Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Frankie

I wake up disoriented, my head pounding and my mouth dry. Panic rises in my chest as I realize I don't know where I am. I bolt upright, trying to figure out where I am, but my thoughts are hazy.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," a soothing voice says beside me. I turn to see Damien, his face etched with concern.

"What happened? Where are we?" I ask, my voice shaking.

Damien sits up and wraps his arm around me. "We're in our suite on the yacht. We're on a cruise. Are you okay? Did you have a bit too much to drink last night?"

"I feel like I've been drugged or something."

"Drugged? What do you mean, kitten?"

"I don't remember anything from last night. Nothing. My mind's just blank. What happened?"

He raises an eyebrow, looking slightly amused. "I remember everything, and you were a total wildcat last night." He leans in and kisses me, not caring about morning breath. "It was incredible. You were incredible, Francesca."

I lock eyes with him, searching for clarity. "You remember what happened last night? We had the same food and drinks." I think. "Didn't we?"

"We did and I do remember last night." He licks his lips, his eyes narrowing slightly as he recalls. "You were wonderful."

That doesn't help. "Damien! I woke up not knowing where I was, and I can't remember anything after dinner. This isn't funny!"

He kisses the top of my head, his tone steady. "Kitten, I'm not laughing. You probably just had too much to drink. It happens."

I shake my head, the uneasy feeling growing. "No. This isn't alcohol. It has to be something else. Damien, what if someone drugged me? What if it was meant for you?"

I can't stop my mind from racing, trying to grasp onto details from last night, but everything's a blur. I don't remember being any kind of a wildcat .

"Are you okay? Do you feel like you've been drugged?" I ask, scratching the side of my head. "This doesn't add up. Do you think someone was trying to get to me?" I stare at Damien and then a thought crosses my mind. "What if they were trying to get to you? Dammit, Damien!"

"Francesca, come on. You really think the killer you've been chasing is on this ship? You're letting your imagination run wild."

I want to argue, but what good will it do? "What if someone drugged me to rob me? Or worse?"

"You just need to relax and not jump to conclusions. We had cocktails last night. This is nothing to panic about."

"Damien." I reach for him. "Can you just believe me for a second? This isn't normal. The way I feel isn't normal. This is not a hangover. It's serious. I really want to see the doctor, okay?"

"All right, if you insist," he says, though he looks like he still wants to brush it off. In two quick strides, he's beside the phone, dialing the valet. "We need a doctor in this suite. Now."

His tone leaves no room for argument. I watch him, a mix of frustration and urgency swelling within me. I can't afford to wait around when something feels off. "Actually, I'll need a blood test, so we should go see the doctor."

"Right," he says, and gets the directions to the doctor's office.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm perched on the exam table while the doctor conducts his examination. Damien hovers by the door, attempting to give me space but only increasing my awareness of his presence. It's sweet, but a touch overwhelming.

"The symptoms you're describing suggest either a date rape drug or benzodiazepines, both of which could explain the memory loss," the doctor states, his demeanor calm and professional. "Benzodiazepines—often referred to as benzos."

"I know what they are." I try to keep my tone even, but I'm not in the mood for a lecture. "I'm a homicide detective."

He nods, unfazed. "Of course. One of the key effects is anterograde amnesia. Unfortunately, you may not recover the memories you've lost, though it's usually temporary." His words do nothing to quell the dread curling in my stomach.

"Usually?"

"Yes," he admits with a sigh. "We'll know more once we get the results of your blood test."

"I don't want to wait days for answers." My voice comes out more harshly than I intended, but the whole situation makes it hard to maintain composure.

"You won't have to wait long. We have an onboard lab. You'll have results within the hour."

His efficiency should reassure me, but it only intensifies my anxiety. "So does this kind of thing happen often on cruises?"

"Not exactly this," he replies, raising an eyebrow. "But things do tend to get lively on ships like this. I've had to test for various substances before, to provide proper treatment." He flashes another professional smile, but it barely registers against the rising unease gnawing at me.

"Okay. Thanks, Doc."

I'm doing my best to shove down my worry and anger as Damien and I head back to our suite. The moment the door clicks shut, he's in full protector mode.

"Yeah, I want a chopper here in twenty minutes," he snaps into the phone. "I don't care. I don't want excuses, Jess. I want a fucking helicopter." His jaw tightens, his brows dip as he listens to Jess on the other end. "As soon as you can get it here, then. The sooner, the better."

He shoots me a glance, and I see the worry etched into his face. I force a smile, even though my heart's pounding.

"So much for our weekend getaway, huh?"

His smile is strained. "Not exactly what I had planned, but we'll figure it out once we're off this damn boat."

I nod, starting to pack up. If this were a normal trip, my clothes would still be in my suitcase, but in the world of the one percenters, someone's already unpacked for me. "It's fine, Damien. Maybe this is a sign it was a bad idea to begin with."

"It wasn't. Last night was perfect. You were perfect." He grabs my arms, his grip tight, his expression fierce. "Whoever did this, I'll find them. And I'll make them pay."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but honestly, getting off this ship sounds great right now."

"Next time we'll charter a private yacht, just for us." His lips brush softly across my own. "That's a promise." A knock at the door interrupts us, and the phone rings at the same time. "I'll get the phone. You grab the door."

He nods, hesitating before finally pulling away from me.

I answer the phone. The doctor confirms it—benzos in my blood. Someone drugged me. Intentionally. But why? The doctor has no answers for that, so I thank him and hang up.

Damien closes the door behind the valet and turns to me. "The helicopter's here. Ready to go?"

I nod before doing one final sweep of the suite to make sure I didn't leave anything behind and then grab my bags.

"I got them," Damien says in a soft voice like he's talking to a scared kitten.

"I can carry my bags, Damien."

"I know you can," he growls, "but let me do this."

I throw my hands up. "Fine."

The helicopter ride is silent, except for the steady thwack-thwack of the blades. I stare out at the ocean, my mind racing.

This case. These murders. The cameras in my home. Everything's spinning out of control, and now I've been drugged.

It has to be this killer.

When we land, I turn to Damien. "I think I'm going home tonight."

He looks at me, his face hard to read. "You blame me for this."

"No. I just need some space to think. I need to focus on the case. Whoever did this—whoever's behind these murders—I have to figure out what the hell is going on before another body drops."

"You still think I'm in that photo, don't you?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what the killer thinks. And I need to get ahead of him. Take me home."

"No."

"Fine. I'm more than capable of getting there myself." I knew he wouldn't like it. Hell, I don't like it. Living with him has been amazing, but I can't shake the feeling that I've been too distracted to see the danger right in front of me. "This isn't about you, Damien. It's about me."

"But I'm the one you want to leave." His voice is tight, but there's a pleading look in his eyes. "Stay. Go back to the guest room if you need to, but at least let me know you're close. Please."

I hate how much his vulnerability gets to me. "We both know if I stay, it won't be in the guest room."

His lips curve into a slight smile. "That's not a problem for me."

"Damien," I sigh.

"You were drugged, Frankie. I need to keep an eye on you." He steps closer, threading his fingers through my hair. "If you won't stay, I'll have my security team follow you."

I don't want to argue. "Fine. I'll go home with you."

He smiles, a mix of relief and satisfaction, before kissing me.

And despite everything, I kiss him back.