[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 154: Home

NOAH

As I took the dryer and began to work through the wet strands with the warm air, I saw him pull out his phone.

"I need cold medication," he said into the receiver, his voice brook no argument. "Decongestant, cough syrup, throat lozenges. Everything you have in the pharmacy. Send it up now."

I focused on the heat of the dryer, the loud whirring of the motor providing a temporary shield for my thoughts. Cassian didn’t leave. He stood by the door, watching me with a gaze that felt like a physical barrier between me and the rest of the world.

"Come on," Cassian said once I’d finished, gesturing toward the living area. "Food should be here."

I followed him out of the bedroom, my feet feeling heavy in the oversized sweatpants I was still clutching with one hand. I could have worn my own clothes but I didn’t want to. Cyan was right, Cassian’s clothes were better.

We rounded the corner into the living room, and I stopped dead in my tracks.

My mouth literally fell open.

There were three separate room service carts wheeled into the center of the room, draped in white linen. It looked like a medieval feast had been compressed into a hotel suite. Steam rose from dozens of silver-covered dishes, filling the air with the scent of butter, fried salt, and fresh pastries.

There were eggs every way imaginable... scrambled, poached, fried, and stuffed into omelets. There were stacks of bacon, links of sausage, and thick slices of ham. One cart was devoted entirely to carbs: croissants, muffins, danishes, and sourdough toast. There were pancakes dripping with syrup, waffles topped with berries, and bowls of yogurt and granola.

"Cassian..." I whispered, my eyes wide. "There’s enough here for ten people."

"I didn’t know what you’d want," he said, his voice casual as he began to pour two cups of coffee. "So I ordered the menu." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

My stomach let out a growl so loud it was actually embarrassing. I hadn’t realized how empty I was... how hollow the trauma had left me. Seeing the food made the hunger roar back to life, a primal reminder that I was still alive, still human, and still capable of needing things.

Cassian noticed my expression, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips. "I’m glad you still have your appetite. It’s a good sign."

He gestured to the plush velvet couch. "Sit."

It wasn’t a demand; it was an invitation. I sank into the cushions, my eyes still darting over the spread, trying to figure out where to start. My hands were still a little shaky, but the sight of the steam and the coffee was incredibly grounding.

Cassian sat across from me, his movements stiff from his own injuries. He took a sip of his coffee, his expression becoming serious again.

"We’re leaving Spain tonight," he said.

The statement was matter-of-fact. It wasn’t a suggestion or a question. The decision had been made with the same finality he used to sign multi-million dollar contracts.

Relief flooded through me, so sudden and intense that my shoulders sagged. "Tonight?" I asked, making sure I hadn’t misheard him through the fog of my cold.

"Tonight," he confirmed, watching me closely. He must have seen the way my eyes brightened. "The plane is being prepped. We’ll be in the air by ten."

I hadn’t seen much of Spain the way I secretly hoped. I hadn’t toured the Sagrada Família or walked the beaches of the Barceloneta. I hadn’t enjoyed a single tapas or felt the sun on my face without a layer of dread.

For me, Spain was the gala. Spain was the taste of copper and chemicals. Spain was Alex Hendrix’s hands and the terrifying weight of a penthouse that had felt like a cage.

I wanted home. I didn’t even care where "home" was, as long as it was away from here. I wanted a familiar bed, a familiar city, and a sky that didn’t remind me of the night I almost lost everything.

Yes, I thought, reaching for a piece of toast with a hand that was finally starting to steady. Please. Get me out of here. Tonight can’t come soon enough.

...

The packing was a hollow, mechanical process. I stood in the middle of my bedroom in Cassian’s sprawling suite, staring at the few items I actually owned. There wasn’t much... just the expensive, perfectly tailored clothes Cassian had bought for me over the last few weeks and a few basic toiletries.

I reached for a soft blue shirt I’d worn during a dinner early in the trip, but my hand faltered. I looked at the fabric and didn’t see luxury; I saw Alex. I saw the shadow of the gala.

Everything from the last few days felt contaminated, as if the very air of Barcelona had seeped into the fibers of my belongings, carrying the scent of Alex’s cologne and the metallic tang of those forced drinks.

I wanted to leave it all behind. I wanted to walk out of this hotel with nothing but the skin I was in, but I forced myself to fold the clothes anyway. I couldn’t go home without anything, and I couldn’t keep running from ghosts.

Across the suite, Cassian was a whirlwind of controlled, efficient energy. He didn’t pack so much as he curated, his movements precise as he threw his own things into a leather duffel.

His phone was a constant, buzzing presence on the nightstand. He took call after call... business directives, flight confirmations, security check-ins. He was handling the world while I was struggling to handle a suitcase.

"The manifest is clear," I heard him say into the phone, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I want the perimeter secured ten minutes before he arrives. No exceptions."

He was talking about me. He was always talking about me.

As the evening shadows stretched long across the hardwood floor, the suite began to feel like an empty shell.

The personal touches... the glass of water by the bed, the scattered papers on the desk... were gone. The security team began moving the bags to the door, their footsteps heavy and synchronized.

"Ready?" Cassian asked, stepping into my line of sight. He’d changed into a dark coat that hid his bandages, looking every bit the untouchable heir again.

I nodded, my throat tight. I took one last look around the room. I never wanted to see this place again.

I wanted to erase the memory of the plush carpet where I’d stood trembling, the bathroom where I’d scrubbed my skin raw, and the balcony where I’d looked out at a city that had tried to break me.