When I open my eyes again, something has settled inside me—not calm, not even clarity, but a direction. A pull.
The empire I built has always been a fortress. Solid, cold, and impenetrable. Now, it has a fault line straight through the middle. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone exploit it.
Roxanne will have to learn that I’ll protect her no matter what; even if she insists on staying silent and keeping secrets.
Chapter 17
Roxy
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m already mentally rehearsing excuses. None of them are good.
Makari’s private quarters loom behind a set of double cedar doors, the kind that look like they could withstand a hurricane and probably have. There’s a long chip in one that looks suspiciously like the result of a ricocheted bullet. The doors are slightly ajar now, which is somehow worse. He’s expecting me. Waiting, and probably stewing after the way I insisted on leaving early two days ago and calling out yesterday.
I smooth my shirt, inhale once, and slip inside.
He’s pacing.
Not the casual, wandering sort of pacing people do when they’re on the phone or thinking through their day. Makari moves like he’s edging the perimeter of a cage. Every stride is clipped, purposeful, brimming with that cold, coiled intensity that fills an entire room before he opens his mouth.
He doesn’t look at me right away; he just prowls another stretch of floor and then pivots, sharp as a hinge.
“You’re late.”
No greeting, no good morning.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. I had?—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand, palm slicing the air. He doesn’t want reasons. He wants control back. Wants equilibrium where everything sits neatly in its place, which is infuriating. Makari Medvedev has never in his life had to deal with any kind of inconvenience or imbalance.
The private suite is warm, lit by soft lamps instead of the sharp fluorescents flooding the rest of the building. It smells like him. His jacket is tossed over the back of a chair. A sweater draped across the arm of the couch. A pair of heavy boots by the hearth.
I shouldn’t be here. My heart thuds once, twice, and I inhale his scent, warmth spreading through me.
He shouldn’t have called me up here. But he did, and now the air is humming with accusation and something else neither of us wants to name.
Mak stops pacing long enough to rake his gaze over me, slow and assessing. “You should have called.”
I fold my arms before I can stop myself, grounding against the urge to shrink. “I was trying to deal with it on my own.”
“Deal with what?”
“Andi’s sitter bailed. Again.”
His eyes narrow. The tension in his jaw shifts. It’s not softening, not yet, but catching on something that isn’t anger. “Your mother is not watching her?”
“My mother is in Cambridge,” I say. “Until further notice. It’s complicated.” I swallow, not wanting to get into how Kat is guilting Mom into staying and ‘helping’ with her son, who can take care of himself. And also has a full-time nanny.
His expression flickers. Barely. But enough that I feel it.
“So Andrea was alone this morning?”
“No, she wasn’t alone,” I snap, sharper than intended. “She was with a neighbor for an hour. I just hadn’t planned on it, which is why I’m?—”
“Late,” he finishes.
“Yes,” I breathe, “late.”
He circles the room again. It doesn’t matter that he’s not walking toward me—my body reacts like he is. Every movement seems to drag the air tighter, pulling it into a smaller, hotter space. I can’t escape his presence. I don’t know if I want to.
