Tonight.
I take a pillow, walk to the closet, and sit in the back corner, pulling my knees to my chest.
Better. Small spaces are better. I can see the door. No one can sneak up.
I count the empty hangers above me. Forty-two.
I stare at the closet door in the darkness. He didn’t come in. He could have. This is his apartment. I’m his too, I guess. He owns me now.
But he didn’t come in.
I’m safe for now until he breaks that promise, which I have no doubt he will.
Promises are always broken.
Chapter 3
Cillian
What the hell did I think I was doing? And what the hell am I going to do with her?
Someone else is in my space. There’s another person in my home.
The memory of yesterday floods back as I dress in my suit and tie—standard business attire. Her father’s pathetic offer, the bruise on her face, the garbage bag of belongings. The decision I still can’t fully explain.
I wince when the coffee machine grinds. I never realized how loud it was. This is a big apartment, but I find myself hoping the noise doesn’t wake her. She looked like she could use some sleep—about a week of solid sleep.
My phone shows three missed calls from my mother. I know what she wants. I know what she’s gonna say. I’m not in the mood to be harassed about how it’s time I settle down and start producing heirs. Or for another monologue about this or that age-appropriate socialite and what a marital alliance with her family will bring to the organization. I silence my phone and shove it in my pocket.
The penthouse feels different withherhere. I keeplistening for sounds—footsteps, water running, anything to indicate she’s awake.
Nothing.
I should probably feed her. That’s what you do with houseguests, right? Except she’s not a houseguest. She’s?—
I don’t know what the fuck she is.
I make toast and eggs, plating them with more care than the task requires. Should I wake her or let her sleep?
This is ridiculous. I run a criminal empire. I’ve negotiated deals worth millions, ordered hits, and stared down barrels of loaded weapons. And I’m standing in my kitchen debating whether to wake up a nineteen-year-old girl.
I walk down the hallway and knock on the guest room door.
No answer.
“Nora?” I knock again, harder.
Still nothing.
I open the door carefully, remembering my promise not to touch her without permission.
The bed is untouched. Perfectly made like no one slept there at all.
My pulse kicks up. What the hell? Did she run? Climb out a window thirty-two floors up? I scan the room.
The closet door is cracked.
I pull it wider and find her curled in a ball on the floor with a pillow clutched to her chest. Asleep.
