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The entrance to the building is crowded with more henchmen than I’ve ever seen, and they’re strapping on bulletproof vests and loading AK-47s. It feels like we’re in the trenches, and they’re getting ready to go over the top. Outside, the Town Car is flanked by two security vans instead of the usual one. Even Karl, the driver, has a bulletproof vest on today. He holds the door open for me, but before I get in, Donnacha stops me.
“I need the USB stick, Romy.”
Fumbling in my clutch, I pull it out and place it in his outstretched paw. He curls his hands around it, then taps it against his chin. His eyes search mine, conflicted and angry, and for one heart-lifting moment, I think he’s going to hurl it across the road like a football. Instead, he hands it to a waiting henchman. I watch as he stalks off with it and gets into a different car.
Then he peels off into the heart of the city with all of my darkest secrets.
“Get in.”
In the back of the car, the air feels hot and heavy. Donnacha barely moves a muscle, staring out at the passing city with his hands folded into his lap.
My skin itches with everything I want to say, but nothing I can think of seems big enough. Instead, I dive into my clutch again and pull out the notepad.
“I have something for you.”
Slowly, Donnacha turns his head, dropping his eyes to my hand. “What is it? All your brainstorms of how you were going to kill me?”
I toss it into his lap and turn my attention back to the window. “It’s the names of everyone I know who is connected to Belsky and what role they’ve played in his plan.”
Silence.
In the reflection of the window, I see him flick through the pages.
“You wrote this yourself?”
The softness of his voice takes me off guard, and I turn to face him. “Yes.”
“I’m impressed.”
For the rest of the journey, neither of us utters another word, giving my nerves the space to bubble up out of my stomach and spread through my veins like a virus. Sweat dots my skin, and there’s a new pulse in my neck.
As the car slows to round a corner, Donnacha clears his throat.
“There’s something I have to give you too. Two things, actually.”
The first, he digs out of the pocket of his slacks. It’s a velvet box, one I recognize. And I know inside will be the ring I didn’t have on my finger when I woke up in that dark room.
“It’s just to—”
“Fit the illusion, I know.”
I refuse to show my heartbreak. Instead, I slip it on my finger with all of the nonchalance I can muster.
The second thing comes from his breast pocket. He places it in my hand, and immediately, the weight and shape of it feel like I’ve been given back a missing limb.
My pocketknife.
“Just in case,” he mutters.
My shoulders sag with relief, and I press the cold metal to my lips. “Thank you,” I whisper, closing my eyes briefly. When I open them again, his gaze is penetrating my soul.
The air shifts a degree. Maybe I’m imagining it. But then his knee presses against mine, confirming it. Flames of hope lick the walls of my stomach, then—
He grips my head and pulls me into his orbit, crushing his lips against mine.
His kiss is hot and frantic; his fingers find their way home to the base of my scalp. All night, a million thoughts have been tumbling around my brain, among them, a vow to myself. Don’t forget what you’re doing. Don’t forget why you’re still alive. Don’t get swept up in the illusion.
But as his delicious tongue claims mine, all of those thoughts and vows and even my darkest sins fall silent. I can only hear my heart beat in my temples. Only the tick of his Rolex as his hands clamp my ears. To hell with reality—it’s a dark, frightening place, and I want to stay in this stolen piece of make-believe for a little while longer.
When he pulls away, it feels like a rug has been tugged out from underneath me.
Through labored breaths, I manage to stutter, “You’re supposed to hate me.”
Donnacha flicks his features back to neutral, but the pulse thumping against his neck betrays his ice-cold wall.
“Since when has that meant anything?”
He wipes my blood-red lipstick from his jaw, removing the last traces of my fucked-up fantasy, then returns to glaring out the window, like he wants to start a fight with every pedestrian and streetlamp we pass.
