POV: Rian
The elevator ride to the top of the Millennium Tower took forty-five seconds. I counted every one of them.
Forty-five seconds to leave the world of the living and ascend into the sky. My ears popped as we passed the fiftieth floor. By the time the doors slid open on the penthouse level, I felt like I was stepping onto another planet—one where the air was thinner and the gravity was heavier.
"Move," Varrick commanded, his hand heavy on the small of my back.
I stepped out into a foyer that was larger than the warehouse I had just left. It was all black marble, chrome, and floor-to-ceiling glass. It was beautiful. It was cold. It was a fortress.
Waiting for us were three people lined up like soldiers for inspection.
They were Betas, dressed in sharp, gray uniforms. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Not one of them dared to look up. They radiated a specific kind of terror—the kind that comes from working for a man who feeds people to dogs for making a mistake.
"Sir," the head of the staff—an older woman with a severe bun—murmured, bobbing her head. "Welcome home."
Varrick didn't even look at them. He pushed me forward.
"This is Rian," Varrick announced to the room. His voice didn't echo; the space absorbed it. "He is staying. Prepare the Guest Suite. And get rid of these clothes."
He gestured vaguely at my filth-stained tactical gear.
"He smells like the gutters," Varrick sneered, curling his lip. "Scrub him. Burn the clothes. I want him sterile before he touches my sheets."
My spine stiffened. "I can wash myself."
Varrick finally looked at me. His eyes were flat and unyielding.
"I didn't ask what you could do, Rian. I gave an order." He turned to the older woman. "Greta. Take him. If he fights, call Kael."
Varrick turned on his heel and walked toward the double doors on the left, stripping off his suit jacket as he went. He didn't look back. He didn't have to. He knew I was trapped.
Greta stepped forward. Up close, I saw the tremor in her hands.
"This way, sir," she whispered, gesturing down the right hallway. "Please. Don't make a scene. The Master has had a... difficult week."
I looked at the elevator. Locked. I looked at the guards by the door. Armed.
I gritted my teeth and followed her.
The bathroom was a cathedral of white stone.
In the center sat a soaking tub carved from a single piece of black granite. Steam rose from it, filling the room with the scent of eucalyptus and mint.
"Strip," Greta said, pointing to a hamper. Two younger maids stood by the wall, holding towels and sponges, their eyes wide and frightened.
"I'm not taking my clothes off in front of an audience," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I could feel the hard outline of the USB drive still in my pocket—useless now—and the ceramic knife taped to my back.
"Sir, please," Greta pleaded. Her voice was thin. "If Kael comes in here, he will cut the clothes off you. And he is not gentle."
I looked at the women. They weren't my enemies. They were just other prisoners in this gilded cage, trying to survive.
I sighed, the fight draining out of me.
"Fine," I muttered. "Turn around."
They turned.
I stripped quickly, my movements jerky with anger. I kicked off my heavy boots. I peeled off the tactical vest, the cargo pants, the sweat-stained shirt. I ripped the tape from my back, hiding the small ceramic knife inside one of my boots before shoving them deep into the hamper.
I stood there, naked and shivering in the air-conditioned room, feeling more vulnerable than I ever had with a gun pointed at my head.
I climbed into the tub.
The water was hot—borderline scalding. It stung the scrapes on my arms and the bruise on my wrist where Gable had grabbed me. I sank down until the water lapped at my chin, trying to hide.
"You can leave," I told the women. "I'm in the water. I'm washing. Go."
Greta hesitated, then nodded. She signaled the other two. They scurried out, leaving me alone in the steam.
I closed my eyes, dunking my head under the water. For a second, the silence was absolute. I scrubbed at my skin with a rough sponge, trying to scour away the scent of the warehouse, of Gable, of fear.
Click.
The door opened.
I surfaced, gasping for air, wiping water from my eyes.
"I told you I could do it my—"
The words died in my throat.
It wasn't Greta.
Varrick stood in the doorway. He had discarded his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, revealing the column of his throat. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand.
He walked into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
I scrambled backward in the massive tub, water sloshing over the sides. I brought my knees to my chest, covering myself.
"Get out," I snapped, though my voice lacked any real bite.
Varrick ignored me. He walked over to a velvet stool in the corner, dragged it to the edge of the tub, and sat down. He crossed his legs, taking a slow sip of his drink.
"Wash," he commanded.
"I'm not doing this while you watch," I spat, hugging my knees tighter.
"You are my investment, Rian," Varrick said calmly. His eyes traveled over me, dark and clinical. They tracked a drop of water rolling down my neck, over my shoulder, and down my spine. "I paid two hundred thousand dollars for you tonight. I want to see the condition of my purchase."
"I am a human being, not a car," I said, my face burning with humiliation.
"Are you?" Varrick tilted his head. "You live in the shadows. You steal. You survive. You are a creature of instinct. And right now, your instinct is telling you to hide."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The distance between us closed.
"Stand up."
"No."
"Stand up, Rian. Or I get in the water with you."
The threat hung heavy in the damp air. I looked at his hands—large, capable of snapping bones, yet currently holding a crystal glass with terrifying delicacy.
If he got in the water, I wouldn't stand a chance.
Trembling with rage and shame, I stood up.
The water cascaded off me. I stood in the center of the black tub, fully exposed under the harsh vanity lights. I felt small. I felt thin. The scars from my life in the sectors—a knife wound on my ribcage, a burn on my thigh, the jagged line on my hip—stood out white against my flushed skin.
Varrick's gaze was a physical touch. It started at my feet and moved up, slow and agonizing. He inspected the bruises. He lingered on the scars. He stared at the flat plane of my stomach and the curve of my hips.
He didn't speak. He didn't touch himself. He just looked, consuming me with his eyes.
It was voyeurism in its purest, darkest form. He was stripping away my last defense. He was showing me that I had no secrets from him.
"Turn around," he murmured.
I turned, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
I felt his eyes land on the nape of my neck—on the scent gland hidden there.
"You're too thin," Varrick commented, his voice rougher now. "And you have too many scars for someone so young."
"It's a rough neighborhood," I muttered at the tiled wall.
"Not anymore," Varrick said.
I heard the rustle of fabric. I turned back around.
Varrick was standing. He picked up a large, fluffy white towel from the warmer rack. He held it open.
I stepped out of the tub, dripping wet, shivering.
Varrick wrapped the towel around me. For a second, his arms encased me. He pulled me against his chest, the towel trapping my arms. He buried his face in my wet hair, inhaling deeply.
"Better," he whispered against my scalp. "Now the city is gone. Now you just smell like... potential."
He released me abruptly, stepping back as if he had been burned.
"There are pajamas on the counter," he said, turning toward the door. "Put them on. Then come to the kitchen. If you're going to belong to me, I need to put some weight on you."
He walked out, leaving me standing in a puddle of water, clean, warm, and utterly violated.
I clutched the towel tighter.
He hadn't laid a hand on me. He hadn't hurt me. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew he had taken something I wouldn't get back.
He had seen me. All of me. And he hadn't looked away.