I didn't sleep. I sat in the dark, counting the seconds. A Vanguard might own the city, but he didn't own me. Not yet.
I waited until the penthouse fell into a dead silence. I crept out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The door was locked, but I hadn't spent five years on the run without learning how to handle a basic electronic bolt. I pulled a thin, sturdy wire from the hem of my dress—a tool I never traveled without—and got to work.
Click.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. I held my breath, waiting. Nothing. I slipped out into the hallway, moving like a ghost. I didn't head for the elevator; he'd have sensors there. Instead, I aimed for the service stairs near the kitchen.
I reached the heavy steel door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pushed it open, expecting an alarm to scream, but there was only silence. I ran down three flights, my lungs burning, until I reached the fire exit that led to the garage.
I was almost there. I could see the row of black luxury cars. If I could just get to the street, I could disappear into the Milanese fog.
I burst through the final door into the garage—and stopped dead.
The lights flickered on, blinding me. Kyle was leaning against a silver sports car directly in front of the exit. He was still wearing his black trousers, but his shirt was gone, revealing a torso of lean, hard muscle and a dark tattoo that sprawled across his ribs. He was holding my fake passport in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
He didn't look angry. He looked bored.
"Three minutes and twelve seconds," he said, checking his watch. "I expected better from a professional, Val."
I turned to run back to the stairs, but two massive security guards stepped out from the shadows, blocking the way. I was trapped.
Kyle straightened up and walked toward me. Every step he took was slow, and calculative. I backed up until my heels hit the cold metal of a pillar. He didn't stop until he was inches away, his shadow completely swallowing me.
"Did you think I didn't know about the wire in your hem?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I let you get this far because I wanted to see how much spirit you had left. It's cute. But it's over."
He reached out, his hand wrapping around my throat—not to choke me, but to force my head back so I had to look at him. His thumb pressed against my windpipe just enough to make my breath hitch.
"You're not a guest, and you're not a partner," he hissed, his eyes dark with a sudden, sharp intensity. "You are my property. And if you try to leave my sight again, I won't put you in a bedroom. I'll put you in the basement, where the sun doesn't reach."
He leaned down, his lips grazing my forehead in a way that felt more like a brand than a kiss. The contrast between his cold words and the heat of his bare chest against my arms made my head swim.
"Now," he said, grabbing my wrist and dragging me toward the elevator. "We're going back upstairs. You're going to sit in that chair, and you're going to let me mark you so everyone in this city knows exactly who you belong to."
I struggled, trying to twist my arm out of his grip, but his fingers were like manacles. "I hate you," I spat.
Kyle stopped at the elevator doors and pulled me flush against him, his hand sliding down to the small of my back to hold me there.
"Good," he whispered into my hair. "Hate is an intense emotion, Val. It'll keep your heart racing while I spend the rest of the night deciding what to do with you."
The elevator doors opened, and he hauled me inside, the "Transformation" about to begin—whether I wanted it or not.