Page 33 of Beautiful Savage
"So what happens now?" She asks the question I can't answer. "Am I free?"
I can't say yes. The operation is still live, and something deeper, something that makes my chest constrict at the thought of her leaving, keeps the word trapped.
"No.It's not safe," I manage. "For you or Nicolas. If Hallstein notices—"
"So I'm under protection now? Not leverage?" The skepticism in her voice cuts deep. "Convenient."
She moves even closer, deliberate, testing. Her breasts brush my chest for just a moment, and my whole body goes rigid with want.
"You never believed I was connected to this Hallstein guy." It's not a question. "Three weeks, and you never really thought I was part of this."
I stay silent. Every word I might say is a confession I'm not ready to make.
"Why am I still here?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it fills the space between us.
The truth burns in my throat. That I've been watching her not flinch for twenty-one days. That she danced for me painted in my garden's flowers. That the thought of her returning to Pristine makes something in me go feral.
"You belong here."
It's the only truth I can give her. Her eyes search mine, dark and demanding, finding only the edge of something I won't name.
"My mother's roses are blooming," she says quietly. "Pink heritage roses she planted the year before she died. Papa tends them religiously, and we usually celebrate their blooming with a cup of peppermint tea and Mom's choc-chip cookies. But not this year."
The detail cuts deeper than she intended. This is what I've cost them. A father and daughter who speak in paint and gardens, separated by my paranoid theory.
"You asked about Hallstein," I deflect, needing to give her something. "Nine years ago he had me discharged from the Army. He framed me."
"For what?"
The wall holds. Six women's names stay locked in my throat.
"Can't say."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. Not acceptance, but acknowledgment that this is where I stop.
"So I'm stuck here. For safety from someone I've never met. Because of something you won't explain. While my father loses his mind."
When she puts it like that, it sounds exactly as insane as it is. My hands clench at my sides, the only acknowledgment of the truth in her words.
"He stood outside this club for thirty minutes," she continues. "In his paint-stained clothes. Trying to find me. Your people turned him away."
Each word lands precisely. An innocent man, worried about his daughter, dismissed at the door of the place where I'm keeping her.
"I'll send him another message—"
"No." Her voice is firm. "No more lies through texts. My voice or nothing."
"That's not—"
"Safe? I don't care. Those are my terms."
The negotiation has shifted. She's not asking permission anymore. She's taking control, and fuck if that doesn't make me want her even more.
"You can call him tomorrow."
