He tore his attention away and moved to the brass bear on the wall, ripping the tape from its eyes with more force than necessary. Let the Volkovs watch. Let them see that he was leaving, that she remained unharmed, that whatever madness had possessed him tonight had not yet crossed into true transgression.
He picked up the key from the table and crossed to the door, pausing at the narrow drawer beside the frame. The gun waited inside, cold and patient. He retrieved it and slid it into the holster at the small of his back, then buttoned his jacket to conceal the weapon.
When he turned, she had retreated several steps, her eyes fixed on his waist. It might have been the gun that put that horrified look on her face, but it was more likely the bulge at his crotch.
“Lock the door behind me.” He held up the key, letting her see it clearly before slipping it into the lock. “Don’t open it for anyone.”
“Are you coming back?”
The question caught him off guard. He searched her face for mockery, for manipulation, and found only exhaustion and what appeared to be pre-emptive relief.
“Yes,” he said, turning abruptly so he wouldn’t see disappointment twist her beautiful face.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Lock it,” he ordered, then stepped into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.
He waited until the soft scrape of metal clicked in the lock. Only then did he realize he’d left his phone inside.
“Fuck.” The curse echoed down the empty corridor as he stormed away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Valley of Ashes
The lock clicked into place, and Daisy pressed her back against the door, the key biting into her palm as she squeezed to stop her hands from trembling. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The suite stretched before her, vast and silent, firelight casting long shadows across the walls.
She didn’t know how long she had.
The shirt he’d left lay draped over the chair where she’d abandoned it. She rushed to it on battered feet, each step a fresh reminder of the lengths she’d traveled to be there.
The blanket fell, and she shrugged on the shirt, the starched material swallowing her whole. She fastened the buttons as quickly as her unsteady hands allowed. The hem grazed her thighs, and the sleeves hung past her wrists, but it was better than twelve pounds of beaded gown or the blanket he’d offered.
The material smelled of cedar and something darker. Something that made her stomach tighten in ways she refused to name.
Her gaze snagged on the narrow drawer beside the door. The one he’d opened before retrieving the gun.
She crossed to it. Pulled the brass handle only to find it empty.
Her fingers traced the velvet lining where the weapon had rested. Nothing. Not even dust.
The next drawer yielded the same. And the next. She moved through the sitting area with mounting frustration, yanking open every compartment, every cabinet, every hidden panel she could find. All of them empty. Pristine. Unlived in.
Like a hotel room dressed for a guest who never arrived.
Who was this man? He had files on dozens of women, but kept nothing of himself. No photographs. No letters. No evidence that a human being occupied this space beyond the fire in the hearth and the half-empty decanter on the bar.
She scurried to the dressing room, her feet screaming in protest. The wardrobe revealed only one row of suits in charcoal and black. More than enough for someone of her means, but far less than what she expected for a man of his class.
Shirts hung beside the suits, pressed to military precision. Shoes lined up like little soldiers, polished to mirrors. She rifled through pockets, checked linings, searched for anything that might tell her who R.A. or Jack really was.
Nothing.
Her fingers paused on a small velvet box. She lifted the lid and found what looked like earrings, plain onyx, flat and unadorned, but upon further inspection, she didn’t know what they were. Lifting one, she twisted the strange metal post, then realized they were cufflinks—something no one in her world owned.
She’d expected something showier. Gold, perhaps. Or diamonds. The kind of ostentation that announced wealth like a battle cry. But these were simple. Too plain for even a thief to steal.
“You like being understated,” she whispered, sliding the cufflink back into the box beside its twin.
She scanned the hanging suits, each one a powerful wrapper he used to hide his ravaged body. How many people actually knew what he hid beneath the surface?
