“You were finished.” Simple as that. I angle her toward the exit without breaking my stride.
Fury rolls off her in waves, but she won’t give them a show.
No, she’s too clever to play victim in public. So she glides like a statue with flawless posture, her chin up and every heel strike deliberate.
I rest my hand against her back as we move, pretending not to notice the rigid line of her spine beneath my palm.
She’s burning bright with anger. But I can deal with anger. Anger means engagement and keeping her close.
What I can’t allow is her drifting, or her gaze shifting away.
And I can’t bring myself to articulate why that bothers me.
Chapter 18
Jordan
He pulls me through the hotel corridor, his iron grip locking around my wrist as soon as we’re out of sight. Not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough to direct, to own.
Plush carpet eats the sound of our passage, the still life paintings hanging on the walls the only witnesses to my outrage. The hallway unspools ahead in endless beige, swallowing the taste of my victory with every forced step.
Minutes ago, I was a woman seizing her moment, reshaping his attempt at dominance into my unique edge, my win.
The black dress that I transformed into armor on stage now squeezes my shoulders and cages my ribs, the neckline a collar I can’t tug loose. Every compliment, each handshake, all the cards pressed into my hand, the possibilities… They vanish behind us.
He’s dragging me back down into the cell he controls.
Refusal sears my spine, but I won’t give any gawkers a show.
So I match his pace—surpass it, even—with my chin up, as my high-heeled strides radiate rage. He can’t haul me away if he’s struggling to keep up.
But the asshole doesn’t struggle. He just lengthens his own stride.
And normally I wouldn’t want to call someone an asshole, but…
He deserves the insult.
When we reach the room, my shaky hands fumble with the key card because anger makes me clumsy.
The lock blinks red.
I try again, as if swiping harder will fix things.
“Let me.” He reaches around me.
I jerk my hand away from his. “I can manage a lock.” I jam the card in with a vengeance. This time, the latch clicks. “Let go of me.” I yank my other arm free the instant we cross the threshold, rubbing at my wrist despite the lack of pain.
Kirill doesn’t spare me another glance. He locks my laptop and bag in the room’s safe and sweeps the room with cold efficiency, checking the closet and bathroom, then flinging back the white shower curtain. He’s more mechanism than man, scanning for threats or traps or some ghost of escape, cataloguing every corner in this anonymous hotel suite.
Of course there’s a single king-size bed.
He’ll just have to sleep on the floor. Or the leather ottoman next to the empty desk and basic black office chair set up in front of the single window. He can curl up like a dog.
The space is twice the size of my entire apartment, with a real view of the city. Bland, but comfortable, with light brown walls and that odd multicolored carpet that hides stains and secrets.
Good enough for me.
I kick off my heels, feet aching.
