Chapter 4 - The Safe House on the River
The safe house smelled of old cedar, unroasted espresso beans, and gun oil.
It was located on the top floor of a converted industrial loft overlooking the gray expanse of the river, protected by triple-paned bulletproof glass and an electronic security grid that made Oakridge Country Club look like a screen door.
Vance led Nebula through the heavy steel door, guiding her by the elbow. Her bare feet felt bruised and cold against the polished concrete floor.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to a deep leather armchair beside a massive brick fireplace where a low fire was already crackling.
Nebula sank into the chair, wrapping her arms around her shivering body. Her rose silk bridesmaid dress was ruined—caked in mud, torn at the seams, and stained with dried blood. She looked like a ghost of the wedding she had just fled.
Vance walked into the kitchen alcove and returned a moment later with a heavy crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid and a small ice sphere, alongside a first-aid kit and a clean, warm towel.
He knelt on the floor in front of her chair, setting the supplies on the coffee table.
“Drink this,” he said, pushing the glass toward her hand.
“I don't drink,” she murmured.
“Tonight, you do.”
She took the glass. Her fingers brushed his—calloused, scarred, and steady as an anchor. She took a small sip. The bourbon burned her throat, hot and sharp, igniting a little spark of life in her frozen chest. She gasped, coughing once, but swallowed it.
Vance opened the first-aid kit, pulled out an antiseptic wipe and a cold pack, and looked up at her face.
“Hold still,” he commanded softly.
He pressed the cold pack gently against her swollen jaw. The shock of the cold made her hiss through her teeth, but the immediate numbness was a merciful relief.
“You shouldn't have come for me, Vance,” she whispered, staring down at his dark hair as he worked with surprising gentleness. “You have an empire to protect. If Richard’s connections find out you pulled me out—”.
“Let them try,” Vance interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, level tone. He didn't look up. “Nobody touches a ghost belonging to Victor Vance without paying a toll in blood.”
“I left you,” she reminded him, her voice breaking. “I walked away from the syndicate. I told you I wanted nothing to do with your world.”
“You walked away because you were afraid of the dark,” Vance said, finally looking up, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, possessive intensity. “And you walked straight into a cage built by a man who wore a better suit than my enforcers. Is that what you wanted, Nebula? Was the white picket fence worth your teeth?”
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because he was right. She had traded the wolf for a fox, thinking the fox was tame, only to discover it had sharper teeth.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice trembling.
May you like
Vance stood up slowly, towering over her in the dim light of the loft. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the rain-streaked glass reflecting the city lights across the river.
“Now,” Vance said, pulling a heavy silver pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipping it open, “we wait for your husband to finish his champagne.”
