"Your apartment, like your mother said."
"And then?"
"Then we figure it out."
She's quiet for the rest of the walk, and I can practically hear her mind racing. Good. She's starting to understand who’s in charge here.
We arrive at the underground garage and jog to my black SUV with its tinted windows and anonymous exterior. I open the rear door and step back.
"Get in," I say, my gaze scanning the wide space. I don’t like this. There are too many spots someone could lurk and watch her. Wait for her. Threaten her.
“I'm not my mother.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “I can sit next to you, thank you very much.”
I don't answer, just level that same immovable stare at her.
Finally, she climbs into the back seat with an exaggeratedsigh.
"Sir, yes, sir."
There's something about the way she says this, a little edge of wicked humor that promises a world of trouble. I decide to ignore it just like I ignore the stir in my guts that rises as she steps in front of me and I get a whiff of her perfume.
I’m grateful for the additional second I take to get in the driver’s seat.
Once we're moving, she leans forward between the seats.
"Are you always this bossy?"
Her perfume gets up my nose, messing with my brain. It’s clean and light and floral and makes my knuckles clench the steering wheel so hard they blanch.
"Always," I grunt. “Now back to your seat and buckle up.”
"Sir, yes, sir," she says again, and when I glance in the rearview mirror, she's wearing a small smile that makes a knot form in my throat. I bring my gaze back to the road and ignore her, concentrating on the task at hand.
I loop around the block twice, checking mirrors and watching for tails. Nothing. For now, at least, we’re in the clear.
Rona's apartment building is a converted Victorian in the university district. It’s charming, upscale without pretension, just the kind of place where a senator's daughter can live when they want to pretend they're just a regular college student. I park in the small lot behind the building and guide her toward the back entrance, my hand on her arm to steady her as the oversized hoodie threatens to trip her up.
"Stairs," I say, steering her away from the elevator.
"Sir, yes, sir."
I set the pace, adapting my long strides to her shorter legs.
"Left at the landing. Stop. Eyes down."
She echoes lightly, "Left. Stop. Eyes up. Sir, yes, sir."
I narrow my eyes at her, but she just grins back, her face almost completely swallowed by the hood. I'm struck by how resilient she is. Most people would be falling apart after what she's been through today. But here she is, making jokes and pushing back against my authority like this is all some kind of adventure.
It's admirable. It's also going to drive me insane.
On the third floor, we encounter a neighbor in the hallway, an elderly human woman with a small, yappy dog that immediately starts barking at our presence. Rona instinctively crouches down to pet the animal, her voice taking on that warm, friendly tone women like to use with dogs that could double as fashion accessories.
"Hey there, sweetie. Aren't you adorable—"
I stop her mid-sentence, my hand closing around her upper arm to pull her away.
"Hey!" she protests, but I'm already half dragging her down the hall toward her apartment.
