Ah.
My gaze finally finds him.
My rescuer.
He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like a warrior guarding either his treasure...or prisoner.
“Here in California, at least.”
Right.
How perfectly casual he makes it sound, like it’s completely ordinary for people to have spare mansions lying around for emergencies.
He’s changed out of his tactical gear into a charcoal cashmere sweater and dark slacks, the kind of effortlessly elegant outfit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. His gold hair is slightly damp, pushed back from his face, and without the mask and the Kevlar, he looks...
Mm.
Softer isn’t the right word.
Nothing about this man is soft.
But he looks human.
Almost approachable.
Almost.
“We’re about an hour outside Los Angeles,” he continues. “In the foothills.”
Los Angeles.
I’m back in California.
The auction had been in Vegas—I remember that now, fragments of overheard conversation from my captors, neon lights bleeding through a blindfold before they knocked me out again. But somehow he’s brought me home.
Or rather, his home.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’m—” I have to clear my throat. “Alive. I think.”
He crosses to the bed and, before I can react, presses his palm to my forehead.
I nearly jump out of my skin.
His hand is cool and dry and impossibly large, and having him this close, leaning over me, his face inches from mine—
“No fever,” he says.
“I c-could’ve told you that myself,” I stammer.
He grunts—that same unreadable grunt—and withdraws his hand to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. The water is pale and faintly fragrant, infused with cucumber and something herbal.
“Drink.”
I take a sip.
Oh wow.
