“They?”
“My men.”
His men. Of course he has men. Of course this goes deeper than just him.
Ishouldask.
Ishouldbe rattling off a list: Who the hell are your men? What the hell did I see back there? And what theactual fuckis going on?
But the words get stuck somewhere between my throat and whatever organ controls common sense. My stomach? My liver? Honestly, it could be my spleen. Everything feels out of place right now.
Because deep down, I don’t want to hear the answer.
Not yet.
Not when my legs are still shaky from almost being murdered.
Not when the man next to me looks like he could break necksandmodel for a fashion magazine in the same breath.
So I stay quiet. Coward quiet.
A shiver runs through me; whether from the SUV’s air conditioning or delayed shock, I can’t tell. Anton notices immediately. Without a word, he shrugs off his black jacket and drapes it around my shoulders.
The fabric is warm from his body heat, smells of expensive cologne and something darker. Something that’s purely him. I pull it tighter around myself, and for a moment, I feel safe.
Protected.
Which is absolutely insane, considering the man protecting me just put a bullet through someone’s head. My brain knows this. My brain is screaming that feeling safe aroundAnton Malikovis like feeling safe around a loaded gun.
But apparently, my brain has clocked out for the day, because all I can focus on is how his jacket makes me feel small and cared for.
Stockholm syndrome works fast in Vegas, apparently.
The SUV stops, and the silent driver cuts the engine. Anton gets out first, then comes around to my side. He opens the door and extends his hand—another genteel gesture that shouldn’t make my stomach flutter, considering the circumstances.
I take his hand because my legs feel unsteady. His fingers are warm, strong, completely engulfing mine as he helps me out of the vehicle.
I hesitate at the elevator doors. This is it. The moment I walk back into the place I ran from this morning. The place that started feeling like a cage until I realized the whole world was one.
Anton’s hand settles on my lower back, firm but not rough. A gentle pressure that saysmove forwardwithout saying anything at all. When I still don’t step inside, his grip shifts to my waist, fingers spanning almost the entire width of it, and he guides me into the elevator.
Not forcing. Not dragging. Just… inevitable.
Like everything else about him.
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like ascending to judgment. I’m wearing his clothes, covered in desert dust, still shaking from what happened with Rodriguez. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.
The elevator doors open, and my stomach drops.
There are two more of them.
They’re the guys from the balcony the other night. Shit. How long have they been watching me?
The first one looks up from a laptop, sharp cheekbones and messy hair, like a hacker who moonlights as a hitman. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
The second one makes my breath catch.
He’s massive. Six and a half feet of pure muscle, arms like tree trunks, a jagged scar running down his jaw. His eyes are bright blue, almost merry, which somehow makes him more terrifying. He grins when he sees me, like I’m the entertainment for the evening.
