It was one of the final thoughts on my mind as I quickly drifted off.
I set to making his bed, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking in the corners. The result is even neater than how his made-up bed originally looked.
Then I pad over to the bathroom praying Killian won’t mind that I use his shower. It’s not like I have many other options at this point.
The water pressure is weak and the temperature hovers between lukewarm and vaguely cool, but it doesn’t even matter.
A shower is a shower these days.
I stand under the spray with eyes closed, letting it wash away the grime and sweat and funk from the past few days.
As the water runs over me, my mind drifts to Eva.
My baby sister is the only family I have left. The onlyperson in this world who matters to me. She’s still trapped in Fedorov’s grasp, and every day I spend hiding is another day she suffers.
I can’t lose sight of that. I can’t ever let myself get comfortable here, no matter how nice it feels to sleep in a real bed and eat a full meal and bathe in a shower and not the sink of a public restroom.
Killian’s offered me help and protection, but it’s temporary. It has to be.
I can’t trust anyone, and that doesn’t just mean the Bratva. It means the Irish mob too.
He claimed I’m their territory now—their possession—but I know better than to believe that means anything good.
In the underworld, women like me are currency. We’re traded and sold and used up without a second thought. If it suits the Irish to hurt me, they will without a second thought. If it benefits them to hand me back to Fedorov, they wouldn’t hesitate.
I have to look out for myself. For me and Eva above all else.
That’s the only way we survive and have a chance of someday having a normal life…
I twist off the water and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in the only towel I can find. It smells like him like the sheets do. Distinct enough to almost be comforting.
I try not to think about how it’s probably been pressed against his naked body at some point and pad out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the worn hardwood floor.
My clothes are still on the bed.
I’ve been making it on three changes of clothes—two T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a tank top and some sweats to sleep in. They’re clothes I was able to take from the free bins at the shelter, and though they don’t fit me the best, it’s better than the tattered rags I was in when the Bratva had me in the cages.
I’m reaching for the pile of fabric when the studio door swings open.
Killian strides through, dripping sweat and breathing hard from what was obviously an intense training session. His sleeveless white shirt is soaked through, clinging to the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
He freezes the moment he sees me.
I yelp and jump backward, clutching the towel to my body with both hands. My heart does a similar kind of leap inside my ribcage, sudden terror flooding my veins. I’m standing half-naked and exposed.
A second passes where we’re both frozen in place. We’re equally shocked that he’s walked in on me, so we stare across the cramped space at each other.
Him in the doorway, me by the bed, the air between us as thick and awkward.
I’m so thrown, I’ve started shaking. An involuntary reaction as my fingers go numb and I feel dizzy. My breath’s are coming in short, panicked bursts.
He quickly assesses these things and seems to put two and two together. He turns his back to me and grunts, “Shit. I didn’t know you’d be… if I did I would’ve waited… fuck.”
I snatch my clothes off the bed, vaguely aware I should probably answer him. Tell him it’s not his fault and thatI’minhisstudio.
But the panic and terror have come on way too strong.
I’m in flight mode as I clutch the towel to my body and flee to the bathroom.
