EMMA

The first thing that hit me when I woke was the smell—mildew and salt.

I looked around, and my stomach dropped. This wasn't prison.

A bitter laugh almost slipped out. If I had opened my eyes to the sight of my cot and Mama G telling me it was just a bad dream, I might've danced right there in my cell.

But that wasn't how things worked.

The last thing I remembered was opening my eyes in this same room, with Adam's scarred face above me. Everything after that was blank. Maybe I had passed out from whatever they had slipped into my veins back at the infirmary. Or maybe the shock of seeing him after all these years had been enough.

I glanced to my left. The chair where he had sat before was empty, but relief was a luxury I couldn't afford. He was out there somewhere close, planning whatever came next.

I was still flat on the bed, every muscle complaining. The sedative still clung to me, making my pulse slow and my limbs shaky. Even breathing took effort, like my body had forgotten it was mine.

The only light came from a bulb that flickered every few minutes and thin sunlight through the window. When I had woken earlier, the sky had been gray with dawn, maybe. Now it looked like afternoon.

I stared at the window without lifting my head, and something tightened in my chest. I didn't need to see the skyline to know where I was. I could hear it in the engines, the horns, and the distant sirens.

New York.

The bastard had brought me back to the one place I had prayed he would never touch.

I gave myself a few more minutes, then tried to move. Pain shot through me, every part of my body putting up a fight. My lips were cracked, my throat raw, and my mouth dry as cotton.

A plastic water bottle sat on the nightstand. For a moment, I stared at it, weighing the risk.

He could have put anything in there. But if Adam Blake wanted me dead, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of breaking me out of federal prison.

He still wanted me breathing. For now, anyway.

I pushed myself upright and reached for the bottle. My hand trembled as I twisted the cap, spilling some on my shirt. The water was lukewarm, but I drank it, gulping until the last drop was gone.

Only then did I take in the room. It was small, bare, stripped of anything that might make it human. Through the window, I could see a slice of the world outside. Gray clouds hung low over dark water, cranes and cargo ships in the distance. The harbor. I could hear it too. The groaning of steel and containers clanging against each other.

Red Hook, probably. Somewhere near the docks, where people didn't ask questions.

I glanced down. I was still in my prison scrubs. The relief was small and stupid, but real. At least no one had touched me while I was out.

But on the dresser sat a neatly folded pile of clothes. Jeans, a cream sweater, clean underwear. All perfectly arranged, as if he had taken his time with them.

The door opened before I could look away.

Adam stepped inside like he owned the very air in the room. His grin widened when he saw me sitting up.

"You're awake," he said, voice smooth as ever. "Took you long enough."

I said nothing. My fingers tightened around the bottle until the plastic gave under my grip.

He noticed, of course, and his lips curved into that same easy smirk that had once charmed an entire table in Monaco. Now it just made my skin crawl.

He leaned against the dresser and nodded toward the folded clothes. "I thought you'd appreciate a change," he said. "You were never meant for government-issued cotton. You've always looked better in quality."

His eyes swept over me in a way that made me want to fold in on myself.

"That shade of tan doesn't do much for your complexion."

I refused to blink, to look away. He was like a predator smelling fear, and I refused to give him any.

He laughed softly, the sound low in his throat. "It's alright, love. I'm not waiting for a thank you." He spread his hands, feigning generosity. "I broke you out because I couldn't stand watching you rot in that place. You didn't belong in a cage, Emma. You've always been too soft."

He paused, studying me with that calculating calm I remembered too well. "Funny, though. Your brother didn't seem to mind letting you waste away. Nor did that agent of yours." His eyes narrowed. "You remember him, don't you? The one who put you there."

Something twisted in my gut. I wanted to tell him to shut up, to never mention him again, but the words wouldn't come.

He smiled at my silence, as if it confirmed something for him. "You've got a type, love. Trouble with a gun. He just happens to wear a badge."

When I didn't reply, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over me as the air between us shrank.

"What happened to you, love? Prison knocked the fight out of you?"

After another moment of silence, I found my voice. It came out steadier than I expected. "Stop pretending this is something it's not. I don't want anything from you, Adam. Not freedom, not favors. Nothing."

The words seemed to amuse him. He closed the distance until I could smell the faint burn of whiskey on his breath.

"Don't want anything from me?" he whispered. "That's funny. Because you took quite a lot, if I remember right."

Before I could move, his hand snapped up and gripped my jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. My pulse roared in my ears. The empty bottle slipped from my hand and hit the floor, but I didn't look away.

His hazel eyes caught the light, the glint of gold flickering in the madness there. "You know, I've killed people for less than what you did," he said. "Much less."

Panic clawed at my throat, but I shoved it down and went still. I met his eyes with the same emptiness I had learned to master over the years.

He watched me, then let go. The wildness drained from his face as quickly as it had come, replaced by something eerily calm.

"But you..." He brushed his thumb along my jaw before stepping back. "I know you didn't mean it. You were scared, that's all. Fear makes people do things they don't want."

He smiled faintly, as if offering me mercy. "That's why I removed it from my vocabulary. Makes life cleaner."

A chill ran through me. I couldn't believe this was the same man I had once believed loved me. I knew better now. He didn't have it in him.

He adjusted the cuff of his shirt with deliberate precision, then started pacing. "You can pretend you're different now. Reformed. The saint who learned her lesson." He turned, eyes cutting toward me. "But we both know what we are when it matters. We take what we want and dress it up as something else."

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I was nothing like him. But I knew better than to give him more ammunition.

He smiled when I stayed quiet. "There it is. You hate that I can still read you. You always wore strength like armor, Emma, but it never fit right. All it took was the right pressure to crack it."

His words slipped under my ribs, stinging like shards of glass. The worst part wasn't that he was wrong; it was that he believed he knew me well enough to say it at all. I held his gaze and let the silence speak for me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

He leaned closer again, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But the thing is, I still love you. More than anyone else ever has. More than your Fed boyfriend. What was his name? Parker?" He chuckled. "He definitely won't be riding in on his white horse to save you. Not after what he thinks you've done."

My stomach clenched. "What are you talking about?"

He tilted his head, enjoying my reaction. "You didn't hear? A correctional officer was killed during your little rescue. Collins, I think they called him."

My blood went cold.

Collins.

I saw his easy smile in the hallway, the quiet nods of respect he gave inmates that others thought we were unworthy of. He didn't deserve that.

"You killed him?"

"Collateral," Adam said simply. "He got in the way. It happens." He shrugged as if he were discussing traffic, not a human life.

"But now they think you were in on it, maybe even the one who pulled the trigger. Isn't that poetic? Even your Fed won't be able to tell the difference."

My throat felt tight. "You're lying."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Turn on the news. See the manhunt they've got going for you." He paused. "Maybe he's the one leading it. Maybe right now he's realizing how foolish he was to believe you could ever be anything but a monster."

Something splintered inside me. The room seemed to close in; the walls pressing tighter with every breath that failed to fill my lungs.

Would Jake really believe I was capable of that?

Would he even want to find out?

"Don't look at me like that," Adam said lightly, as though reading my thoughts. "I gave you your freedom back. It's not my fault you don't like the price tag."

He sank back into the plastic chair beside the bed, crossing one leg over the other, hands relaxed on his knee, as if this were a polite chat between old friends.

"So," he said easily, "here's what happens next. You'll rest, because you're going to need the energy. We're leaving the city before dawn. I've got new papers for both of us and tickets to someplace warm, far from all this noise."

The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

He smiled again, the scar on his face tugging at the gesture. "And if you behave," he said, almost tenderly, "maybe I'll let you start over. You were always good at that, love... starting over."

I didn't answer. I couldn't, even if I had tried. My throat burned, and I swallowed hard against the lump rising there, no longer caring if he saw the weakness.

He stood and moved to the window, hands sliding into his pockets. "I thought you'd appreciate the view," he said. "You always had a thing for this city. Figured I'd bring you back one last time."

"Sentimental, I know," he added, looking back at me. "But hey, don't say I never do anything for you."

It was startling how different someone looked once the veil lifted. I could see it now. He had never wanted me. He only wanted control, ownership, and now... punishment.

He gave the window one last look, humming under his breath. "You can almost see Lady Liberty from here," he said. "Better be quick with your goodbyes; I doubt you'll be seeing her again."

Then he turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. "Get dressed, love. I'll be back soon. Try not to do anything stupid."

The lock clicked behind him.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, I finally exhaled, like I had been holding my breath underwater. My hands were shaking. I hated that he could still do that to me.

My eyes burned. I brushed away a tear before it could fall, then drew another breath, steadier this time.

Now I had to figure out how to get back to shore.