Chapter 23
Hazel POV
I sat quietly in the car, staring at Val as he drove. I watched the way his muscles flexed at the wheel, how his hands controlled the steering with an ease that was all grim precision. The metallic scent of blood clouded the vehicle; whether it was his or mine, I couldn't tell. Looking down at his blood-stained clothes, it was obvious he'd gone on a killing spree. That wasn't surprising — I'd already learned he was a devil, ruthless and merciless. I didn't mind. Not really. Not when he'd saved me.
My eyes wandered back to the bodies I'd knocked unconscious with my heels. How foolish the driver had been, and how fortunate I was. He clearly had people lying in wait — ambushes, GPS trackers, men who pounced the moment the car stalled. Lucky for me, the timing worked in my favor. Lucky that my heels were sharper than his planning.
I kept thinking, absurdly, about how I'd been lecturing myself a minute earlier: stop being naive, stop playing frightened when you're supposed to be the villainess. I should have been the one dictating fear. I found a pack of cigarettes in the car and lit one freely, taking long draws like I had in those Lucid days. Each inhale steadied me. Confidence and courage returned. Now I was healthy. Who would dare play with me? I couldn't wait to beat a few more people into unconsciousness if need be.
My gaze drifted to him. I didn't mean to stare. But his arms, the slope of his jaw, the way blood darkened his shirt — it was intoxicating. He'd always been seductive and handsome, but now, coated in the evidence of violence, he looked somehow more complete. I caught myself stealing another glance and felt that stupid, warm flutter — as if being his wife actually completed me in some small, ridiculous way.
"Too handsome that you don't mind drooling?" His voice cut through the car, cold and clipped.
His words broke the spell of my daydream. I sighed and frowned, fighting the embarrassed heat rising in my cheeks. "Whatever," I muttered and settled back, staring out at the road, pretending to admire the view.
Val answered a call with a single motion and, as always, spoke in orders. "Clean up the mess at Flatiron Hills," he said, voice clear and emotionless. Then he ended the call without waiting for an answer. I wondered to myself — so that's where they took me. Flatiron Hills. It hardly mattered. This man was a puzzle: one second human, the next an impenetrable enigma. As long as I'd been rescued, I told myself, everything was fine.
The car pulled into our mansion like it always did — no fuss, no drama. His men already knew what to do; no packing necessary. I stood for a moment in the garage, looking at his line of cars, feeling an odd excitement fizz through me. He wouldn't mind if I toyed around with his babies, right? I asked myself, smiling at the thought. He was indifferent to so much, and he was rich — I decided that meant yes.
Inside, Anna and Mrs. Paula sat together, being fussed over by maids. When they saw us arrive, their smiles cracked and went stiff. They were shocked, and I couldn't blame them. Val walked through the room like he saw nothing. He always had that effect: a cold wall that made everyone else rearrange themselves to his shadow.
"Mother, I'm going to bathe and change. Join you later," I muttered, then followed him toward our room. I could tell he planned to bathe — the man always cleaned after a mess, but he did it with a weapon's neatness.
For a moment I stood in the doorway, debating whether to wait, take the guest bathroom, or use a spare room. I felt guilty leaving Mother waiting, but the uncertainty gnawed at me. I wanted the safety of his space, even if it made me nervous.
Val moved to the balcony with a cigarette between his fingers. I widened my eyes — did he crave it after seeing me smoke? The habit thrilled me; it felt defiant, like a small rebellion. I rarely smoked because I knew the damage it did, but tonight — after blood and running — it steadied me.
He lit his cigarette and stood there, thoughtful, ash trembling at the tip. Watching him smoke made me crave my half-finished stick. I wanted to reach for it and draw comfort from the smoke, but I waited.
"Let's bathe!" he said suddenly, startling me.
"Let's bathe?" I repeated, eyes wide. Heat rose to my face. "Who baths with this maniac? I know what he means by 'bathe' and I know exactly what he can do." The word felt like an invitation and a threat both.
"I'll wait," I said at last, planting my feet near the doorway, ready to bolt if he came too close. I wasn't going to agree — not with full knowledge of how he acted when he lost control. Bathing together felt like an exposure, an invitation to vulnerability I wasn't prepared to risk.
Still, he walked toward me, and something in his gaze had gone from cold to needy in a heartbeat. I didn't know whether he was lusting for me while I was still coated in blood, or whether he simply found cruelty attractive. For a split second I thought he might be a lunatic. And yet, for reasons I couldn't explain, his bloody face looked hot and sexy to me.
Before I could bolt, a hand slid to my waist. My eyes widened. How had he moved so quickly? "Wasn't he just there a second ago?" I wondered as he drew closer.
"Excuse me, wife," he muttered, face inches from mine. "You know I'm not patient."
If he was a lunatic, I decided, I was one too — because his face, even soaked in blood, made something coil and burn in me. I watched the curve of his cheek, his long lashes that gave him an extraordinary look, and the gold flecks in his eyes. They sparkled and I felt helpless under them. It was unfair I should be seduced by his looks and aura. I scolded myself for it, but the air between us thickened, and my head grew crowded with a dozen stupid questions.
How had he approached me so quickly? Could he move that fast? Did he disappear and reappear like a ghost? If that was true, did he hear thoughts too? Could he read me?
"Please, my wife," he breathed, interrupting my wild thoughts. He took a long whiff of his cigarette, before slamming his lips to mine.
The kiss hit me like a punch. Smoke, heat, and the rough press of his mouth flooded my senses. For a moment the world blurred and narrowed until it was only him and me. His lips were rough and demanding; his tongue intruded and tangled with mine with a violent, intoxicating hunger. I was shocked. I shouldn't have liked it — he didn't love me, and my heart hadn't fallen. Still, strangely, I did like it.
Clumsily, I tried to match him. I wanted to return the same intensity, the same vigor. My body went soft and molten in his arms; he scooped me up as if I were air and carried me toward the bathroom without breaking the kiss.
Warm water hit us and I gasped, trying to jerk away. His hands closed around my neck for a brutal instant, and I thought I might die of lack of air. He released me, and I sucked in a breath as the water sluiced red stains away from both our bodies. It was a weird, terrible relief watching the blood wash down the drain.
My hands found his neck; I clung to him like someone who knew she would fall if he set her down. I knew better than anyone — if he lowered me, my legs would give. I was jelly.
I looked up into his face and he watched me carefully, as if reading each flicker of my expression. No one had ever observed me that closely. I put a hand to his shirt and, suddenly, cold fear poured into me like ice. I grabbed at his suit and yanked it off. Holes marked his torso — bullet holes, like small moons across his skin — and I realized the bullets had been pulled out. The flesh looked like it was already knitting itself back together.
Whatever warm, dizzy romance had been building between us extinguished at once. I stared at those healing wounds and felt panic bloom in my chest.
One thought drove itself into my head and wouldn't leave: How do you kill an Enigma?
If he healed like this, if metal came out and skin closed up, I needed to learn how to stop him. Not because I wanted to, and not because I wished him dead — but because he was careless. Because I had no interest in being a young widow.