Heat.
Hope. Or a hope-shaped lie.
And considering her cop aversion, she’s just handed me the perfect carrot.
“You can go.”
She jerks upright in disbelief. “What?”
“Your conference. You can attend. But only on my terms.”
The way hope breaks across her face…
I shut down the weird little warmth wiggling to life in my chest.
“My terms. You’ll wear what I choose. And you don’t run again.” I find myself gravitating closer, lured by a sensation I don’t care to name. My thumb sweeps over the cut on her neck.
She sucks in a breath, her eyes wide, the green in them a thin circle around dark pupils.
She feels that tiny spark too.
Sharp and electric.
Magnetic.
I keep my stare locked to hers. “Because next time, I might not reach you fast enough. And until I get what I’m after, you’re mine.”
The possessiveness in my voice surprises us both.
This truth I’d rather not admit to slips through the cracks of my control. I spin away and leave Jordan alone in the kitchen, intent on giving myself some space.
On creating some space from her and from the echo of her warmth still on my hands.
Mostly, I need distance from the cold, razor-edged fury that tightened inside me at the sight of those men pawing her. Fury unrelated to the job or the evidence I’m seeking or Roman’s orders.
A fury that’s just mine.
With numb fingers, I punch a number into my phone from memory.
When the call connects, my flat, clipped voice demands, “Clothes delivery. Size four dresses. Silk, with solid colors. No patterns. Elegant and modern. Red and black.”
Red for the blood they spilled. Black for what happens if anyone tries again.
Chapter 15
Jordan
There’s a lock on the inside of my new bedroom door. A real one, not the flimsy kind you can jimmy with a bobby pin, but a metal bolt that slides into place with certainty.
The brass shines against the warped, peeling wood. A surprising bit of glitter sparkles in the light as I test the dead bolt once, twice, three times, my fingertips skimming over its edges like it’s a rare piece of pottery rather than simple hardware.
Kirill kept me in a room for five days. Now I’m the one controlling the lock.
This is a small miracle. Privacy with a bite.
I’m still a prisoner. And I don’t believe for a hot second this lock would stop Kirill if he truly wanted to get into this room. But the symbolism relieves me. It’s like throwing your bra off after you get home.
I may not have freedom, but at least I have a semblance of privacy.
