I stare at him. His eyes are storm-dark.
Run, Calista. Run!
I lick my lips, nod, and step forward. Get closer to him.
He has a car parked not too far away, a black Range Rover. He takes me to it.
It’s warm inside, and I remove my hat and gloves and wriggle out of my coat. I throw them at my feet. It’s not just the car. My adrenaline is spiking.
He drives with effortless ease.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Just say thank you,” he replies insolently.
“How do I know thatyouwon’t hurt me?” I demand.
“Then I’d have already done it.”
True. I shut up for the rest of the way. I know I’m safe.
You think you’re safe with Lucian?
I say his name in my mind.
Lucian. It’s delicious, like dark chocolate, spicy, mysterious, and bitter.
The man could be a killer, Calista.
But he smells so good.
Get your mind out of your vagina.
My mind is on his dick, not my lady parts.
He takes me to Chelsea, past the glassy condos and the art galleries, down streets that gleam even under dirty snow.
We pull into an underground garage.
The gate lifts on a sensor, and Lucian eases the car into a shadowed space between two matte black SUVs. Every inch of this place screamspower. It reminds me of the life I left behind in Italy.
The elevator requires a thumbprint. He presses his thumb to the reader, and the doorswhooshopen with a quiet sigh. I step inside the elevator because I’m either brave or stupid or already too far gone to tell the difference.
I scan the inside of the gilt box, my gaze catching on the doors as they close. No numbers. No options. Only one destination.
He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t soothe.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
I can feel a stress migraine coming. I need to sleep. I need to get away from my reality.
The doors open straight into an apartment.
It’s cold, not in temperature but in atmosphere.
“Where are we?” I ask softly as I step into a space that is all clean lines, dark wood, black leather, and a wall of windows overlooking the Hudson, the city beyond, glittering like a seductive trap.
Everything is clean, sterile, and functional—except for the small collection of knives mounted on the far wall, displayed like art.
