But that’s exactly why I can’t.
“I need time,” I state, taking a step back. “Time to figure out if what we had was real or if I’m just seeing what I want to see.”
“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t push. Just watches me with those blue eyes that make my stupid knees weak despite how much my brain screams he’s the enemy.
“Sasha,” he whispers, “for what it’s worth, I think about that cell every night. The way you looked at me. The way you tasted. The way you said my name when you?—”
“Don’t,” I snap through gritted teeth.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying very hard not to think about it, and you’re making it impossible.”
Something akin to satisfaction crosses his face. “Good. I don’t want to be the only one who can’t stop thinking about it.”
My body heats. I want to slap him for the arrogance, to kiss him for the honesty. I want to drag him into my room and make him prove that everything between us was real.
Instead, I turn and walk to my door with as much dignity as I can manage.
“Sasha,” he calls after me.
But I unlock my door and step inside without responding. Only when it’s closed and locked do I let myself breathe.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. My body is still alive from being so close to him. From the way he looked at me. From the memory of what we did in that cell and how much I want to do it again.
This is dangerous. He’s dangerous. Not because he might hurt me physically, but because he’s already under my skin in ways I can’t control.
I change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed even though it’s barely nine o’clock.
I know I won’t sleep.
When I turn off the lamp, I notice something white on the floor near the door. A piece of paper.
I pick it up and unfold it.
Tony’s handwriting. Just two lines.
You asked which parts were real. All of it. Every moment I made you laugh.
I read it twice. Then three times. My fingers trace the words like I can feel the truth in them through touch alone.
Then I fold it carefully and put it in my nightstand drawer, pressing it flat between the pages of a book I’ve already read but can’t seem to throw away—because some things are worth keeping, even when you’re not sure why yet.
22
Tony
Adrian’s name appears on my phone screen at seven in the morning, and I let it ring three times before answering.
“Where the hell have you been?” he barks out. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“Deep cover,” I reply, taking care to sound almost bored. “Sasha’s been suspicious. I couldn’t risk communication.”
“Suspicious of what?”
“Of me asking too many questions. Of being too interested in family business. I had to pull back. Let her come to me instead of pushing.”
