The elevator slowed, and I smoothed my dress, attempting to look like a woman who had simply ridden an elevator and not like someone who had just been pressed against mirrored walls by a man with dangerous hands and a mouth that should come with a warning label. And
The doors slid open, and I tried to keep it cool and casual, like not seeing him again wasn’t breaking something inside me. Like that something hadn’t already fractured when I snuck out of his bed that morning. And then…
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three sharp sounds tear through the air.
It takes half a second for my brain to register what my body already knows. The world snaps into fragments. Screams and the metallic echo of the shots ricocheting through the hotel atrium.
Julian moves instantly.
One moment he’s behind me, relaxed, teasing. The next, he’s all motion.
One arm wraps around my shoulders, the other shoves the elevator’s emergency stop with brutal force.
The doors freeze halfway open.
“Behind me,” he orders, unnecessarily because that’s where he’s already shoved me. There’s no softness or flirtation in his voice now. His body is tense, and the arm that keeps me behind him is rock hard.
He bends down, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand. With one hand braced against the elevator door, he darts in and out of the door super quick.
My heart slams against my ribs. “What the hell was that?” I whisper.
“Gunfire,” he says flatly.
“No kidding.” My fear makes me sound irritated. “But why?”
“We’ll find out,” he says without looking at me.
“And why do you have a gun? I thought the UK was a friendly country who didn’t even give guns to their police patrols. Why would they give them to their diplomats?” I realize I’m blabbering. That’s what happens when I’m nervous. Or afraid. Or both.
He looks at me for a moment, as if he’s going to answer my question, but then his jaw tightens. “Stay close. Do exactly what I say.”
Another shout echoes through the hotel. Someone screams again. The sound of running feet pounds from somewhere above us.
My phone buzzes violently in my hand. When I glance down, the screen is lighting up with alerts, emergency warnings, messages from editors all screaming variations ofWHAT IS HAPPENING?!
Julian’s phone buzzes too. He doesn’t look at it, though. Doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Instead, he focuses solely on me. “We’re getting out of the elevator,” he says. “Not into the hallway.”
“Then where…”
He presses a finger to my lips. “Iris. Trust me.” His blue eyes are scary, intense, and hard. Gone is the flirtatious diplomat. This is a completely different man than the one I spent the night with. Than the one who just fucked me up against the mirror wall of the elevator.Who is this?
I want to ask him just that, but his finger is still on my lips and he presses harder when he sees me about to open my mouth. “Iris,” he says again. “Trust. Me.”
His low tone and confident words cut through my panic. Somehow I do trust him. Both versions of him. At least for now.
I nod.
He pries the elevator doors apart a little more and slips through, scanning the corridor with sharp, precise movements that do not belong to a man who files reports and attends embassy dinners.
The hallway is complete chaos.
Guests are spilling out of the rooms. A woman in a silk robe sobs into her phone. A man shouts in French, demanding to know what’s happening. Somewhere below, another gunshot rings out, closer this time.
Julian grabs my wrist and pulls me in the opposite direction of the crowd.
“Emergency exit,” he says.
