Chapter 19 · His Favorite Trophy

I wake up to the smell of expensive cologne and old money.

Not Ashford's lab. Not the metal chair. I'm on a leather couch in an office that screams corporate penthouse—floor-to-ceiling windows, marble desk, art that costs more than most people's houses. My wrists are zip-tied in front of me. My ankles too. The ties are the kind security contractors use, the ones that tighten if you pull.

Grayson's standing by the window with his back to me. Suit jacket off. Sleeves rolled up like he's been working. His phone's on the desk, screen dark.

"You're awake." He doesn't turn around. "Good. I was starting to think Rourke overdid the sedative."

I try to sit up. The room tilts. Whatever they gave me is still in my system. "Where's Ashford?"

"Gone. I bought out her contract an hour ago." He finally looks at me. His face is calm. Too calm. "She was useful, but messy. I prefer clean solutions."

My mouth tastes like copper and chemicals. "You can't just—"

"I can." He crosses the room, pulls a chair from the desk, and sits down in front of me.