The apples were tender, just shy of caramelized. The spices provided a comforting warmth without being overpowering, and the mascarpone—cool, velvety, and sweet—wrapped around the fruit like silk. I let the spoon linger inside my mouth as the cream ran over my tongue. Closing my eyes, I moaned.
It wasn’t loud—just a soft, involuntary sound. My whole body sighed with it.
I was starving in a bone-deep, hollowed-out kind of way. Hungry for food, for comfort, for someone to care for me.
This was exactly what I hadn’t known I needed.
He pulled a couple of glasses from the cabinet and poured us each some sweet moscato wine. I’d be careful and only drink a few sips. I needed my head clear.
Still, the warmth from the food—combined with the soft hum of music playing in the background and the flickering citylights outside the windows—made me feel like I was already intoxicated.
I glanced around, taking it all in. The open-concept living room. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The patio beyond. The glow of the city in every direction.
And the artwork. Oh God—the artwork wasstunning. Covering the walls of the living room were massive, commanding canvases that drew my eye. Towering black-and-white landscapes by Ansel Adams, stark and majestic, captured nature at its most powerful. Alongside them were haunting abstract pieces by a photographer I didn’t know—a mix of industrial and natural patterns found from high above the earth. The contrast in styles was jarring, but it worked. Like the man himself—a mystery but impossible to ignore.
This wasn’t some mob hideout. This place was…sophisticated, cultured, and beautiful.
Who the hell are you, Mr. Stalker?
Dipping my spoon into the bowl again, I dragged my tongue along the handle, catching a smear of mascarpone that had been left behind. Then I licked it all the way up to the tip before slipping it into my mouth, savoring every decadent drop.
I glanced up to find he was staring at me.
His palms were braced on the counter in front of me, the muscles in his arms tense, his fingers digging into the marble. His jaw was set like stone.
And his eyes—the look in them was ravenous, his pupils blown wide.
Like he wanted to devour me whole.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The spoon remained suspended between my fingers.
Then, I made a choice.
Coyly, I brought the next bite to my lips and licked the edge of the spoon—locking my eyes onto his. A bead of cream slipped to the corner of my mouth.
I caught it with the tip of my tongue and dragged it inside my lips, swallowing deeply.
He made a sound—a low growl.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t touch a single bite of his own food but merely stood there, his restraint cracking at the seams.
The tension between us stretched so tight, it hurt to breathe.
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
The shift was instantaneous. Controlled. Cold.
The air cooled too.
“I have to go take care of a few things, deal with the aftermath of what just went down,” he said gruffly.
I forced another bite past the knot in my throat, unsure of what would come next, unsure whatIwas supposed to say. The man had saved my life. But that didn’t make him safe. It didn’t make himgood.
He watched me carefully, as if he could read the apprehension swirling in my mind. “You’re safe here. No one can get in. You’ve got everything you need.” He swiped his hand over the stubble on his chin. “You can make yourself comfortable.”
Comfortable.
In a killer’s penthouse? After nearly being auctioned off to the highest bidder? After being stalked, stripped, grabbed, sold, and saved all in the same night?
