Page 11 of High Stakes

He doesn’t move, though. “It’s my concern when you start treating her like an enemy, when you start treating me like one.”

I slam the fork down on the counter, spinning to face him, my patience wearing thin. “You’re dangerously close to stepping over the line. Don’t make me remind you where your loyalties lie.”

Milo stares at me, his chest heaving with barely suppressed anger, but he doesn’t speak. He knows I’m right. In this world, loyalty is everything, and Fallon has blurred the lines. I can’t allow that. I’ve killed men for less, and she is my wife; if I can’t keep her under control, they will see me as weak.

“I know where my loyalties lie,” he finally says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. “I’m just asking you to reconsider how you’re handling this.”

“She’s alive, isn’t she?” I reply, dismissing his concern with a wave. “It’s more than she deserves.”

I grab the container and stalk out of the kitchen, leaving Milo standing there, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.

The house is eerilyquiet as I make my way upstairs, the echoes of my own footsteps the only sound. The storm outside has died down, leaving behind a stillness that feels oppressiveand heavy. The food in my hand suddenly feels like a weight, like another responsibility I don’t want.

When I reach my bedroom, I set the container on the bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the darkened window. The rain has left streaks across the glass, and the dim light from the moon filters through, casting a cold glow over the room.

I can still see her face, the way her body shook with fear, the rawness of her skin where the dress had stuck to her wounds. I did that. I caused her pain.

But she betrayed me. She had to learn.

Did she, though? The thought creeps in, uninvited, and I push it away.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. Fallon is different. She gets under my skin in ways I can’t explain, and it’s infuriating. She makes me feel things I don’t want to feel—things I can’t afford to feel.

She is becoming a weakness.

The word echoes in my mind like a curse. Weakness is something I’ve never tolerated—in myself or others. Fallon needs to know. She needs to understand softness is a death sentence in this world. And if she doesn’t learn, she’ll end up like all the others who crossed me.

But why does that thought feel so hollow now?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, dragging me out of my thoughts. I pull it out, seeing a message from Stevens.

Stevens:I dropped off another first aid kit. Rocco has it.

I stare at the message for a moment, feeling the weight of it. The first aid kit is for her to help heal the damage I’ve done. But can a medical kit fix the deeper wounds? Can bandages and antiseptic heal the betrayal I feel twisting in my gut?

I toss the phone onto the bed and lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring down at the floor. The silence presses in on me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel... uncertain.

Hours pass,and I find myself in front of the door to Fallon’s new room. The camera’s red light blinks at me. Everything here is monitored and controlled as it should be. But I know Milo is watching. He is always watching her.

I unlock the door and enter, the cold air hitting me immediately.

She’s curled up on the bed, her body wrapped in the blanket, my shirt hanging loosely off her frame. She’s asleep—or at least pretending to be.

I stand there for a moment, watching her. The defiance is gone, replaced by exhaustion and vulnerability. She looks so small, so fragile.

For a fleeting second, the thought crosses my mind to turn around, to leave her to sleep in peace. But I don’t. Instead, I step forward, my shadow falling over her, reminding her no matter how far she runs, she can’t escape me.

“Fallon,” I say softly, my voice cutting through the quiet.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open. She blinks up at me, confusion and fear warring in her gaze.

“You need to eat,” I say, my tone more commanding now, as I place the container of food on the bedside table.

“I’m not hungry,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

“You’ll eat,” I insist, grabbing the plate and holding it out to her. “You need your strength.”

I usually feed her sparingly. However, my guilt needed a reason to come down here and what better excuse than feeding her.

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