Chapter 006

Staying in a hotel is not an option, Emily." Thane set his glass down on the kitchen island. "Your apartment is compromised, someone tried to put a bullet through your skull in a parking lot less than two hours ago, I'm not taking the risk of you getting killed before we make it to the registry."

"I can handle a hotel suite with a secure perimeter, Thane," I said, crossing my arms. The blood beneath my fingernails was a reminder of how close Jake had come to finding me. "I don't need to be under your roof to stay alive for the next forty-eight hours."

"You do if you want my protection." He removed his suit jacket and tossed it over a nearby armchair. "You moved out of your place the moment you agreed to marry me. This isn't up for debate. You're staying in the penthouse."

I stared at him, searching his unreadable eyes for any room to bargain, but there was none. He never compromised when he had the upper hand, right now he did and my desperation handed it to him.

He lead me down the hallway toward the master wing. I followed silently until he opened a door leading into a spacious bedroom with a king-sized bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a private sitting area.

I noticed the connecting doors on the far wall as I stepped inside. They led directly into his bedroom, and there was no lock on my side.

Under normal circumstances, I would have fought against it. I would have demanded my own wing, a keycard, or at least a deadbolt. But I swallowed the protest as it was the least of my worries.

In two days, I would sign a legal document binding my life and my safety to his protection. I would be Mrs. Rivers, and my personal space would become another thing I'd have to negotiate with him.

"Your things are here," Thane said, setting my bag on the luggage bench. "My staff will bring up whatever else you need tomorrow morning. Get some rest, Emily. You look like a ghost."

"I'm fine," I murmured.

He lingered at the doorway, his gaze settling on the bloodstain near my collarbone before he pulled the connecting doors shut and disappeared into his bedroom.

Once his footsteps faded, I unzipped my bag, took out my encrypted laptop, and settled at the desk. My hands were still trembling slightly, but my mind was too occupied for sleep. I need to know if anyone survived that night.

For eight years, I kept Emily Vance separate from the house in Oakhaven. I avoided news articles, police reports, and anything that might bring back memories of the fire. I also forced myself to believe the past was buried and would stay that way.

But I couldn't afford the luxury of ignorance anymore. I opened a secure browser and typed in the search terms.

"Prescott house fire, Oakhaven, arson, casualties."

Several old newspaper archives appeared.

TRAGIC NIGHT: THREE DEAD IN SUSPECTED ELECTRICAL FIRE.

PRESCOTT FAMILY PERISHES BEFORE RESCUERS ARRIVE.

LOCAL POLICE CLOSE INVESTIGATION INTO PRESCOTT BLAZE; NO SURVIVORS FOUND.

I opened a detailed report from a local newspaper. According to the coroner's findings, three sets of charred remains had been recovered from the master bedroom, hallway, and secondary bedroom. And the case had been closed immediately. The fire had been blamed on an old heating unit.

They were all dead.

That was what the world believed, anyway. Patricia, my father, and Jake had supposedly died in that fire ten years ago. I closed the public database and opened an anonymized terminal on the dark web.

If Jake had survived, he wouldn't be using his real name. He certainly wouldn't be leaving an obvious trail for anyone to follow.

I searched his physical description, old aliases, and known scars across several underground intelligence forums. I also queried hospital records for unidentified burn victims admitted within three hundred miles of Oakhaven around the same time of the fire.

Nothing. Every search returned the same result. No matches.

I clenched my jaw.

He was a ghost. A ghost who knew my real name, knew where I ran every morning, and had enough resources to hire someone to put a bullet through my chest.

I wasn't going to wait for him to make another attempt.

Opening an encrypted escrow channel, I posted a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty for verified information about Jake Prescott or anyone operating under his known aliases and childhood identifiers.

It was a risk. Someone might trace the offer back to me, or the wrong person might use it to draw me into a trap. But I needed answers before Jake found another way to reach me. Once the listing was confirmed, I shut the laptop and rubbed my tired eyes.

My body ached, and the events of the evening were finally catching up with me. I stripped out of my bloodstained clothes, discarded them, and headed into the bathroom.

I turned on the shower and waited until the water was hot enough. Then I stepped beneath the spray, closed my eyes, and scrubbed my skin, trying to get rid of the smell of gunpowder and dried blood.

For ten minutes, I let the water drown out everything else. My mind flashing back to the memory of me suffocating under the water, as my head was pushed in by my stepmother then slowly it moved to every other thing that had changed in the past 36hours.

Jake's threats. The fire. The wedding.

Especially the wedding.

I shut off the water, wiped the moisture from my face, and reached for a towel. I wrapped it securely around my chest before opening the shower door.

My breath caught within my throat.

Thane stood in the doorway of the bathroom. His arms were folded across his chest, and his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down with his tattoos peeking from underneath. He watched me with the same calm expression he'd worn all evening.

I tightened my grip on the towel.