He nods respectfully, and I begin the awkward journey toward my wing of the mansion.
In the hallway, I consider going downstairs. Sleep feels impossible after today. But the stairs would be treacherous with crutches, and the way things have gone, I'd probably tumble down and break my neck.
The upstairs area had ten armed guards when I left my room earlier. They were stationed at various points throughout the corridor, near the staircase, by the windows overlooking the gardens. Professional sentries who nodded politely as I passed.
There's no one.
Odd.
My crutches tap against the marble floor, each sound echoing in the sudden emptiness. The ornate hallway stretches ahead of me, lined with expensive artwork and antique furniture that probably costs more than most people's houses. But right now, it feels like a tunnel.
I make my way back to Moira's door, moving as quietly as possible on these damn things. Her dedicated guard stands at attention beside the frame, exactly where I left him.
"Where is everyone?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"All the guards were called for a quick briefing downstairs, Miss Quinn."
"Thank you. Have a good night."
Briefing downstairs. About the professional assassin, no doubt. The one who moves like Anton, thinks like Anton, kills like Anton.
The walk to the mansion's other wing feels longer than usual. Each step echoes too loudly in the empty corridor, my crutches tapping against marble like a countdown.
A creak echoes from somewhere ahead.
I pause, listening. My heartbeat pounds so loud, I'm sure it's drowning out other sounds. The mansion settles around me, old wood and stone adjusting to the night.
The corridor ahead stretches toward my destination. I force myself to keep moving. Stupid briefing. I would feel better if the guards were here.
I'm alone in an empty hallway, hobbling toward my room like wounded prey.
I reach my door and turn the handle, relief washing over me as I step inside. All the lights blaze exactly as I left them, casting warm yellow across the spacious room.
The space stretches like a small apartment, complete with a sitting area, king-sized bed, and kitchenette tucked into an alcove near the tall windows. Behind the sitting area, a large armoire stands against the far wall, its dark wood carved with intricate designs.
Lorenzo had the staff stock the fridge with fresh fruit and snacks so I wouldn't need to navigate the stairs on crutches.
The thoughtfulness would be touching if I weren't so on edge.
I lean my crutches against the wall and test my weight again. The heel-walking thing is getting easier, though I probably look like I'm attempting some bizarre ballet move.
I hobble toward the bedroom, grateful for the privacy the separate space will provide. The sitting area feels too exposed with those tall windows, even though I know they're bulletproof and overlooked by guards.
I lean against the dresser and carefully balance on my good foot while lifting the injured one. The conservative pajama pants I chose earlier feel suffocating now. I'd picked them specificallybecause guards would be coming and going, but in the privacy of my own room, I want something more comfortable.
My fingers work at the drawstring waistband, loosening the heavy cotton fabric. The pants slide down my legs, pooling around my ankles as I step out of them carefully. The cool air against my skin feels like freedom after the day I've had.
I'm left standing in my red silk panties and the oversized T-shirt I'd chosen as a pajama top. Much better. Now for the shirt.
I grab the hem, ready to pull it over my head and change into something lighter.
"Don't do that. You're killing me as it is, Solnishko."
I freeze completely, the fabric bunched in my fists just above my waist.
I hop around awkwardly, nearly losing my balance as I turn to face the bedroom doorway.
Anton stands there, leaning against the frame. He's dressed in black tactical gear that emphasizes every hard line of his body, dangerous, beautiful, and absolutely focused on me.
