Page 20 of The Tower

“Will you?”

His eyes lock on mine, and I see a glimmer of something dangerous. “Perhaps.”

My body goes strangely warm as he takes one long step toward me so that he’s standing right in front of me. He slides one hand against my waist as he moves in even closer. “If I do,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear, “I have a feeling that you’ll like it.”

Then he turns his back to me and continues across the entry toward the living area, where floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Manhattan spread out below, the city lights glittering like stars beckoning me to come fall with them.

I tense as that familiar tightness presses against my neck, like an invisible hand threatening to cut off my air. The doors begin to close, and I reach over, jabbing the button to open them again. Then I close my eyes and step into the entryway, my heart pounding against my ribs as I trade the captivity of one tower for the possibilities of another.

I miss the safe, close walls of the elevator, but I couldn’t let it descend, taking me alone into the world of Elias Grimm and the family that has been my lifelong enemy.

And even if I reached the lobby safely—even if I bolted out into the night—what good would that do? I’d be alone with my father’s men hunting me, ready to trap me and toss me into that horrible maw that is Desmond.

Everything.

The word whispers through me, and once again, I feel that shiver up my spine. That’s what awaits me if I catch up with Grimm. Everything.

I tell myself that while the thought of Liam Grimm touching me is vile, it’s less vile than the thought of Desmond’s hands on me.

And that’s true. So very, very true.

But it’s also a lie.

Because even though it terrifies me—even though I would shout from the rooftops that Liam Grimm is horrible—my dark, terrible secret is that despite the odious things he said to me at that charity gala three years ago, when I slid my hand between my legs that night, it was his fingers I imagined stroking me. His lips breathing life into mine.

And the thing that I most hate about him now?

That despite his cruel taunts and insults, he still has a starring role in my dreams.

“Would you like me to block the windows?”

I’ve taken one step out of the elevator and am looking at the floor when his voice washes over me, so low and gentle that I almost wonder if the speaker is someone other than Grimm.

I know better, of course, and yet that tiny show of compassion settles inside me, warm and comforting. I hold onto it as I look up, then focus on his face and not the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond.

“I—” I press my lips together, uncertain what I’d intended to say. Part of me wants to lift my chin and tell him that I’m not nearly as weak as he thinks I am. The other part wants to crawl back into the elevator and hide in the corner. Because yes, I truly am that weak.

He studies me with those eyes that somehow see all my secrets. Then he lifts his arm, taps something on his smartwatch, and the windows instantly turn opaque.

“Oh,” I say, the word hanging foolishly in the air. “Thank you.”

“The windows are triple-reinforced. The building would shatter around us before the windows saw even a crack. You’re safe,” he says, then cocks his head. “From that, anyway.”

There’s a dark heat in his voice. A warning not to trust him. A reminder that acts of kindness don’t mean he’s kind, and that I still don’t understand his full agenda.

That basic reality makes my stomach churn, and I take a deep breath, trying to get back on steady ground. I nod toward the windows, then force a casual smile. “Triple-reinforced, huh? Are you anticipating a bombing?”

A single brow rises along with the corner of his mouth. “Now that I’ve taken you from your father and Mr. Bane, perhaps I should be.”

I dip my head to hide my smile, then look back up when his choice of words registers with me. “Taken?” I repeat. “I seem to recall making a choice.”

“No.” Those predatory eyes lock onto me like lasers. “You didn’t.”

I open my mouth to argue but close it again. He’s right, of course. As much as I may despise the entire Grimm family, between running away with Liam and staying behind to marry Desmond, there was no choice at all.

“That’s only semantics.”

“No,” he counters, stepping toward me. He takes my hand, his slightly calloused, and for a moment, I wonder if this man is more than a billionaire heir whose only work consists of sitting behind a desk making decisions.