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"Call it what you want, Nash," I retorted. "But remember, I'm not one of your fawning groupies deluded by that charming bullshit."
He chuckled, and despite myself, I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upwards.
"Relax," he murmured, so casual, so infuriatingly calm. "You'll need your strength."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" I asked, the words dripping with sarcasm, but betraying a shiver of anticipation.
"Take it as you will," he replied, and there was that smile again, sculpted and seductive—a devil's lure.
"Asshole," I muttered, but the heat in my cheeks might have suggested otherwise. There was a game afoot, one with rules I didn't yet understand. A cat and mouse chase where the lines between predator and prey blurred with every breath I took.
As the jet climbed higher, my thoughts spiraled along with it. Italy loomed ahead, a land steeped in art and history, but also a hideout for a woman on the run, tethered to a man whose very nature was a mystery. What fresh hell was waiting for me there? More importantly, would I walk—or stumble—into it willingly?
"Strap in, Celeste," Nash said, his voice a low thrum next to my ear. "It's going to be a bumpy ride."
"Story of my fucking life," I said.The engines hummed their steady rhythm. And with each passing moment, that inexplicable bond, twisted and wrong as it might be, snaked deeper into my core, binding me to him in ways I was too scared to unravel.
Chapter 25
Celeste
Icracked open an eye, and fuck me sideways, I was resting against Nash's shoulder. The realization hit me like a hangover after a night of too many shots—sharp, unwelcome, and confusing as hell. How the hell did I end up here? Last thing I remembered was sitting on the jet, trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and Chicago—the city of lies and shattered trust.
"Easy there, Little Shadow," Nash murmured, his voice low and annoyingly soothing. "We've landed."
Landed? Right. The flight. Italy. Because apparently, when you're entangled with a stalker with more money than God, fleeing the country is just another Tuesday. Except it was Friday. Maybe. Shit, I didn't know.
His arms were like steel bands around me, each muscle flexing subtly as he lifted me from the goddamn airplane throne—because calling it a seat would be an understatement. I squirmed, not out of any real hope of escape but because being this close to him sent my insides into a riotous frenzy.
"Put me down," I groaned, earning a chuckle that vibrated through his chest and made something traitorous within me flutter.
"Only when we're safely in the car," he replied, his tone brokering no argument. Like always. Nash Rigby: part stalker, part pain in my ass.
Moving through the dim airport corridor, I should have felt afraid, maybe even terrified. For all I knew this man could snap necks as easily as I could snap pretzel sticks. But fear wasn't what coursed through my veins—it was a maddening mix of anger and something dangerously close to desire.
The air outside nipped at my skin, the early Italian morning still cloaked in darkness. He moved towards a sleek, black car that looked like it ate sports cars for breakfast. The kind of vehicle that screamed power and whispered threats. Fucking great.
"Jesus, compensating for something?" I couldn't resist the jab, even as he deposited me into the leather-scented interior with a care that contradicted the monster I knew lurked beneath his polished exterior.
"Only your comfort," the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating half-smile that said he saw right through my bullshit.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, the soft purr of the engine coming to life, I found myself pressed against the plush upholstery, cocooned by luxury and lulled by the rhythm of the road. And despite my better judgment, despite every fiber of my being screaming that this was wrong, I felt safe. Protected, even.
The road unfurled like a ribbon of freedom—or a noose, depending on your outlook—winding through the kind of scenery you'd find slapped across postcards in tourist traps. I was half-expecting Nash to spout some poetic crap about the beauty of the Italian countryside, but he kept his mouth shut, eyes on the road, and hands at ten and two like a goddamn driving instructor.
"Scenic route, huh?" my voice dripped with enough sarcasm to poison a small village. The vineyards stretched out on either side of us, rows upon rows of grapevines like soldiers standing at attention, probably awaiting orders from General Nash. The rolling hills looked like they belonged in a Renaissance painting, all lush and green, mocking me with their serene bullshit.
"Thought you might appreciate the view," Nash replied, glancing over with that infuriating calm of his. God, he was like a walking, talking Zen garden, and it pissed me off more than I cared to admit.
"Appreciate? I'm practically swooning," I shot back, rolling my eyes so hard I saw my own brain. But despite myself, I couldn't help pressing my face closer to the window, soaking up the sight of the ancient olive trees dancing in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets I'd never understand.
And then, as if Mother Nature herself had taken a break from her pastoral landscape paintings, Nash's mansion came into view. 'Mansion' didn't do it justice—it was a freaking fortress, complete with towers and what looked like battlements.
The gardens were an explosion of color, flowers blooming in a riotous display of nature's middle finger to any sort of order. It was wild and untamed, much like the man sitting next to me. And as much as I wanted to hate it, to hate him for bringing me here, there was something captivating about the chaos.
"Welcome to my summer home," Nash announced as we stopped in front of the massive oak doors. "Your sanctuary."
"Sanctuary or prison?" I groaned, unbuckling my seatbelt. My fingers trembled slightly, betraying my cool exterior. I didn't want his protection, didn't need his goddamn sanctuary. But as I stepped out of the car, the scent of jasmine and earth hit me, grounding me in a way that felt dangerously close to comfort. And as we entered the imposing structure, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Nash was more than the sum of his blood-soaked parts. And that scared the shit out of me.
