"How do you know?"
"Because you're stronger than you think. And because you're not doing this alone." His voice was firm, certain. "You've got Katrina. Olek. Me. We're not letting you fall."
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I blinked them back. "Why do you care so much?"
"I already told you why."
"At lunch. The whole 'you're under my skin' thing."
"Yeah. That." He leaned back. "And because watching you fight your way back to life is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. You inspire me, Shanice. Even when you're driving me crazy."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just smiled and went back to my food.
We finished dinner, both of us stuffed to the point of pain. When the waiter brought the check, Mikhail didn't even look at it before sliding his card over.
"Thank you," I said. "For tonight. For all of this."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I want to. This was perfect. Exactly what I needed."
We walked out to the SUV, and I felt lighter than I had in months. Happy. Almost normal.
Mikhail opened my door, but before I could get in, he caught my wrist.
"Shanice."
I turned, finding myself inches from him. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said earlier. About my intentions." His thumb brushed over my pulse point. "I'm going to ask for more. Soon. And when I do, I need you to be honest with me. Tell me if you want it too, or tell me to back off. But don't lie to spare my feelings. Okay?"
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could feel it. "Okay."
He held my gaze for another moment, then released me and helped me into the SUV.
The drive home was quiet, but comfortable. And when we pulled up to the mansion, I found myself not wanting the night to end.
"Goodnight, Mikhail," I said, gathering my purse.
"Goodnight, Shanice." He smiled. "Sweet dreams. I’ll put your leftovers away, too."
I walked inside, my skin still tingling from where he'd touched me.
This was definitely a problem. But maybe it was the kind of problem I didn't want to solve.
Shanice
The warehouse was dark and cold, and I couldn't move.
My hands were bound behind me, zip ties cutting into my wrists. I could hear voices, rough and angry, echoing off the concrete walls. Footsteps getting closer.
"Please," I tried to say, but my voice wouldn't work.
A door slammed open. Light flooded in, blinding. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could feel someone approaching. Could smell cigarette smoke and sweat. Fear was lodged in my throat so tightly that my voice dissipated into nothingness.
"Found you," a voice said. Katrina's ex, Marcus. But he was dead. He was supposed to be dead.
