“I was heading home, but that’s apparently a crime now, isn’t it? Wander into the wrong street and you have your brother drug me and hauling me back like I’m a stray.” The venom isn’t only for him—part of it is for me, for being stupid enough to go where I knew I shouldn’t. Still, I keep my chin up, daring him to call me out. Anger is a weapon I can use without breaking.
Cyan’s gaze sharpens. Maybe he knows? His fingers flex. “For your safety, nothing is off the fucking table, and don’t insult me with that lie. Your aunt’s house is on the other side of the motherfucking town.”
“I-I got on the wrong bus, alright? My head was a mess. I just needed space to breathe. When I realized I was in the wrong area, I got off. Then, those two men stepped out in front of me.”
His focus darts from one of my eyes to the other. “Alright,” he mutters, and it takes everything in me not to sigh in relief. “The other guy, what can you tell me about him?”
“Huh... The other guy?” I think back. My focus had been on Leo, his sneer, the knife pressing into my side. “His name was Davide,” I whisper. Cyan pulls his phone from the pocket, texting. Did he order a hit?
“Listen here, Aria. You didn’t mean to be there. But let’s be fucking real, you dodged Johnny again, which means you deliberately disobeyed me. That I won’t ignore any longer.”
“I can do as I please; it’s a free country.” I cross my arms, which draws Cyan’s eyes to my chest. The sheet slips lower on my lap, exposing the white cami, and I yank it back up, heat crawling up my neck.
“Actions have consequences, Dove.” I remember the last time he used that line and what followed: Ethan getting the shit beat out of him. After yesterday’s interaction with Ethan, I no longer feel any guilt regarding him. Cyan is rolling his phone between his fingers like he’s debating whether to crush it. I glance at the screen–8:30 AM.Shit. Work.
“I need to get to the office; I’m already late.” I swing my legs off the bed and look around for clothes. This cami-and-pajama-pants combo I’m wearing isn’t mine.
“No worries, Dove. I already called James and told him you won’t be coming in.”
I freeze mid-motion, one hand hovering above the closest set of drawers. “You did what?”
“You could’ve been—” He breaks off exhales. “If I hadn’t shown up in time—” Cyan wipes his hand over his face, erasing his expression like chalk from a board, and when he looks back, his gaze is cold steel. He stands and strides to the dresser. “From today, you’ll be living with me.”
My laugh is disbelieving. “Fuck no. You don’t get to decide that for me, Cyan. I have a life, responsibilities. I won’t surrender that.”
“You think you can just throw a ‘no’ my way, Aria? I admire the fight in you, but you should’ve learned by now that I always get what I want, lass.” He tilts his head, that stare pinning me.
A chill slices down my spine. The room feels smaller as every rational thought screams to run. “You don’t own me,” I hiss, balling my fingers into fists at my sides.
He smiles. “Aria, as the old saying goes, spilled water cannot be picked up. You knew what you risked when you left without Johnny.”
“I can’t leave my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother?” He lets the words stretch as he reaches for the water bottle, drains it, then delivers the final blow. “She’s not home anymore.” A wave of dread crashes into me. My heart skips a beat.
“Cyan… what did you do?” My voice breaks on the question.
“I had her moved.”
My blood turns to ice. “You’re lying. I talked to Pauline before I left work; she was home with my grandmother.”
“Aye. She was. Then yesterday happened.”
I stare at him, horrified. “You’re a lying bastard.”
“If you don’t believe me,” Cyan tosses his phone onto the bed, “call Pauline yourself.” Then, without another word, he turns away, heading for the shower like he didn’t just detonate my world.
My fingers move before my brain does. I dial Pauline from memory. After the phone call ends, my rage is burning. Pauline’s voice is still echoing in my ears, so cheerful, so oblivious, thanking Cyan for the generous bonus check and she’s thrilled about my Gran’s acceptance into the medical research program. She has no clue about the noose tightening around my throat. My fingers tremble as I snatch up the phone again. On the off chance her words aren’t true, I dial the facility myself.
The line clicks, and a woman answers with polished efficiency. “Good morning, CB Medical Research. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, I… I’m trying to confirm a patient. Concetta Boschett admitted yesterday.”
A pause, the rapid tapping of keys. My heart claws at my ribs. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we have no patient under that name in our program.”
The words slam into me like a blow. My throat goes dry, fingers tightening around the phone. “Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure,” she replies, clipped now, professional. “No one by that name has ever been admitted here.”
