Page 40 of Control

I don’t know if I want to scream or cry or laugh. This man, who could snap necks and walk away without a second thought, makes me feel…free. It’s absurd. None of this should makesense, but it does, in the way that chaos sometimes fits together perfectly.

My chest tightens as my thoughts spiral. Could there ever be more between us? Or is this all we’ll ever be—two broken people drawn together by circumstance, by shared darkness and unspoken pain?

“Remo,” I say again, this time with more conviction. He doesn’t respond. He just stares ahead, waiting. I take a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

Wait, for what? For saving me? For understanding me? For being the one person I can’t decide if I hate or—

He reaches out, and his hand brushes against mine, the touch so brief and fleeting that I almost think I imagined it.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly. “Just don’t make me do this again.”

I want to laugh, but there’s nothing funny about what seems to be happening between us. There are a thousand things I want to say and questions I want to ask, but all I can manage is a nod.

The city blurs around us, lights and shadows blending together. My mind races, replaying every moment, every sound. The gunshots, the guard’s voice, the fear in his eyes. And the question that won’t stop gnawing at me:

Why did he save me?

Chapter 14

Remo

The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. My boots click against the marble floor as I guide Daniela inside, her small frame leaning against me.

Her copper curls are damp from the rain we just left behind, sticking to her face like a shroud, but it’s not the rain that soaked her.

“Watch the step.” My voice is low—a poor attempt at softening the sharp edges of this moment. She doesn’t look at me. Instead, her stare is fixed on the floor.

Marble floors gleam under dim, recessed lighting, but the air feels sterile. It’s a fortress, nothing more. I’ve never cared before. Tonight, though, it feels wrong to bring her here. Her, with her wide, wounded eyes and trembling shoulders.

“Sit,” I say, steering her toward the sofa. She sinks into the cushions without a word.

I grab the first aid kit from the cabinet and kneel in front of her. She flinches when I touch her arm.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

She stares at me, unblinking. Maybe she’s thinking of the man I killed in my club that day, his blood staining her memory.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, nodding toward the scrape on her temple.

She shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” My tone hardens. “Hold still.”

The antiseptic stings, and she winces. I try to be gentle, but my hands aren’t used to this kind of care. They’re used to breaking things—bones, spirits, lives.

“Why do you even care?” she mutters.

I don’t answer.

The question gnaws at me as I finish cleaning her wound.

Why do I care? I shouldn’t.

****

The bathroom light flickers when I turn it on, and the heat from the underfloor system spreads through the tiles. I twist the knob for the shower, and hot water streams out, steam curling in the air.

“You should clean up,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

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