“Miss Thorne?” A deep male voice calls through the door. “I’m Detective Colvin. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The cops!
Desperate and wild-eyed, I glance at Kirill.
What the fuck do I do?
Even if I seek help from the police, I’ll likely be back in Kirill’s hold before the end of the night.
Or maybe with someone worse.
Besides…my anger aside, I know where I’m meant to be.
Destiny placed me here, in this moment, with Kirill.
And I’m not walking away from fate.
Kirill heads for the door, but not straight-on. He angles his body to the side as he leans over to the peephole. One quick verification, then a nod.
It’s real.
A cop lingers outside my hotel room.
Why? He’s going to mess up everything. If the conference organizers get wind of this…
The rumors will run rampant.
I step toward the door. Kirill’s stare, heavy and resolute, weighs on the back of my head. “About what?” I force the question out, my voice steady despite my racing mind. Did he find out about Kirill? The dead men in the alley? My abduction?
“There was a disturbance a week or so ago near your apartment.” The detective’s deceptively casual tone has teeth, which instantly raises my hackles. “I’ve been checking in with residents who live nearby. But you were never home.” He pauses, anticipating my response, but I have no idea what to say. “I learned you’d be presenting here, so I came. Can we speak for a moment?”
Kirill and I lock eyes.
Time stretches, every tick of the clock a held breath, every second an unmade decision. I wait for him to signal. To do anything.
He does, but not in the way I expect. He moves with soundless precision, sliding against the wall where the door opens up. He stands still, nonchalant on the surface. Relaxed.
But his eyes stay on me, flat and empty and cold as glass.
I glimpse no panic. No anger.
Nothing but calculation.
The message is as clear as a knife to my throat.
Don’t fuck this up. Make a sound I don’t like, and I’ll take care of the detective and you.
Despite my earlier bravado, this is still the same man who dragged me out of my apartment. The one who threatened Ashley. Who kills without blinking.
The Kirill who patched my wounds, who let me go to my conference, who showed flickers of something softer, is gone. Buried.
“Miss Thorne?” The detective’s voice gets closer to the door.
I have a choice. I could open the door, expose Kirill, and be saved, temporarily, at least.
Saved.The word twists in my chest, sticky and complicated. From what? From the man who kidnapped me, yes. But the same man pulled me from that taxi and killed to keep me alive. He’s hurt me, owned me, but also looked at me like I mattered. Like I was real.
And what does being “saved” mean?
