“Your girl? I’m thirty-five years old. That is not a girl,” Sloane says, her shoulders jerking in what I assume is a huff.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This would have gone so much better if she’d been in on the planning from the beginning. But no. Rather than glare at Marina, I take Sloane’s hand in a futile attempt to calm her down. “Your brand new boyfriend of less than a month is gushing over you, and in order to keep you safe, he has to be possessive and overprotective.”
She stiffens. “I’m in this mess because when I was eighteen, I made one mistake—one huge, awful mistake—and a possessive, evilmudakmade me do things I never want to speak about again! I put all that behind me after another man took control of my entire life. This isn’t the face I was born with. The eyes. The voice. What’s in my file? Those lies? They are all I have in this world, and I will not let another man take them away from me!”
Marina gets to her feet, but I wave her off and scoot closer to Sloane, taking her hands in both of mine. I expect her to flinch at the feel of my prosthetic, but she doesn’t, tightening her grip on my fingers like she’s desperate for an anchor in this storm. What she doesn’t know? Her touch is anchoringme.
“Listen to me, sweetheart.No oneis going to take anything away from you. I won’t let them. I can’t promise you’re going to like my plan, and despite how shitty this sounds, I don’t care. This cover story is going to keep you safe because it means I’ll be by your side until we know the threat’s neutralized. And Volkovwillbe neutralized. But if you want, we can have a very public fight tomorrow where you tell me in no uncertain terms to never call you ‘my girl’ again.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“You can even throw a glass of water in my face.” I try for a smile, and she stifles a laugh. “Just make sure I take off my glasses first.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sloane
By the time I stagger into the bedroom and close the door, it’s after midnight. Griff—whose real name is Griffin Hargrove, not too far off from his cover identity—is hard to read.
He bounces between prickly and almost angry to understanding and caring in ways I desperately need. When he held my hands, I expected his prosthetic to be cold. Hard. But it wasn’t. And when I squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back.
He kept rubbing his left shoulder, and I wish I knew him well enough to ask him if he’s in pain. What did he say? He was injured less than a year ago? I can’t remember. So much of tonight is a blur.
Changing into a t-shirt, I make sure the curtains are drawn before going through my nightly routine. Makeup removal, a steam treatment with a mint tea bag in a bowl of hot water, moisturizer, and finally, a cold water rinse to counteract all my tears and the salt from the french fries before climbing into bed.
The quiet knock makes my heart race, and I struggle to untangle my legs from the sheets. “Just a minute.”
As I reach for the knob, Griff calls, “Sloane? I need you to open the door.”
“What is it?” I ask when there’s nothing but two feet of space between us. And, oh my. No more tuxedo, just a t-shirt that strains across his hard chest and a pair of loose shorts. Gray metal extends from the end of his sleeve to the hinge of his elbow and continues down his forearm to just above his wrist. His hand looksalmostlifelike, though it’s a little lighter than the rest of his skin.
Shit. I’m staring.
Forcing my gaze to meet his, I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Griff offers me a brief, wry smile. “You can look. We’re supposed to be dating. Pretty sure if that were true, you’d have seen a lot more of me by now.” He has all the right words, but his tone? The way he angles his body so the left side is farther away from me? He’s uncomfortable with anyone seeing him like this.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but at the same time, his lips press together and his eyes crinkle slightly until he sighs. “Yes. It was a long day. Usually I don’t wear the prosthetic more than eight hours at a time. I’m coming up on…nineteen at this point.”
“Oh. You don’t have to…for me.” For a moment, neither of us speak, and Griff studies me like he can’t figure me out, and I rush to fill the awkward silence. “Everyone judges me for how I look. Three years ago, I came down with the flu when I was in Mexico for a swimsuit spread. For two straight days, I couldnotstop throwing up. A photographer caught me accepting a room service tray looking like death. The rumors were awful. ‘Has Sloane Sanders given up? Is she pregnant? Having weight loss surgery?’ It was awful.”
“No one should have to live like that,” he says.
I run nervous fingers through my hair, suddenly realizing I’m only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “It’s part of the life. And why I want out. I have eight months left on my contract. After that, I can disappear somewhere Dimitri can never find me. And start eating carbs again.”
I try for a smile, but the sound Griff makes is almost a growl. Goosebumps flare along my arms, and the way he looks at me? I feelseenin a way I never have before. “My job is to make sure you don’t have to disappear. Ever.”
“You don’t know Dimitri.” I want to look away, but I can’t. Not if I expect him to be able to understand me. A fresh tear balances on my lashes, and Griff reaches up and brushes it away.
“The brown suits you,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“Your eyes.” His hand is still cupping my cheek, and the touch sends sparks all the way down to my toes. “Any time you want to leave the blue behind…”
“I can’t. My contract…”
