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Rossi wouldn’t have told Enzo that it was Briar who unlocked the door. He knows that would only leave Briar to get hurt. But if I told him, he’d know that she was snooping around, and then we’d both be stuck lying. And in this world, the more you know, the harder it gets.
The shit in that room—all those files—well, it’s like Pandora’s box. Once you open it, there’s absolutely no going back.
There’s a reason that room stays locked.
I, myself, need to get into the files in there, and even I haven’t had the balls to fucking attempt that yet. Then, there’s her—this five-foot-maybe-three girl—and ten days in, and she’s breaking into it, completely fearless.
For the past ten days, I’ve had my doubts about whether she really is as naive as she wants everyone to believe or if it’s all a disguise. And to be honest, I think I just learned the truth.
My main objective for being here wasn’t to protect the girl. And now? It’s all I can fucking think of.
And I don’t even know the girl.
I tell myself it means nothing—my need to watch over her more closely than I was hired to do. I do that because I can’t stand the guilt I feel when I look at her for too long. I know it isn’t right, but, fuck, it’s hard to stop.
There was a fear in her eyes when I covered her mouth as I had her pressed against the wall. She was scared of me. And how the fuck can I blame her? She should be scared of me. In her eyes, I’m a monster, just like everyone else here.
I cursed my dick when it twitched in my jeans, simply from feeling her lips on my palm. I wanted to punish her for being that stupid, thinking she could waltz right into that room. Her wide eyes looked up at me, eating me alive.
She’s not nearly as helpless as she makes herself out to be. To what degree though? I guess that’s for me to find out.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead after an hour-long session in the gym here at the house. It might be weird to share a mansion with a dozen other people—most of whom are hardly here—but having shit like this at my disposal is pretty nice.
Rossi pushes the door open. “Once you’re finished up and showered—because you’re fucking nasty—Enzo called and requested that one of us take Ms. James to the hair salon.” He pauses, cringing slightly. “He wants her hair blonder if he’s going to marry her.”
I don’t say what I want to because I’ve learned you never know who—or what device—is listening. “I take it, you want me to be the one to break the news and take her to this appointment?”
“If you could.” He shrugs, leaning his arm against the door. “She’s by the pool now. The appointment’s in an hour.”
Rossi has been on this job for a few months longer than I have. I’ve known him since I first joined the agency, just out of college. But he has a young daughter back in the States, so I have no doubt that watching a man force his soon-to-be wife to bleach her hair in order to marry her probably isn’t easy for him.
“Should be fun,” I mutter, grabbing my water bottle. “I’ll go shower and change and gather her up.”
“Appreciate you, Hercules.” He slaps his hand on my shoulder, immediately pulling it back and wiping it off. “That is fucking gross.”
I chuckle, shrugging. “Had to blow steam off someway. Besides, how am I going to stay bigger than you if I don’t work out every day of my fucking life?”
He frowns. “You aren’t bigger than me yet.” He looks me over. “Fine. Same size.”
Rossi is pure muscle. And even though he looks intimidating, he’s a damn good man. When I started working with him, he was undoubtedly bigger than me. So, I had to make it my life mission to change that.
Once we get to a spot in the hallway where it’s safe to talk, he stops. “Hey, Hercules?”
“Yeah?”
“The girl … you, uh … you think she wants to be here?” He swallows. “She looks sort of sad.”
Pulling in a breath, I look away. “Not our problem to find out.”
And then I walk away. Maybe if I tell myself I don’t give a shit about the girl being held prisoner, I’ll feel less shitty that I’m about to take her and force her to change her hair. Hair that looks like that of a goddess that is beautiful exactly how it is.
I want to tell Mr. Hudson Hercules to go fuck himself. I want to take the glass of lemonade by my side, throw it at his face, stand on this chair, and smash the glass over his head.
I want to do a lot of things to this man. Including … licking the lemonade off of his body after I dumped it on him. Which is very annoying because, out of all the thoughts running through my head, that’s the one sticking the most.
Get it together. He’s about to drive you to bleach your hair and make you look like a bimbo. Why are you thinking about licking lemonade off of him?
Since Hudson told me the news minutes ago, I’ve stared straight ahead at the pool.
