We finally stopped in the middle of nowhere.
A deserted uphill road swallowed by night. No streetlights. No passing cars.
I hadn't seen another vehicle for more than half the drive.
Then the mansion appeared.
Old architecture—stone, iron, history carved into its walls—but the entrance told another story. Modern security. Silent sensors. Reinforced doors that didn't belong to something built decades ago.
Armed men stood along the driveway.
Prepared.
Waiting.
So this wasn't an afterthought.
This place wasn't planned in a month.
It wasn't even planned in a year.
This was years of calculation.
He parked in front of massive wooden doors. One of the men opened the driver's side instantly. Raven stepped out, lifted me into his arms, and carried me inside without a word.
I looked at his face.
Cold. Controlled. Unreadable.
And somewhere beneath it—faint, buried—the kitten I'd known for years.
The doors closed behind us.
Not loudly.
But in the kind of silence where even a soft sound feels like a gunshot.
He set me down on the couch.
My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
No.
I couldn't let this go.
He lied to me.
Manipulated me.
For years.
The fire I'd been holding back for an entire month finally broke free—confusion, fear, betrayal, pressure—everything turning into pure, burning anger.
He knelt in front of me.
Slowly. Carefully.
And loosened the belt he'd used to restrain me earlier.
His hands were gentle now.
Too gentle.
The moment my wrists were free, I ripped the tape from my mouth and sucked in a sharp breath.
I met his eyes—steady, furious, unflinching.
My hand moved before my mind could stop it.
SLAP.
The sound echoed through the room.
"You liar."