Nia Jones

My wrists ached from the rough zip ties. The room smelled like gasoline and mildew—concrete walls, no windows, one flickering bulb that buzzed like it had a vendetta against silence.

Matteo hadn’t said a word since dragging me out of the black SUV. Just shoved me into a chair and lit a cigarette like he had all the time in the world.

I stared at him. “You planning to kill me or just bore me to death?”

He chuckled. “Feisty. No wonder Lucas is obsessed.”

The word ...