“So the marriage is what puts me in danger. It’s not what protects me.”
“The marriage is what will ultimately protect you. But there’s a window between when they find out and when they accept that coming after you means war with my family. Desperate men don’t always think clearly. I’d rather not leave you alone in a studio apartment while they decide whether you’re worth the risk.”
Jesus, this man has an answer for everything.
“Fine,” I grind out. “But I need to get my things.”
“Of course. I’ll drive you.”
“I can take a cab.”
“You could. But you won’t.” He steps into the elevator and holds the door open. “After you.”
I want to argue, to dig my heels in and refuse to cooperate just to prove that he doesn’t control me. But the image he painted is still fresh in my mind, and despite my fury, I’m not stupid.
I step into the elevator. He follows, pressing the button for the parking garage.
We ride down in silence. I keep my eyes fixed on the numbers ticking past, refusing to look at him. Refusing toacknowledge how close he’s standing or how aware I am of his presence beside me.
The doors open onto a concrete parking structure. He leads me to a sleek black car that probably costs more than I’ll make in ten years and opens the passenger door for me like this is some kind of date.
“I can open my own door,” I grumble as I slide inside.
“I’m aware.”
He closes it anyway and rounds the hood to the driver’s side. A moment later, we’re pulling out of the garage and into the city streets.
Menlow enters my address into his GPS without asking for it, and I don’t even bother asking how he knows where I live. I expect him to fill the silence with more explanations or justifications, but he doesn’t. Just drives, keeping his hands steady on the wheel and his focus on the road ahead.
It should be a relief. Instead, it’s maddening.
“You know,” I say after a few blocks, “most people at least buy dinner before they move in together.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I did buy you drinks.”
“One night does not constitute a relationship.”
“We’re married. I’d say that constitutes something.”
“Against my will.”
“You signed the contract.”
“Stop saying that.” I twist in my seat to glare at him. “Stop acting like this is my fault for not reading the fine print. You deliberately buried that clause, knowing I wouldn’t catch it. You took advantage of the fact that I was distracted and scared, and now you’re acting like I have no right to be angry.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You have every right to be angry.”
“Oh, well, thank you for permission.”
“I mean it.” He glances over at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. “What I did was manipulative. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you safe.”
I turn back to face the window, watching the buildings pass. My building is in a decent neighborhood. Not fancy, but not dangerous either. I’ve lived there for two years without a single problem.
And now I’m leaving because some Russian mobster decided I needed rescuing.
We pull up to the curb, and I’m out of the car before he can come around to open my door. He follows me inside and up three flights of stairs to my apartment. I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of him standing behind me in the narrow hallway.
“Nice building,” he observes.
