I lick my lips. “How…do you know?”
He runs a finger down my cheek.
My breath goes ragged.
His eyes see everything I feel.
See me.
“I know,” he breathes.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Did I?
“Have you…have you been hired to protect me?”
It has to be that, I decide. He’s a bodyguard.
A bodyguard with way too much money—because you’d have to be seriously rich to live in a place like this.
“I am going to protect you.”
He bends and kisses my forehead.
I close my eyes, feeling that gentle touch all the way to my soul. No one has shown me affection in so long, and the people I take care of at the shelter don’t count.
Thisis for me, not because I did something for Lucian. He’s giving it to me for free. It’s mine.
He walks me to the master bathroom. Talk about opulent. It’s bigger than my entire apartment.
Polished black marble stretches from floor to ceiling, veined with silver like someone shattered a storm cloud and trapped the pieces in stone. The soaking tub is the size of a small pool, sunken into the floor beside a wall of glass that overlooks the city. There’s a rainfall shower behind a panel of seamless glass, with at least six nozzles built into the walls—because apparently, one stream of hot water isn’t enough when you live like a god. The counter is a single slab of dark granite, the sink an elegant, shallow bowl. His toiletries are lined up neatly—razor, comb, expensive soap—all sterile.
It feels like a hotel. Cold, expensive perfection.
A stack of thick white towels sits folded by the sink. I run my fingers over the fabric. Egyptian cotton. The kind you don’t buy—you commission.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Windblown hair. Smudged mascara. Fear clinging to the edges of my mouth.
I don’t belong here, I think desperately.
He opens a cabinet behind the mirror.
Now he’s truly surprised me.
It’s stocked with the makeup brand I use. A natural one that is made right here in Brooklyn and sold from just one store. I buy it because it’s goodandinexpensive.
I turn and see that my brand of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner are in the massive shower cabinet, gleaming like intruders with their flowery packaging.
“How?” I look at him.
“Take a shower. Then we’ll eat. Andthenwe’ll talk.”
He leaves me frustrated.Buthe has a point. If I want to stop the migraine, I need a shower, and then food, and then….
