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He helps me up and wraps his arm around me, and I don’t fight it. After what I just went through, his hands are nice—safe.

We reach his bike, and he sits in front, and I crawl behind him, leaning my head on his back, his leather cool against my cheek. “Thank you for taking me home.”

He responds by twisting the key, kicking the stand, and roaring the bike to life. “I’m not taking you home. You need someone to watch over you in case you run a fever. What Cindy did to you could still kill you.”

Where the hell is he taking me, then?

He reaches around and grabs my hands, forcing them around his midsection. I squeeze my knees and dig in as close to him as possible as he takes off and opens up on the winding road.

Now this, the power beneath me, reminds me of Tommy… I don’t know which one I like better, having experienced both twice now.

He heads in the opposite direction of my house. On this side of town, the houses are bigger, and shiny vehicles are lined up beside well-manicured lawns. He drives me through the town, and eventually the houses thin out. He continues to ride deep into the dark woods, and I lose myself in him, closing my eyes.

Eventually, he parks the bike and helps me off. He grabs my hand, steadying me as he leads me up the tree-lined path to the nicest house I’ve ever seen.

“This is one of three properties my family owns in town,” he tells me. “This is where I live, but my sister, Talia, owns it now.”

Talia…so much about this Talia.

We walk toward the property, passing a veranda and immaculate lawn. I got the sense Remy was rich, but this is obscene.

He leads me into the house, and at first, everything is a blur of red. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, things start to come into focus. The entrance has red walls, a spiral staircase, and a large portrait of an elderly man.

He leads me upstairs to a large room with a four-poster bed and a large bookshelf on the dark walls. My head is pounding, my voice is still scratchy, and right now, I can barely see anything.

I’m completely at Remy’s mercy.

If he is Shadowface like everyone thinks he is, then he could easily kill me, and I don’t think anyone would care.

He walks me to the bed and lays me on it. I immediately sink into his pillow and soft mattress. Then I realize how late it is as a grandfather clock somewhere in the house strikes six. I lick my parched lips and jolt up. “I need to go. I can’t stay here long.”

He hovers over me, and all I can focus on are his dark eyes. “You need to rest.”

“I don’t…” I lose my train of thought as I notice the gold flecks in them, and how undeniably sexy his facial hair is.

Wait… Remy is mean and cold; Tommy’s the sexy one. I shouldn’t have these thoughts.

“You don’t what?” he asks, smirking.

“I don’t like you,” I manage to say weakly, too drained to be sassy. “I’m not safe with you.” Lies. Being tucked into this bed is probably the safest I’ve been since arriving in town.

“Keep telling yourself that, little lamb. Your body went through trauma. Now lie down, and I’ll get you some water.”

I give him a flat stare, though I don’t move.

He sighs. “You’re safe in this house. I won’t kill you…yet.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

I curl up on his bed in my wet clothes and stare at his leather-bound books—Killers don’t read books, do they? Killers don’t usually display thirty gold medals in a row, either. Or have photos of their friends on the wall. My attention drifts to one of Remy and Tommy when they were younger. Their eyes in the picture weren’t as heavy as they are now. Remy’s arm is around Tommy’s in a headlock, and both are grinning, looking mischievous. Remy’s comment about Cindy makes my nerves fire. I can’t imagine sleeping with one of them, let alone both.

As I’m scanning the photos, I hear muffled voices through a vent—one of which is a woman, and she sounds angry. I lean over the bed to capture the voices before lying back down when the voices abruptly stop.

After a few minutes he returns with my water, sits at the side of the bed, and I cup it with both hands and drink it before placing it on the nightstand, and pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping. Clearly, he’s not alone in this house.

I watch as he takes off his leather jacket and gets more comfortable. He senses my eyes on him as I stare at the flex of his biceps under his tight T-shirt that matches the hair on his face. Where Tommy is all legs, Remy has brawny arms and dark facial hair.

“What is it?” he asks.