Chapter 2: Memories
Catherine woke to the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the dull ache in her wrists where rough ropes chafed against her skin. Her head throbbed, and the musty scent of the room filled her nostrils as she blinked against the dim light filtering through a single cracked bulb overhead. Her vision swam as she tried to focus on her surroundings.
The walls were bare concrete, the floor stained and cold beneath her bare feet. A single metal chair sat in the corner, its legs uneven on the cracked surface. There were no windows, only a heavy steel door with a slot near the top. The starkness of the room sent a chill coursing through her.
Where am I?
Her pulse quickened, panic surging in her chest. She tugged against the ropes binding her wrists behind her back, her movements frantic. The realization of her helplessness settled in like a weight on her chest, and tears pricked her eyes. She forced herself to take a deep breath.
The last thing she remembered was the rehearsal dinner—the laughter, the music, Marcel’s leering grin as he whispered promises that made her skin crawl. And then the invasion. Men in black masks, guns drawn. A sudden, violent interruption to the carefully curated façade of her life.
Catherine shivered at the memory. The man who’d taken her—she couldn’t forget his presence. He was taller than the others, his voice sharp and commanding. She’d seen his eyes briefly beneath the mask, one scarred and clouded, the other sharp and calculating. The fear she’d felt then threatened to consume her again now.
Why had they taken her? And why did she feel as though this wasn’t random?
Her thoughts spiraled, and her mind clawed for answers.
Five years ago…
“Catherine,” her father said, his tone as brusque as ever. “This is Kieran Karakatsanis. He’ll be taking over as your personal bodyguard.”
The words hadn’t fully registered before the man stepped into view.
Kieran.
He was nothing like the men who usually surrounded her father. Where they were clean-cut and suited like well-trained lapdogs, Kieran was all sharp edges and danger. Tall and broad-shouldered, tattoos on his neck, he filled the room with an unspoken authority. His dark hair was neatly trimmed but slightly unruly, a few strands falling across his forehead. His jaw was strong, shadowed with stubble, and his piercing hazel eyes held a mixture of intensity and detachment.
Catherine’s breath hitched as his gaze settled on her, sharp and assessing, like he was cataloging every detail of her in an instant. For a moment, her father’s booming presence faded to the background, and all she could see was the man standing before her.
“Kieran, this is my daughter, Catherine,” her father continued, oblivious to the electricity that seemed to hum in the air. “Your job is to make sure she’s safe. Am I clear?”
Kieran nodded once, curt and precise. “Understood, sir.”
He turned back to Catherine. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way his gaze lingered—a flicker of something unspoken.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Santoro,” he said, his voice low and rough, the kind of voice that sent shivers down her spine despite herself.
She stood awkwardly, smoothing the skirt of her dress as she extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Karakatsanis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, as he shook her hand. His grip was firm, his skin calloused. She imagined he was the kind of man who could snap someone in half if he wanted to.
“It’s Kieran,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.
“Kieran,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her father cut in before the moment could stretch any further. “Kieran is here because I trust him, Catherine. You’ll do as he says, no arguments.”
“Yes, daddy,” she replied automatically, though her attention was still fixed on Kieran.
Her father left the room, muttering something about a business call, and the door clicked shut behind him. The air between Catherine and Kieran grew heavier in his absence.
“You’re not exactly what I was expecting for Santoro’s daughter,” Kieran remarked, breaking the silence.
Catherine tilted her head, surprised by his directness. “Why would you say that?”
“You look like you’ve spent your life in a bubble,” he said bluntly, his hazel eyes scanning her from head to toe. “Protected. Untouched by the kind of world your father deals in.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“An observation,” he replied, his tone unreadable.
She wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued. “And you? Have you spent your whole life in that world?”
He gave her a wry smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Long enough.”
There was something about the way he spoke—detached yet protective—that made her pulse quicken. She found herself wondering what kind of life had shaped a man like him. What had hardened him, marked him, turned him into someone her father trusted to shield her?
“I don’t bite, you know,” she said, surprising even herself. “You don’t have to stand so far away.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, and for the first time, there was a flicker of amusement in his expression. “You’re bolder than I expected.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think,” she shot back, her confidence bolstered by the faint curve of his lips.
Kieran took a step closer, and her breath hitched again. He towered over her, his presence overwhelming. She felt the heat of him, the raw energy he seemed to carry.
“I know enough,” he said quietly, his eyes locking onto hers. “Enough to know I shouldn’t get too close.”
Her heart skipped a beat at the weight of his words. There was something in his tone—something almost dangerous.
Before she could respond, he stepped back, putting a safe distance between them once more.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, his voice cool again. “I’m here to protect you, it’s my job… Don’t mistake this for something it’s not.”
The finality in his tone sent a pang of disappointment through her, though she didn’t fully understand why.
“Of course, Kieran,” she said softly, lowering her gaze.
“Good,” he replied. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
But as he turned to leave the room, Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be. And as much as she told herself to forget the way his eyes lingered, or the heat of his presence, she knew deep down that he’d already left an impression she wouldn’t soon forget.
For the first time in her sheltered life, Catherine Santoro felt the spark of rebellion—the dangerous allure of something forbidden. And it terrified her just as much as it thrilled her.
Catherine’s wrists ached from the coarse rope binding her hands. Her throat was raw from crying, her body trembling as her mind raced through every possible explanation for why this was happening.
The faint creak of the steel door snapped Catherine back to the present. Her body went rigid as the door swung open, the sound reverberating through the empty room.
A tall figure stepped inside, silhouetted by the dim light in the hallway. He wore black from head to toe, his presence commanding and ominous. Her heart raced as he stepped closer, his face partially obscured by the shadows.
And then she saw it: the jagged scar running down the left side of his face, crossing over his eye.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“You,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He stepped into the light, and her blood turned to ice. The scarred eye, the commanding presence—it was the man from the rehearsal dinner. The man who had taken her. But as her gaze settled on his face, her stomach twisted in disbelief.
It couldn’t be.
“Kieran?” she choked out, her voice trembling.
But the man before her wasn’t the Kieran she remembered. His once warm, protective eyes were cold and unfeeling. His features, hardened by time and violence, bore no trace of the man she’d loved.
He stared down at her, his expression unreadable. “Catherine Santoro,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.
Her world shattered in an instant.