Page 75 of Bound in Possession

"Vehicle is ready," Dmitri announces, breaking into my stride. "Address locked in."

We move fast. Less than fifteen minutes later, our convoy screeches to a halt at a secondary, rundown dock facility two miles down the coast. The moment my boots hit the ground, the faint sound of panicked movement and muffled shouting echoes from inside the rusted metal warehouse.

"Move!" I bark.

My men fan out with terrifying efficiency, weapons raised, sweeping the dark perimeter. But the bastards inside know this layout far better than we do. Before my guards can pin them down, the intruders scramble through hidden access points and melt into the maze of shipping containers, vanishing completely into the fog-heavy air.

We recover the two missing cases intact before they can be moved off the property, but as I stare at the recovered crates, a bitter taste coats my tongue. Finding the cargo isn't enough. The fact that someone had the audacity—and the internal access—to touch my inventory in the first place is a humiliating, unacceptable breach.

"I'm hungry for blood, Dmitri," I growl, staring into the dark shadows where the rats escaped. "I want heads."

Dmitri steps beside me, lower lip tight, scanning a fresh set of decrypted data on his phone. "Then you're in luck."

I turn my head toward him, eyes narrowing. "Speak."

"You were scheduled to attend the gala at the opera house tomorrow evening," Dmitri says, looking up. "The forged authorization code used to route these cases just pinged back through a maze of dummy accounts. The digital trail originates from a shell foundation directly connected to that very opera house."

I hum softly, a dark, dangerous thrill replacing the irritation in my chest.

Up until two minutes ago, I had every intention of skipping that damn event. Matteo Rossini is set to host half the city's high society there, and I wanted absolutely no business breathing the same air as that bastard.

"It seems my plans have changed," I say softly, a lethal edge sharpening my voice. "Something is brewing behind those velvet curtains, and I intend to find out exactly what it is.”

Despite how desperately eager I am to go home, I can't just drop everything and walk away. My responsibilities as Pakhan are a cross I've long learned to carry with grace, but today, the weight is damn near unbearable because my heart simply isn't in it.

My heart is back at the estate. With her.

Yet the duties of my position keep me chained to secure houses, meetings, and endless security reports until long after midnight. By the time my car finally rolls up the long, dark driveway and I step into the silent foyer, the entire house is drowned in shadows. I assume Camilla is already fast asleep in our bed.

Exhausted, I drag my hand over my face and turn toward the grand staircase, ready to collapse next to her. But as I take my first step, the faint sound of the soft hum of a radio playing low static-filled music from the kitchen catches my attention.

I pause. It seems a member of my night staff is still up. Good. I haven't eaten a single bite since breakfast and my stomach is clawing at my ribs. I decide to detour to the kitchen to have them whip up a quick, light meal before I go upstairs.

I turn down the hallway, push open the heavy double doors of the kitchen, and stop dead in my tracks.

There is no staff.

Instead, standing near the massive stainless-steel stove, is Camilla. She’s wearing one of my oversized black button-down shirts—the hem falling past her thighs, leaving her long, bare legs completely exposed—and her feet are completely bare against the cold tile. The cook's old transistor radio is playing a faint, melodic tune on the counter, and floating through the air is the unmistakable, pungent smell of something slightly burning.

I sniff the air, my nose twitching at the sharp scent.

Oh. Burnt toast.

I try to smother the sudden laugh rising in my throat, but a soft, gravelly breath escapes me, and it's enough to give me away. She turns around quickly, holding a spatula like a weapon, but the moment her eyes catch mine, they light up like stars in the dark room.

A strange, heavy warmth settles right over my ribs. Once again, she reminds me of home—a feeling I haven't known in longer than I can remember. I like it. I’m finally home.

"What's that smell, princess?" I ask, stepping fully into the warm light of the kitchen.

She sighs dramatically, stepping aside to uncover a ceramic plate sitting on the counter, revealing four pitch-black, thoroughly incinerated slices of bread.

I let out a low chuckle, raising an eyebrow at the crime scene on the stove. "And what, exactly, was the goal here?"

She crosses her arms over the front of my shirt, her bare toes curling against the cool tile floor. "I was waiting up for you, got bored, and decided to try my hand at making a late-night snack."

I inch closer to the counter, leaning my hip against the island, right next to the plate. "When did your sisters leave?"

"Just past noon," she says softly, her eyes tracing my face, taking in the lingering exhaustion I haven't had time to hide. "They didn't want to overstay."