6

CHAPTER 6

THALIA POV

 

It’s past seven when I finally win. Now he’s handing me his bag, rattling off his schedule: warehouse, shipments, meetings,

I ignore all as we wait for the elevator.

“What am I expected to do at this job?”

“Be you.”

I snort.

“If I’ve heard of ways to get killed quickly, it’s by being yourself.”

He respond with a chuckle

“Think ahead. Be discreet. Intelligent. Comfortable around the men and woman I meet.”

Woman. Singular. Not women.

Maybe that’s why he needs a female PA.

"And most importantly, don't let your mouth get you in trouble"

I don't dignify that with an answer

“What’s my pay?”

“Enough to ensure you never need money again.”

“Like a billion dollars?”

“Yes.”

Of course he has that kind of money.

“Can I have my phone now?”

“As my PA, it’s being checked for security”

“As my PA, it’s being checked for security. You’ll get it back later,” I mimic under my breath. Finishing the response I've heard twice.

His mouth twitches as he presses his car key. Surprise: he exchanged the color of his soul for his car: white. No driver.

 

I slide in, hyperaware I haven’t contacted my team since last night. My smartwatch is gone too.

Carlos starts the engine.

“Where are we going?”

“Your apartment.”

My head whips toward him as I grab his wrist with force that could’ve caused an accident.

“NO.”

Every surveillance photo is in that apartment. Every note. Four years of intel hidden behind a false panel. My TV connects to field cameras. If he walks in, goes to the wrong room, presses my TV remote…

Six years of work. Gone.

“We can’t go there.”

He drives, ignoring me.

“We can’t,” I repeat, desperate.

He doesn’t respond. Just pulls out and heads toward the exit.

No watch. No way to signal Marcus. No way to warn him Carlos is about to walk into evidence of my obsession, my hunt for revenge.

My heart hammers in my throat.

Live to kill Carlos.

But right now, I’m not sure I’ll survive the next hour.

 

Less than two minutes and we arrive at what he calls “my apartment.” He simply drove us behind his building-a route I’ve never been able to track because I always lose him at some point during my surveillance.

Standing outside this so called apartment, with a garden situated at the corner, his penthouse looms just across a stretch of manicured trees and rooftops. Close enough to watch. Close enough to control.

He’s putting me in a cage and calling it a job.

“How is this my apartment?” I question, but like earlier, he ignores me and heads inside.

The building is compact but luxurious. A mini-duplex with clean lines and a pool that overlooks the city. I hate pools, especially large ones. Their vastness always reminds me how alone I am. But this one is different: contained, controlled, like everything else in Carlos’s world.

I scan for cameras while he’s not looking. Three visible: one by the entrance, one covering the living area, one aimed at the pool. Standard security. Another reason this PA job is a hard no.

“The intercom by the gate connects directly to my building.” He runs his fingers along the marble countertop.

“When I call, you answer.”

He’s nuts.

“If I was meant to be a slave, I’d have been born in the 1600s.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my insult, just continues.

“New clothes will be delivered in.... ” he glances at his Hublot watch

“.. fifteen minutes. Select what you want and return the rest.”

“Can I say no?”

But he’s already moving deeper into the apartment, inspecting every corner.

Currently, I’m drowning in his shirt and jeans. A humiliating reminder of last night.

The jeans hang loose despite the tie he provided as a belt, and his shirt drapes over me like I’m playing dress-up.

 

I had demanded my own clothes back, his stupid response was- “dry cleaning”.

With the kind of finality that welcomes no argument.

My fingers find the third camera in my pocket. Still there. I need to plant it somewhere, definitely not here.

Maybe the VIP club or his warehouse.

 

“I can’t be a personal assistant.” I lament to his back as he examines the security panel by the door..

“You need someone submissive.”

He opens cabinets, checks the refrigerator that’s already been stocked. Everything planned, everything controlled. Just like him.

“That’s not me. But I can cook, supervise, any w…”

He turns so suddenly I don’t have time to balance myself before his hands close around my waist, lifting me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion.

The marble is cold against my thighs, but his hands burn through the fabric.

 

I’m tall, but perched here with him standing between my legs, he towers over me and my stomach lurches. Not from the height but from the proximity.

My mother’s throat. My father’s chest. My brother’s...

“What’s in your apartment that made you almost kill us getting away from it?”

His voice cuts through the spiral. I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Marcus’s training: Stay present.

“My husband.”

The lie comes out steadier than I feel. His eyebrows draw together, and something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes.

“Husband.” He repeats it with a deep tone and furrowed brows.

“He doesn’t like other men around me. If he sees you…” I let the sentence trail off, watching his eyes narrow.

Carlos steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. His hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressed against my ribs.

𝘗𝘶𝘚𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘛 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘓𝘦. 𝘋𝘰 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

But all I can think about is Vaughn. My first love. The boy who taught me what it meant to want someone, to trust someone. The man who still knows exactly how to make me feel safe even though we’re not together anymore.

Carlos’s touch feels nothing like Vaughn’s.

Vaughn’s hands were always gentle, even when we trained together. Even when we fought side by side.

But this monster caging me with his body, his hands feel like a threat wrapped in heat. Dilemma

“If he sees you, it won’t end well.”

 

His already dark eyes deeperess he glares, making his face a mask of something raging.

He lets go of me, but I can still see his neck veins protruding as he walks over to the mini-bar in the living room.

He doesn’t find what he wants causing him to slam the table,making me jump.

Before I can move to climb down, he strides toward me. Three seconds. That’s all the warning I get before he’s in front of me again, cigarette smoke curling between us like a threat as his hand wraps around my throat.

Firm enough to hold me in place, not enough to cut off air.

 

“Is that why you have a Colt Mustang strapped around your knee?”

His voice lays something heavy on my throat.

“Tha…lia.” My name drags out like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff

“It’s for self-protection.”

I gaze away from him, but his grip turns me back to face him.

Empty silence heightens the awareness of us together. His eyes search me: from my eyes to my lips, then down my seated body before hovering on my lips again.

He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, puffing his cigarette before letting go of my throat.

 

My feet hit the floor and I walk past him, feeling his gaze glued to my back like a physical touch.

The silence stretches: thick, electric.

Four steps to fresh air, I hear the soft click of his cigarette being stubbed out.

Then footsteps. Fast. Deliberate.

 

My head snaps back. Pain shoots across my scalp as he fists my hair and yanks me flush against his shoulder.

I gasp, hands flying up to grab his wrist. The position forces my back to arch, my throat to expose, my body to curve into his: vulnerable, pinned, every inch of me aware of his hard muscles. Of him pressing against me.

Out of instinct, I twist his finger. He winces but doesn’t let go.

I should fight harder: Heel to his toes. Elbow to his ribs. Move.

But I don’t.

Because when he tightens his grip, his scent: fruit, oud and incense floods me again, the same one that’s been clinging to his shirt all day, wrapping around me like smoke.

“Does your husband know you’re in my apartment?” His other hand slides to my lower back, fingertips teasing just above my waistband, igniting unwanted currents through me.

I hate it. Hate that my body responds to the same hands that...

“Wearing my clothes, smelling like me, about to get your life to revolve around me?” His nails dig in further.

A startled rush of air slips from me.

I elbow him in the side, but he just presses tighter.

“Careful.”