"He's a biker down in New Orleans. His name's Reaper. He enjoys cracking the skulls of men who prefer to learn the hard way."
I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "That's quite a skill set."
"He's got contacts in New York. Big family of friends who help each other out."
"Is this friend of a friend reliable?"
Drake's eyes crinkle with something that might be amusement. "You don't trust easily, do you?"
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. "Nope. Would you when it comes to your family?"
"Good answer." He moves his hand from my hair to lightly caress the underside of my chin, tilting my face up to meet hisgaze. "He is very reliable. Ares is no joke. Protecting the innocent practically runs in his blood since birth. It's a long story. If you're lucky, one day you'll get to meet them all. They'd love you."
The warmth that blooms in my chest at his words catches me off guard. Drake is sharing a tenderness that lives beneath his hard exterior, offering me a glimpse of the man behind the mafia boss. I tuck that bit of information away for now, along with all the questions it brings to mind.
“Do you have a phone I can borrow? I no longer have service.” I had until today to pay and as of three hours ago, the line cut. It's embarrassing to admit, but it’s still the truth. I pull it out of my pocket and set it on the counter.
Drake pulls out his cell phone and hands it over. “Call anyone you like.”
“Thank you. My sister will freak out if she sees bikers following her around. She doesn’t exactly know about Victor or the debt or any of the issues, really. I never wanted to bog her down with the ugly truth about our father. She worshiped the ground that man walked on.”
“You’re a good sister. She will never know Ares is watching. Trust me.” Compassion softens the hard lines around Drake's eyes as he considers me for a moment.
I dial my sister’s number from memory and fill her in on the new job, the signing bonus and let her believe it everything is above board. The longer I talk the more Drake watches me. I promise to call tomorrow and to give her more details.
When I end the call, we leave the kitchen clean and the dishwasher running.
Drake slips his hand into mine, our palms settling together as he leads me back toward the bedrooms. The hallway stretches before us, all shadows and soft lighting, and I'm so focused on processing everything that's happened today that I almost miss it.
Oh.
A door I hadn't noticed before stands ajar. A glow of soft light bleeding through the crack at its base.
I slow my steps, drawn by curiosity I can't explain and our connection breaks.
"Katriana?" Drake's voice carries a question.
But I'm already pushing the door open.
I shouldn't have opened this door. But the moment I pushed it open, the rest of the penthouse ceases to exist.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line every wall, their dark mahogany frames cradling thousands of spines that gleam in the firelight. A hearth crackles in the corner, casting dancing shadows across leather armchairs and thick Persian rugs that muffle my footsteps as I drift deeper into the room.
I forget to breathe. Forget to be angry. Forget that I signed away a year of my life to a man I should despise.
My fingers brush the nearest shelf with something close to reverence, tracing gilded lettering that speaks of first editions and rare printings. Before everything fell apart. Before the debt and the desperation and the Red Letter wish that brought me here. This was what I wanted. A room full of stories and a life built on magical words.
"You have a first edition Austen," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.
"I have several."
Drake's voice curls through the shadows like smoke, and I spin to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest.
The firelight catches in his silver hair, turning it to burnished platinum. Those steel-gray eyes watch me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly, violently awake.
He moves into the room without hurry, each step deliberate, controlled. A predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. Not that I'm trying to run. Not at this moment, when the firelight softens the hard lines of his face and turns him into something almost gentle.
Almost.
