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The sheets were cool and silky against my skin, the luxurious thread count another reminder of the world of wealth and privilege I'd stumbled into. The mattress cradled my aching body, beckoning me toward oblivion.

I closed my eyes to the soft rustle of him taking off his clothes before he joined me in the large bed.

When he pulled me against him from behind, his body enveloped mine in warmth and security.

He curved around me, one strong arm draped possessively over my waist, his breath warm against the nape of my neck.

He murmured for me to sleep against my hair.

Despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty, the knowledge of what he was and what he'd done—my body betrayed me, melting into his heat like it had found its missing piece.

As consciousness began to slip away, a thought crystallized with terrifying clarity: I wasn't falling asleep in the enemy's arms.

I was becoming the weapon he would use against himself.

And God help us both when he realized it.

CHAPTER 16

SABRINA

Iwas lying to my mother. Still.

Well, sort of. More like lying by omission.

The dinner a few nights ago was so completely off the charts that I couldn't process it, so when I called my mother, I decided to tell her about it…just leaving out a few details.

Like the location, the circumstances, the names of the people involved, or that I was the involuntary fiancée of one of them.

Basically, it was a completely true story…told with a bunch of lies.

"The whole thing was insane. There were plates and food flying. At one point, she had a knife."

"I can't believe it. Don't they have police in Paris?" she asked.

"Paris?"

Crap.

"Um…yeah. Of course they have police in Paris, where I totally am right now." My palm dampened against the phone as I spoke. "It just took a while for anyone to call them. You know Parisians."

I rolled my eyes. There wasn't a chance in hell she would buy this.

My heartbeat quickened, roaring in my ears as I waited for her to call me out.

She sighed. "That's true. Parisians are known for being like that."

I caught my reflection in the mirror and made a face. Seriously? No one, in the entire existence of Paris, had ever implied that Parisians were known for glorying in watching a violent food fight erupt in a restaurant without calling the police, but okay.

The lie sat heavily in my throat, threatening to choke me.

I rearranged the perfume bottles on my bureau, the glass clinking under my restless fingers. "So, Mom, I needed to talk to you about something."

"Can it wait, darling? I'm getting ready for a date."

"Are you still dating that Italian man? What was his name again?"

There was a strange pause on the other end, then a soft rumble before the line went silent. The call was still connected, which meant she'd muted me. Why on earth would she need to mute me? Unless…