Marked by the Thorne Legacy

Chapter 3 : The Safe House

Catalina’s POV

Awoken by a throbbing headache, she winced as the ray of light hit her eyes.Her head was pounding, and she struggled to lift it from the bed where she lay.

Blinking against the light, she forced her hazel-brown eyes open, wincing at the sting in her side.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she raised herself slightly and realized she wasn’t in her clothes. She was dressed in an unfamiliar white oversized T-shirt; her arms marked with dark bruises.

The room around her was unfamiliar—beautiful in a minimalist way. White walls, a few tasteful paintings, a mirror, a small fridge, and the large, luxurious bed beneath her.

Panic set in as she stumbled toward the mirror.

She cried out when she caught sight of a bruise on her forehead. That explained the headache.

But where was she?

Who undressed her?

Her mind struggled to piece things together.

The club.

The music.

Gunshots.

Her friends.

Were they okay?

Where was her phone?

She knocked at the door vehemently after scanning the room. No phone. Just a single camera mounted in the corner, silently watching.

She pounded harder, fists aching, screaming for help.

“Please! Help me! Somebody, help me!”

Her voice cracked with panic. She kept yelling, breath ragged, heart slamming in her chest.

And then—Julian. The blood. Her uncle.

The memories came flooding in, sharp and disjointed, making her dizzy with fear.

What time was it? Where exactly was she?

She pulled the heavy pearly white curtains for a glimpse at the windows that were hidden behind thick, floor-length curtains; the building was surrounded by towering walls. Escape felt impossible.

***************************

Catalina kept pounding the door for over thirty with both fists; her voice was hoarse from screaming.

“Help me! Somebody help me, please!”

She had scanned the room again and again—desperate for a phone, a weapon, an escape. Nothing. Only a ceiling camera blinking in the corner and a room perfectly staged.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her palms were slick with sweat.

Her gaze fell on the drawer beside the bed. She yanked it open.

A pen.

Just a simple ballpoint pen.

She stared at it for a second, then gripped it with trembling hands. “I’ll manage this,” she whispered under her breath, clenching it like a dagger.

Footsteps.

Closer.

Her breath caught as the lock clicked. The door eased open slowly, not kicked or flung wide, but calmly—confidently.

Julian stepped in.

He looked like something out of a fever dream. Barefoot, shirtless, with a bandage wrapped around his shoulder and a tote bag in hand. His dark hair was tousled; his jaw was set.

Catalina froze.

Sharp and shadowed, he stood at the door—shirt slightly unbuttoned, bandage peeking out from beneath one sleeve. Despite the bruising around his upper arm, he looked infuriatingly composed.

Ravishing, even.

Her grip tightened around the pen. Julian’s eyes dropped to it, and a low, amused laugh rumbled from his chest. It echoed off the pristine walls.

“Is that supposed to be a weapon?”

He raised a brow, with a cocky smirk tugging at his lips uncontrollably.

Catalina straightened, her face burning with rage and fear.

“Where’s my uncle? What did you do to him? What the hell am I doing here? And where are my clothes?”

Her voice shook. “What did you do to me?”

The laughter vanished.

Julian’s smirk faded, his eyes turning cold glinting with something unreadable.

“Nothing you didn’t beg for,” he murmured, voice soft… and cruel.

Catalina’s jaw dropped. She took a step back, heart lurching.

Then—he sighed.

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You think this is funny?” she snapped.

He ignored that.

“I got shot and you passed out. I find that rather interesting, Ms. Catalina.”

He stepped further into the room and placed the tote bag on a nearby chair.

“So much for being a Viscera. I doubt your uncle would be impressed with this performance.”

That name stopped her cold.

Alejandro.

Uncle. Guardian. The one man whose pride she’d been trying to earn for years. Her panic fractured for a moment under the sting of humiliation.

Julian saw it. Smelled it. Like blood in water.

“You know nothing about him,” she rasped, standing taller.

He tilted his head, with a maddening grin lingering.

“I know he doesn’t tolerate weakness. And you?”

His gaze raked her slowly.

“You passed out after a few gunshots and a little blood. I had a bullet in my shoulder and still managed to drag you out alive.”

Her cheeks flamed.

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“No,” he said smoothly, “but you’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

She opened her mouth—anger loading on her tongue—but he turned, uninterested, tossing a folded towel onto the bed.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

She flung it back. Hard.

He caught it mid-air without flinching.

“Go to hell,” she hissed.

“Already been.”

His voice dropped—gravel and gunpowder. “Didn’t care much for the company.”

Her pulse betrayed her. She hated the way her body reacted to him—to the rough silk of his voice, the heat beneath the venom.

“I don’t trust you,” she said tightly.

“Good,” Julian replied instantly. “Trust gets people killed.”

She folded her arms. “Where’s my phone? I need to call my mum. And my friends—Rachael—Valentina—they could be—”

“Trashed it,” he said casually. “Security concern.”

“You what? That was a freaking iPhone 16! It’s the most expensive gift I’ve ever received—Uncle Alejandro bought it for my 22nd Birthday”

“Relax, Miss Viscera. I’ll buy you twenty more when this is over.”

“If you’re still alive,” she muttered, arms folded across her chest.

Julian chuckled, dark and low.

“You make a valid point. But if I’m not, you’ll likely be six feet under right beside me.”

Without warning, he crouched in front of her and reached up, brushing the back of his hand against her forehead. She flinched at the unexpected contact, but he didn’t pull away. His touch was warm—calloused yet gentle—and it sent a jolt skittering down her spine.

“No fever,” he murmured. “But your pulse is racing.”

His fingers shifted to the hollow beneath her jaw, pressing lightly. Her breath hitched. The spot tingled beneath his touch, her muscles tightening and loosening at once.

Their eyes locked.

His gaze was unreadable—cool, assessing, maybe even intrigued.

Hers burned with defiance... and something else. Something unspoken.

Julian tilted his head slightly. “You always get this flushed when someone touches you?”

She jerked away, scowling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grinned, then rose and crossed to the kitchenette. From a canvas tote, he pulled out folded clothes and toiletries, dropping them on the armrest.

“You should shower and change,” he said.

“I expect that we’ll be here for a few weeks.”

“Generous. Is this a safehouse or a brothel? Not sure I want to wear the clothes your mistresses left behind.”

“Feel free to roam naked. Or keep wearing stale clothes. Your choice.”

He glanced at his watch. “Shower. Downstairs. Ten minutes.”

“Or what?”

He was already walking out. Didn’t answer.

Typical.

“How cocky of him,” she muttered, inspecting the clothes. A T-shirt, bum shorts, and a casual dress. All looked like a size 10—slightly bigger than her usual 8—but wearable. She set the dress aside and took the T-shirt with her to the bathroom.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt... safe here. With him.

Perhaps it was the way Uncle Alejandro always spoke about the Thornes—with respect, even reverence.

Or maybe it was just that Julian didn’t look at her like prey.

*******************

The bathroom surprised her—elegant and pristine. Pale pink walls, veined marble, and touches of gold hardware. Not at all what she expected from a safehouse. It reminded her of a boutique hotel suite.

She peeled off the stale clothes from her body and stepped under the warm water, lathering her curls with shampoo. Her thoughts drifted to her friends, were they safe? Had they made it out?

“I’ll ask him,” she murmured, scrubbing at the gel still clinging to her roots.

Then her fingers brushed something hard.

She froze.

“What the hell?”

Panicked, she pulled her hair apart. It was stuck to her scalp.

Heart pounding, she turned to the mirror, craned her neck—and there it was.

A small, metallic disk. No larger than a coin, fused to the center of her skull.

A chip.

“Julian!” she screamed, wrenching the towel around her body. “Julian!”

She burst out of the bathroom, dripping wet, skin flushed with panic. The towel barely covered her, clinging to her damp curves, but she didn’t care. She was terrified.

He was downstairs, finishing a call with the surveillance team posted near the eastern road.

Three cars had trailed close. His men had intercepted and taken them out.

They were being hunted.

He’d just hung up when her scream echoed through the house.

Reflexes sharp, he grabbed his pistol and bound up the stairs but stopped halfway when he saw her barreling toward him.

She was mid-sprint, slippery and frantic, and misstepped.

“s**t—”

He surged forward and caught her before she hit the steps, lifting her effortlessly. She landed against him—wet skin, shallow breaths, terrified eyes.

Their faces were inches apart. Her towel had shifted, her bare shoulder against his chest.

Julian’s eyes flickered down, then back to hers.

Hazel brown. Luminous, even in panic.

She was stunning. He’d noticed it before, but not like this. Not up close. Not raw.

And she was looking at him, too. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

For a moment, time stilled.

She caught the scent of his cologne—rich, spicy, unmistakably masculine.

Arabian musk.

He was carved like a statue, all sharp edges, and shadows. And for a heartbeat too long, neither of them moved.

Then she remembered why she’d screamed.

“There’s something on my head,” she whispered.

Catalina’s fingers trembled as they brushed the sore spot on her scalp. Her heart thundered. Something metallic. Something foreign.

Panic surged through her.

“There’s something on my head,” she whispered, clawing at the back of her skull. “It feels like… a chip.”

Julian’s expression darkened. He stepped in, gently brushing her hands aside, fingers parting the damp, curly strands of her hair to inspect the area. She flinched — not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. His touch felt warm and comforting, grounding her emotions.

“A chip?” he echoed. His fingers paused. He found it — a small, embedded disk — and cursed under his breath. “No, Catalina. That’s not a chip.”

He straightened slowly, eyes locking with hers — sharp, unreadable, and laced with concern.

“That’s a tracker.”

Her blood turned cold. “A tracker?”

Julian nodded grimly. “It means someone is tracking your location. They're using you as bait… to get to me. And they were close enough to plant it.”

The weight of his words sent her legs buckling. She dropped onto the nearest armchair, breath shallow, towel slipping slightly as she clutched it to her chest. Julian crouched before her, one hand resting gently on her knee to steady her.

“You need to have something for breakfast and take a few pills to numb the pain,” he said, voice softening. “And we’ll deal with this. I promise.”

“Eat?” she choked out. “How am I supposed to eat when my life’s at stake? I don’t want to die, Julian. I don’t even know how I got into all this. This was supposed to be the best summer of my life.”

Tears pooled in her eyes.

“Uncle Alejandro said to come to Milan since I’d graduated college. He said he’d make it unforgettable. And now—” her voice cracked, “—I see why Mama warned me not to come back.”

She wiped angrily at her cheeks, struggling to keep the towel up as fresh sobs threatened. Her vulnerability pierced him — not just the sight of her glistening eyes and trembling lips, but the truth in her words.

Julian was awash with emotion. He tried — truly tried — to keep his eyes on her face, but it was impossible to ignore the delicate curve of her collarbone, the damp skin glowing under the soft light, the towel barely concealing her chest.

“Julian. Focus,” he muttered under his breath.

He leaned closer.

“Catalina,” he said in a deep, drawling voice that curled around her name like silk. It was soothing. It was dangerous.

“You’ll be fine. Even if it costs me everything, I swear to you — you’re with the safest man in Milan. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not on my watch”

His words melted something in her. When he reached up to wipe her tears with his thumb, her skin tingled beneath his touch. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes glassy. Julian leaned in a breath too close.

And then stopped.

He swallowed hard and pulled back, jaw tense.

“Shouldn’t we… take it out?” she asked after a beat, her voice fragile.

“It’s already been disabled,” he replied, walking to the kitchenette. “The water deactivated the signal. But we’ll still remove it — just in case.”

He retrieved a small pair of pliers from the storage bin and returned to her side.

“Pliers? Promise me it won’t hurt,” she whispered, eyes wide with fear.

Julian knelt before her again.

“I’d never let anything hurt you,” he said.

His voice was low. Honest. Unshakable.

She drew in a shaky breath… and nodded.