Page 112 of Remy

I frown. “A chain?”

He sighs. “Yeah. A necklace. Something discreet you can wear under your clothes.”

“I’d have something inside. Why?”

He holds out the extravagant ring, the silver—or maybe white gold—centered with a band of glinting black. “I want you to wear this at all times.”

I keep frowning, the confusion not dissipating as I take the thick weight from his palm. “I’m still caught up on why.”

“As a form of protection. If someone attempts to hurt you again, show them this.” He points to the words engraved around the inside of the band.

Property of Remy Costa.

“Are you implying I’m your property?” Incredulity attempts to enter the whirlpool of my emotions.

He rolls his eyes. “No, it states the ring is my property.”

Why would he engrave his ring like that? Does he label all his property? Are his clothes tagged?

I itch to shuck his jacket to see if this is an entire wardrobe situation.

“Wearing it will give you protection. So as soon as you get inside, I want you to put it on a chain and wear it at all times.”

“Protection from who?” I ask. “Your men?”

“That guy was a club employee, Ollie. Not one of my men. But yes, it will protect you from anyone in my employ, amongst others. Just wear it, okay? And if you get into trouble, use it.”

“Is this like a one ring situation? Should I be worried about hobbits?”

His brow knits, this time in scathing confusion.

“Forget it.” I shimmy his jacket from my shoulders.

“Keep it on,” he warns.

“It’s just a few steps to?—”

“I said, keep it on. I don’t want you freezing your ass off on top of everything else. I’ll get it from you another day.” He starts the ignition, finalizing the argument.

“Wait. I don’t have your number.”

“You’ll get it soon enough.” He grabs the steering wheel.

He doesn’t say goodbye, but it’s clear he’s itching to leave. Probably in a hurry to get back to his non-virgin companion.

“Thanks again.” I grab the door handle and push.

“You need to quit saying that,” he mutters as the door clasps shut.

He reverses from my drive, then idles in the street, his body bathed in darkness as he stares at me through the passenger window, waiting for me to go inside like he’s a concerned friend… Like some sort of hybrid murderous gentleman.

I give myself a mental shake and drag my ass up my front steps, his ring warm in my palm, my cell continuing its short, sharp vibrations in my pocket.

It’s hard to leave him. To shut myself inside. All alone.

Reality hits as soon as I step foot into the entry. Flashbacks of the attack creep into my consciousness. The dull, lingering throb of injuries make themselves known.

I force myself to keep moving into the kitchen. To grab pain relief from my medicine cabinet. To wash the tablets down with water from the fridge to keep the nausea at bay.

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