyes lock. I can feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiled tight between us. “You don’t get to keep secrets here,” he snarls angrily as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
“Fine,” I relent, voice barely above a whisper. “Keep your damned paper.”
His grip on my wrist loosens, but the hold he has over me does not. As he steps back, a cruel smile plays on his lips. He starts punching the numbers into the phone.
In a frenzied blur, my fingers lunge for the sleek device in Milo’s hand. “Give it to me!” My voice is a hiss, desperation clawing at my throat.
“Fallon, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he warns, but his eyes betray him—they’re dancing with the thrill of having me fight him.
“Whose number is it?” Milo taunts, thumb hovering over the call button, a smirk twisting his lips. It’s a game to him, a dangerous one that could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to keep hidden.
“Nobody,” I lie, heart pounding like a drumbeat against my chest.
“Then why all the fuss?” he challenges, pressing the number. The dial tone erupts between us, loud and accusing.
“It’s Sienna’s!”
“Well, you have nothing to worry about then,” he says, holding the phone out of reach when Leone suddenly stands at Milo’s back.
“What the hell is going on here?” Leone’s presence fills the room like a storm cloud, dark and ominous.
“Leone—” I start to explain, but the sound of Marcus’s voice cuts me off.
“Hello?” Marcus’s voice floats from the speaker, casual. “Hello? Who’s this?” Marcus asks, a note of curiosity threading his words.
“Wrong number,” Milo says swiftly, ending the call, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Shower, Fallon.” Leone’s command is calm and deceptively soft, but it carries the weight of an ultimatum. “We’ll talk after.”
I nod, unable to find my voice, every part of me screaming to run, to fight, but knowing it’s futile. Instead, I shower quickly, dreading getting out and facing them. Steam curls around me as I push the glass door open. My hair clings to my shoulders, damp tendrils tracing the curve of my spine.
Milo sits on the bed, a statue carved from muscle and sinew. His brown eyes, sharp and cutting, fixate on me with an intensity that makes my stomach knot. My fist clenches the towel wrapped around me, pulling it tighter against my quivering flesh.
“Fallon.” Leone’s voice slices through the quiet.
I turn my gaze to him, my pulse thundering in my ears. He stands by the bed, a set of handcuffs glinting ominously in his hand. The sight sends a jolt of fear straight through me, tightening my chest with panic.
“Leone, please—” I begin, but he raises a hand to silence me.
“Until I say otherwise,” he says coldly.
I look at Milo, searching for a sign of the man who helped me in the casino, who has sometimes seemed to be more than just Leone’s shadow and my stalker. But he only watches me, his chest bare and his posture relaxed yet somehow menacing. “You were warned, Fallon. You know how this works.”
The betrayal stings, and the walls seem to inch closer, suffocating me as the weight of the cuffs looms larger in my mind. No! The fear is almost palpable, feeding into the terror that clutches at my heart.
“Come here,” Leone orders, his voice allowing no room for argument.
My feet betray me, moving against my will, carrying me closer to the bed and the looming sense of confinement. “Sit,” Leone commands next, and I comply mechanically, clutching the towel—the only barrier between their gazes and my vulnerability. Leone takes my wrist, his touch both firm and chillingly impersonal, as he secures one cuff around it—the click of the lock slices through the heavy silence.
“Can I have a shirt?” I ask in an attempt to preserve some dignity, but he ignores my request. Instead, he pushes me onto the bed and swiftly grabs my other wrist. Another click, another shackle, before he pulls a second set of cuffs from his back pocket, securing it to both the headboard and my wrists. I am once again a prisoner by their design.
“Good girl,” Leone murmurs, his praise dripping with mockery. He steps back to admire his handiwork, his brown eyes dark pools of satisfaction.
Milo, silent and stoic since his last rebuke, watches the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. The tension in the room thickens, tangible and suffocating, wrapping its cold fingers around my throat.
“How long?” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper, dreading the answer but needing to know how long I’ll be left in this state, my arms stretched and bound above my head.
“Behave, and maybe I’ll consider leniency,” Leone replies, his tone low and laced with a dangerous promise.
