“We’re really in the Hamptons.”
He nods, eyes solemn. “I never lie.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why bring me here?”
He takes longer than I expect to answer. Which only makes me pay closer attention. His expression is well-practiced. It gives nothing away. But every person has tells—somewhere. I just have to find Kian’s.
He answers my question with one of his own. “What do you last remember?”
“I remember getting out of your luxurious prison wardrobe and… walking around the city aimlessly,” I start.
It’s more for my benefit than his. I need to remember what exactly led me into the beast’s lair.
“I remember being hungry. I needed to use the bathroom, too. I stumbled across this restaurant. I went inside. Then this guy showed up and… he took me to a back room and locked me in there.”
I fumble around, trying to remember what happened next. It comes to me in a flash like lightning, hot, jarring, and painful.
“Then that old fucking pervert walked in.”
“Yannis,” Kian supplies.
“Who?”
“Yannis Rokiades,” Kian tells me. “The Greek don.”
I sigh. “Yes. That’s the one. He took me back to his club and I’m pretty sure he slipped me something—”
“Ecstasy.”
“The drug?”
He looks like he’s about to smile, but he kills it quickly. “Yes, the drug, not the emotion. He must have mixed it with something else because you were very confused and disoriented when I found you. But then again, you had also been shot.”
“What?”
“You don’t remember that part?”
“I… no,” I tell him, horrified that I can’t pinpoint that. Surely, getting shot is something a person remembers?
I look at my body, maybe for the first time since I’ve woken up. I’m wearing soft cotton pajamas. And beneath them, on my abdomen, is a mass of gauze bandages.
So that’s where the pain is coming from.
“Who shot me?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes. “Why does that feel like an accusation?”
“If you didn’t do it, then it’s not.”
“Why would I shoot you?”
“You’ve been trying to kill me since we met.”
He snorts. “True. But I’ve had ample opportunity to kill you up until now.”