Chapter 5 - The Safehouse
Forty minutes later, Hannah found herself sitting in the plush leather passenger seat of a vintage Bentley sedan as it glided silently through the iron security gates of a sprawling limestone estate tucked away behind a dense grove of ancient oaks on the North Shore.
It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't an apartment. It looked more like a European sanctuary transported across the Atlantic—stone walls, tall arched windows, and private gardens currently beaten by the gray autumn rain.
"Where is this?" Hannah asked, staring out the window as Marco parked the car beneath a covered stone portico.
"My primary residence," Damen said, opening her door before Marco could circle the vehicle. He offered her a gloved hand. Hannah stared at it for three seconds before swinging her legs out and ignoring his hand entirely, stepping onto the dry cobblestones under her own power.
Damen didn't react, though a faint, ironic ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
Inside, the house was a masterpiece of dark wood, roaring fireplaces, and absolute, hushed silence. There were no servants clattering about, no frantic phones ringing—only the deep, resonant ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the grand hallway and the rich aroma of roasted coffee and cedar.
A middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair tied back in a neat bun and wearing a dark wool dress stepped out from the corridor.
"Welcome home, Mr. Moretti," the woman said smoothly, her eyes shifting immediately to Hannah with sharp, professional assessment. "I have prepared the second-floor guest suite facing the lake. The heated floors are on, and Dr. Vance left the supplementary vitamins you requested."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Damen said. "Miss Brooks will need hot tea, a light meal, and absolute quiet for the next twenty-four hours. No phone calls, no visitors."
"I am not a prisoner," Hannah interjected, turning to face Damen with her chin lifted defiantly, despite the pale exhaustion still clinging to her skin. "You brought me here against my verbal objections, which technically constitutes kidnapping in the state of Illinois, Mr. Moretti."
Damen tilted his head, studying her with a strange, quiet appreciation. "Kidnapping implies you aren't free to walk out the front door right now. The gates are unlocked, Marco’s car keys are on the console, and there is a taxi company programmed into the landline in your room."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a warm, intimate register.
"But you won't walk out. Because you haven't slept more than four consecutive hours in three weeks, your apartment radiator is currently leaking rusty water onto your kitchen floor, and Mrs. Gable makes a lemon chamomile tea that cures migraines better than any prescription in your clinic."
Hannah opened her mouth to argue, to throw a sharp retort back at him, but her body betrayed her. A sudden, heavy wave of dizziness rolled over her, making the oak panels of the hallway sway slightly.
May you like
Damen’s arm shot out instantly, catching her gently by the elbow—avoiding the bruised skin with practiced care—and supporting her weight until the room stabilized.
"Rest first, Hannah," he said quietly, his hand lingering on her arm just a second longer than necessary. "We can discuss your legal definitions of kidnapping after you've had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep."
