I don't sleep that night.
Not because I'm scared.
Because I'm close.
To something. To him. To an answer no one wants me to find.
He's hiding something.
I saw it in his face earlier — the crack when I said her name. The way his pupils dilated, but his voice didn't flinch.
My mother.
Genevieve Laurent.
Saint. Spy. Ghost.
He knows more.
And I'm going to get it out of him.
By morning, the villa is silent again.
The pool still.
The light thin and silver against the walls.
He's in the study.
Reading something encrypted.
I wait until he looks up.
Then I smile.
"Come with me," I say.
He doesn't ask why.
He never does when I use that tone.
I lead him down the marble hallway.
Back into the cellar lounge.
It's warm down here. Candlelit. Lined with old wine racks and faded rugs from some Persian dynasty no one remembers.
The air hums with the scent of rosewood and secrets.
He steps inside.
I close the door.
Lock it.
He turns — casually.
But his eyes narrow.
"What is this?"
I don't answer.
I walk past him.
Pull a chair into the center of the room.
Solid oak.
Worn.
His gaze follows me.
"Phoebe."
I gesture to it.
"Sit."
He doesn't move.
I tilt my head.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
His jaw flexes.
But he sits.
I reach for the rope I left curled beside the rack.
His brow lifts, slow and sharp.
"What are you doing?"
"Tying you down."
He huffs a dark breath. "This some kind of fantasy?"
"No," I say. "It's a reckoning."
Before he can protest, I loop the rope around one wrist. Not tight. Not cruel. But definite.
He lets me.
Maybe out of curiosity.
Maybe because he knows exactly what this is.
One loop.
Then two.
I move to the other arm.
Pull it taut.
His breath shifts — not from pain.
From restraint.
This is not about seduction.
This is about control.
Mine.
When I'm done, I step back.
Look at him.
Killian Thorne.
Unbreakable.
Untouchable.
Now pinned like a god brought to earth.
I circle him slowly.
My bare feet silent on the rugs.
"Tell me what you're hiding," I say.
He doesn't blink.
"About what?"
"My mother."
"I told you everything I—"
"No," I cut in. "You told me what I could handle. What wouldn't destroy me."
His mouth presses into a thin line.
I crouch beside him.
Rest my hands on his knees.
Let him feel how close I am.
How calm.
"You knew she was alive. Long before I found out."
"I suspected."
"You knew."
His silence answers for him.
I lean in.
Whisper by his ear.
"Where is she?"
His voice is low.
Measured.
"Dead. Most likely."
"No."
"I saw the video too."
"Then why haven't we moved?"
He lifts his gaze.
"It's not that simple."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't want to be found."
I go still.
"What did you say?"
"She disappeared on purpose, Phoebe."
"That's a lie."
"She didn't want you to find her."
"You're lying."
"She left because staying would've killed you both."
My chest twists.
I rise slowly.
Walk to the bar.
Pour a drink with shaking hands.
I don't speak for a long time.
When I turn back to him, my eyes are wet, but I'm not crying.
"You think you're protecting me," I say.
He nods.
"I'm not yours to protect," I whisper.
He looks up at me.
Pain flickering like fire behind his restraint.
"You are," he says. "That's the problem."
I slam the glass down.
The crack echoes.
"You were assigned to protect me. Not claim me."
He doesn't flinch.
"You think this is about duty?"
"It's always been about duty."
"I stayed long after the assignment ended."
I stare.
"You should've told me."
"You weren't ready."
"Let me decide that."
His voice drops.
"Fine."
A pause.
Then—
"She's working against your father. Still. Underground. She faked her death with CIA help. Went rogue. He tried to smoke her out using you."
I go cold.
"What?"
"Your engagement to Jackson? That leak? The assassination attempt? All staged to draw her out."
"No…"
"She watched everything. From a distance. Waiting to see if you'd survive."
My breath catches.
"You knew all this?"
He nods.
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want you to think she abandoned you."
"I thought she died."
"Which was easier."
I take three steps toward him.
Raise my hand—
Stop.
He watches.
Waiting for the slap.
I don't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I lean down.
Whisper:
"She's not the only one who abandoned me."
He stiffens.
"You think I abandoned you?"
"You lied. Repeatedly. You said you didn't know. You pretended we were equals. You let me bleed for the truth."
His voice turns rough. Barely controlled.
"I lied to keep you alive."
"I'm alive despite you."
Silence.
Crackling. Thick.
Finally, he leans forward — just enough for the ropes to groan.
And says—
"You don't want the truth, Phoebe."
I meet his gaze.
"And why is that?"
"Because if you knew all of it — really knew — you'd never look at your mother the same way again."
Something cold coils in my stomach.
"What did she do?"
He doesn't answer.
"What did she do?"
He looks at me.
And this time, there's no heat. No lust. No softness.
Only a soldier staring at the battlefield.
"She chose herself," he says.
A pause.
"She chose the war. Over you."