As I rummage through drawers and cabinets, I find nothing out of the ordinary. I run my hand along the books on the shelves, most of which have to do with business. Then, right in the middle of the top-left shelf, I see a book that feels out of place.
Hooking my finger along the top of the spine, I pull it down.
Carnivalby Rawi Hage.
It’s an interesting book to find on his shelf. Almost unnatural. I open it up and find a name handwritten in pen.
Niklaus Rozanov.
Inside is a photo.
Immediately, I recognized Ransome, though he looks much younger than he is now. A late teen, maybe. Next to him is a kid even younger than him, maybe by two or three years. Bothof them are smiling, though the other kid looks a lot wilier. They’re standing with their arms looped around each other’s shoulders. They’re leaning back against what appears to be a black Maserati. It’s an expensive car. As in, three-bedroom house expensive.
But that’s not the thing my eyes capture about the photo.
It’s Ransome. His smile is wide. Carefree. Like he hasn’t got a problem in the world. And there’s also affection in it, something I’ve never seen in him. I look at the kid again, then the signature, and the book. All of it has me curious. All of it has me questioning.
Who is Niklaus? More than that, who was Ransome?
And what happened to him?
CHAPTER 27: RANSOME
I have to get away from Amara.
My foot is almost to the floor as I drive away from the penthouse towards one of the Rozanov estates, a sprawling 20,000 square foot mansion on the other side of the city, gated in the middle of Rozanov territory. As much as I’m not a fan of hanging out alone in a house that I am set to inherit in less than a year, then expected to fill with a wife and children, I need to put actual miles between me and that woman.
I almost lost my cool back there. I almost whipped her around, bent her over the counter and spanked the ever-loving shit out of her before fucking her into an orgasm-coma simply for talking back to me. Obviously, I didn’t. But fuck me, did I want to.
I’ve never dealt with a woman with a mouth like hers, both literally and figuratively. I’m not used to anyone, man or woman, talking back to me. And trust me when I say this little girl talks the fuck back.
For a split second, I wonder if I am in over my head, but I smack that thought in the face. I can handle her. I just have to be careful about the way I do it. I don’t want to break, Amara but she does need to bend. Figuratively and literally.
When I get to the house, I head straight to the gym. It smells like fresh rubber, leather and metal. I snap on the lights and walk over to the dumbbells, reaching for the 50s. But the second I go to wrap my right hand around it, I let out a bark. I’m so riled up, I forgot about my fucking hand.
I should have broken Tristan’s jaw.
I still could.
Obviously, weights are out. I can, however, go for a run. I change into gym pants and sneakers, no shirt, and hop on the treadmill. I don’t need a warm up—I’m heated enough as it is—and I turn it up to a fast jog.
That dress.
I knew it would look good. I knew it would be perfect. I made a point of finding out her measurements (34-26-35) and tailored the dress to hug those numbers. And fuck me, they did justice. Like a second, shimmery red skin. Between that and the allusive mask, she was a cross between an angel and the devil as she floated into the room. Every head was turned. It made me both territorial and turned on.
I crank the speed up a notch on the treadmill.
I grit my teeth through the burn of the run and the thought of other men talking to her.Tristanwas talking to her. Alone. The idea of that makes my blood burn under my skin. I definitely should have rearranged his face with my fist. A little involuntary plastic surgery.
It makes me wonder what other guys she’s talked to alone, last night and throughout her life in general. What they’ve said to her. How she turned them down.
Ifshe turned them down.
I punch the stop button on the treadmill and hop off before it even slows. Then I go back to the kitchen counter where I tossed her phone.
Obviously, there’s a lock. But it takes all of two guesses to figure out the password—it’s my birthday—and I’m in.
I check her search history first. A lot of it is in fact about me. She’s a better stalker than I even gave her credit for, I’ll give her that.
