She reminds me of someone I’ve spent years trying to forget. No, someone I’ve tried to hate.
Berkley.
My jaw locks as her name cuts through me like a blade. No, this girl isn’t her. Can’t be. Berk isdead. That chapter ended in fire and betrayal. Still, something about Cupcake burrows under my skin, taunting the part of me that still aches for the past I lost.
I clench my fists and force myself to stay grounded. Ronan’s bleeding in a bed somewhere, and this woman was found in the same room with a gun on the floor at her feet. I don’t have time for ghosts or stupid memories that never should’ve survived.
I crouch to her eye level, narrowing my gaze. “You’re going to tell me why you’re here,” I growl, my voice low and cold. “You’re going to explain who you are, who sent you, and why the hell you were in my brother’s room trying to kill him.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch. Just stares down at the floor like she’s already survived worse—and I’m nothing she hasn’t handled before.
I rise slowly, chest tight with a tension I can’t name.
Fine. Play silent. But I’ll get the truth out of her.
She’s not getting water. No food. No bathroom breaks. Nothing.
Not until she gives me what I need.
~~~~~
It’s been twenty-seven hours, and the silence is eating at me. I’ve delivered a couple of slaps, sharp and calculated, eachone a test. But I pulled back at the last second, redirecting the worst of my weight. Not because I’m merciful. No—because every time my hand connects with her skin, something inside me tears.
This is the first time I’ve had to go this far against a woman, and it’s tearing me apart.
She tried to kill my brother. That much isn’t up for debate. She was in his room. There was a gun. Blood. Chaos. Her silence speaks volumes, and every second she holds it is another reason to break her down.
But every time I look at her—really look—I falter. Not visibly. Not enough for her to see. But inside, it’s like dragging barbed wire through my chest.
She’s small—fragile in appearance—and somehow still sitting there with more strength in her silence than most men have with a weapon in hand. There’s something in the way she watches the floor—eyes dark, defiant—that chip away at the armor I’ve built around myself. I should hate her. Ineedto hate her. But even now, her presence feels too familiar.
It doesn’t matter.
I remind myself of that with every breath I take, every command I issue. My soul? That shriveled thing died a long time ago, buried in the same grave we dug for the life we lost. There’s no coming back from what I’ve done—what I continue to do. Redemption was never an option.
She still won’t look at me.
Even now—hours in, skin damp with sweat, blood dried on her face—her chin’s tilted just enough that her eyes won’t meet mine. It’s not defiance. I know defiance. This is something else. Something quieter. Surrender, maybe. Or shame.
Or worse—guilt.
I drag a chair across the floor again just to hear the scrape. Just to break the silence that’s pressing in too tight around my chest. She flinches at the noise, a barely there twitch of her jaw, but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Her hands, zip-tied to the metal arms of the chair, have long since gone pale.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. Close, but not close enough to touch her.
“Who are you?” My voice is low and rough. I clear my throat. “Who sent you?”
No answer. Not even a glance.
“Why were you following Ronan?” I ask again, softer this time. “Was he the target?”
Silence.
A drop of sweat traces her temple. She blinks it away like it’s the only thing that matters right now. Not me or the dried bloody nose she’s sporting. Not the question that’s burned into my brain from the second I dragged her into this room.Why him?
I stand and start pacing. Not because I need the movement, but because I can’t sit still while she plays mute. It’s not just stubbornness. She’s too careful. Too methodical. She’snot scared enough for someone caught. Not angry enough for someone innocent.
That leaves one possibility.