“It’s not fine.” He screeches through a turn hard enough to rock us onto two tires. I grip the door handle and try not to scream. “You need proper care. Ice. Antiseptic. Someone to make sure you’re actually okay.”
“I have ice at home. And Neosporin. Probably. Maybe.”
He scowls. “When’s the last time you checked the expiration date on that Neosporin?”
“That’s not a fair question.”
“That’s what I thought.” He returns his attention to the road. “It’s decided. We’re going to my place.”
More thoughts of the overwhelming intimacy continue to crop up in my head. I’m picturing Bastian padding around in gray sweatpants. I’m picturing Bastian making coffee in the morning, sleepy-eyed, bed-headed.
Then my brain takes a hard left turn into more dangerous territory: Bastian in his bed, shirtless, sheets tangled around his waist, hair mussed from sleep, reaching for?—
Nope. Nopity, nope, nope.
I press my scraped palms against my thighs. It stings, but I welcome the distraction.
I don’t know how to explain it, that going to his house feels like crossing some invisible line we can’t uncross. That seeing where he lives, how he lives, will make this—whateverthisis—feel real in a way that’s terrifying.
Because right now, it’s still containable. Still something I can frame as temporary insanity brought on by impending blindness and really good orgasms.
But if I see hishome? If I see the mundane, everyday parts of Bastian Hale’s life?
That changes things.
“I just…” I swallow hard. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. I invited you.”
“You ordered me, actually.”
He glances at me. “I want you there, Eliana. Let me take care of you. Please.”
That last word—please—coming from Bastian Hale’s mouth might be the most shocking thing that’s happened today, and I literally fell on my face in public.
I exhale slowly. “Okay.” I rest my head against the window as we zoom into the ritzy part of Chicago. “But if I find evidence thatmy serial killer suspicions were on point, I’m calling Yasmin to come rescue me.”
A few minutes later, Bastian parks beneath a gleaming high-rise. The black glass facade reflects the overcast sky. Before I can protest, he’s at my door, arms sliding under me again.
“I can walk,” I lie as my knee silently screams,No, you certainly cannot.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he growls.
The elevator ride to the penthouse smells like his cologne and my shame. His heartbeat thuds against my ear where my cheek presses to his chest.
The doors slide open directly into the penthouse, and just like that, another line in the sand is crossed.
Safe to say it’s not what I expected. I’d imagined something sterile and modern. Chrome and concrete and sharp angles, like his office but with a bed. And black, obviously. Lots of black.
Instead, I’m looking atwarmth.
The living room stretches out before us. Chic brick walls draped with ivy plants. Huge windows offering a jaw-dropping view of the Chicago skyline. The furniture is lived-in leather, soft and broken-in, arranged around a fireplace that looks actually used.
Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with cookbooks and novels with cracked spines. There’s a throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, rumpled like someone actually uses it.
The kitchen gleams to my left—professional-grade everything, obviously, but there’s a coffee mug in the sink and a dish towel hanging crooked from the oven handle.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Full of surprises, I see.”
