Chapter 4: The Golden Cage

The storm outside matches the chaos inside my chest.

Rain lashes against the tinted windows of Christian's sleek black SUV, turning the city lights into blurry streaks of neon. I sit in the passenger seat, wrapped in the oversized coat he tossed at me before we slipped out through the hospital's side exit.

It smells like him.

Cedar. Expensive leather. Cold rain.

Christian hasn't said a word since we left.

His hands grip the steering wheel, his knuckles tense as he keeps checking the rearview mirror. Every few seconds, his eyes flick toward the traffic behind us.

He's watching for a tail.

Good.

At least I'm not the only paranoid one here.

"You're a bad driver," I say, breaking the silence.

His jaw tightens.

"Excuse me?"

"You're taking the turns too wide. If someone wanted to pit-maneuver us, we'd be flipping over that guardrail."

His eyes snap toward me.

For the first time since we left the hospital, I see a flicker of irritation.

"I just saved your life, Miss Montgomery. A little gratitude would be appropriate."

"You didn't save me."

I lean my head against the leather seat, closing my eyes.

"I had it handled. You just cleaned up the mess."

A dark laugh escapes him.

"Handled?"

I open one eye.

"You were standing in a pile of shattered glass with a broken pitcher, facing a man who was trying to kill you."

"He was off-balance."

Christian glances at me.

"He had his right side exposed after hitting the table. His shoulder was already injured. I had maybe three seconds before he recovered."

I pause.

"So, yes. Handled."

Silence.

Christian's fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

He doesn't ask the obvious question.

How does a twenty-six-year-old socialite know exactly how long it takes an attacker to recover from an injured shoulder?

Not yet.

But I can practically hear the questions piling up inside his head.

Ten minutes later, the SUV slows.

Massive iron gates rise ahead of us. Security cameras sit on stone pillars, following the vehicle as the gates slowly swing open.

My eyes narrow.

This isn't a house.

It's a fortress.

The driveway winds through acres of perfectly manicured grounds before opening onto a massive modern mansion made of glass, steel, and pale stone.

Brilliant lights illuminate the entire property.

There isn't a single dark corner.

Not one place to disappear.

Interesting.

Christian parks beneath the covered entrance and shuts off the engine.

The sudden silence feels heavier than the storm outside.

"This is my private residence," he says.

His voice drops into that low, dangerous tone I've heard before.

"No one enters without my permission."

I glance toward the mansion.

"Carter Reed's men can't touch you here."

I turn back to him.

"And what about you?"

Christian's eyes meet mine.

"Who protects me from you, Mr. Vance?"

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then he leans across the center console.

He gets close.

Too close.

His icy eyes lock onto mine, and something about the intensity in them makes my pulse jump.

"No one."

The word is barely a whisper.

"Because right now, I'm the only thing keeping you alive."

He pauses.

"Don't forget that."

Then he straightens, opens the door, and steps into the rain.

I remain in the passenger seat for a moment, staring through the windshield at the enormous mansion.

Beautiful.

Expensive.

Heavily guarded.

Safe.

And absolutely a golden cage.

I finally step out of the SUV, pulling Christian's oversized coat tighter around my aching body.

Cold rain touches my face.

I look up at the mansion.

This is the wolf's den.

And Christian Vance has just brought me straight into it.

What he doesn't know is that wolves aren't the only predators that hunt in the dark.

Wraith is dead.

But the woman who woke up in Vivian Montgomery's body?

She's still very much alive.

I step through the doors.

And somewhere behind me, Christian watches.

I can feel it.

The game has officially begun.