He stirs, but doesn’t wake.
Good.
Because if he saw the way I was looking at him right now, I don’t think I could lie my way out of it.
At the door, I pause before turning the lock, pulling one of the guards aside.
“Tell me thesecondhe wakes up,” I mutter. “He doesn’t leave this room. Not unless I say.”
The guard nods, and I walk away.
I try to work.
I really do.
On top of finding the hitman, I have a stack of contracts waiting on my desk. Three new security audits to review. An encrypted message from a port contact in Naples flaggedurgent.But all I can think about is him.
Every time I try to read, my eyes blur. Every signature looks like his name.
Fuck this.
I close the laptop, lean back in my chair, and rub the bridge of my nose. The overhead lights are too harsh. The silence is too loud. Everything feels off, like I left something burning and can’t remember what.
I reach for the remote and flip on the surveillance feed.
There he is.
Camera three. Corner suite. Still unconscious, or pretending to be. Face soft against the pillow, dark lashes brushing his cheeks, one arm thrown over his head like he forgot he was ever cuffed.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
He’s been out like this for hours.
He’s faking it.
Or maybe this is just me being impatient.
My jaw tightens.
I page the kitchen. “Have one of the chefs bring something to the corner suite. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Whatever.”
“Yes, sir,” comes the reply.
I don’t know why I care if he eats. Maybe I just want something to do with my hands. Something to fix.
But by noon, when I notice the tray of food’s untouched and he still hasn’t moved, I’ve had enough.
I shut off the monitor and stand, pushing the chair back so hard it scrapes the floor.
If he’s still playing dead, fine.
He wants my attention? He’s going to get it.
I meet the guards stationed outside his door.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say.
They step aside without a word. I slip the key into the lock, turn it, and push the door open.
