Page 87 of The Tower

I have to log off. Sorry.

I cut the connection before she can ask me what’s up. Ruby’s my best friend, and there’s nothing I keep from her. But in this case, I’d rather dole out the information when I understand it.

Right now, all I understand is Grimm. Not just that I want him, but that the arrangement we have both scares and intrigues me.

And, yes, it turns me on. So much that I built the Elysium version of this apartment without even thinking about it. And over the last few years, I built Grimm into Elysium, too, his personality hidden inside Killiam. AI tweaked him, but I created him. The prince I craved. The lover who protected me. The prince who would be my mate.

I built him out of my desires and needs.

But at his core, he is Liam Grimm, a man I used to hate. A man I’m now sworn to obey.

And that’s a little more Psych 101 than I can handle at the moment.

Twenty-Eight

Purple Prose

The apartment is chilly, and I can’t find the controls for the thermostat, so I head back into the yellow room and pull out the soft mauve sweater on top. As I lift it, a book tumbles out onto the floor.

Poetry. A slim volume by Pablo Neruda, one of the few poets I’m familiar with. Ruby introduced me to his work years ago when we were teenagers. She’d found a collection in her grandmother’s bookshelf, and we took turns reading passages aloud during our sleepovers, giggling over the sensual imagery that went over our heads, but was also a treasured glimpse into an adult world of passion.

The spine is cracked, the pages well-thumbed. When I open it, I find delicate pencil annotations in the margins—a feminine hand, noting connections between poems and underlining particularly moving phrases. The title page bears a simple inscription: “For M. Because some things can’t be encrypted. — L.”

I close the book quickly, feeling like an intruder. Maya, apparently, falls on the girlfriend side of that friend equation.

Color me naive, but I’m pretty sure men don’t give volumes of sensual, erotic poetry to their platonic roommate.

More likely, this is a home office where she also kept her clothes. A feminine place that was totally hers, but the bed in Grimm’s room was shared. Much like the arrangement he and I have right now.

I frown, already hating this woman. Which is totally bitchy and girlie of me, but it’s the truth. I hate her almost as much as I hate not having answers.

I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. After all, it’s not as if this Maya is here now. And what do I care, anyway? There’s nothing real or romantic between Grimm and me. Sex, yes. But that’s just a payment he’s demanding. The price for keeping me safe.

It’s not as if he truly cares for me, not like that, anyway. I’ll go so far as to say we’ve become friends even beyond our arrangement. And considering the sex part of our deal, I can even up that to Friends with Benefits.

But I’m not his girlfriend, and when this is finally over and my father is exposed and—hopefully—jailed, there won’t be a single thing except gratitude binding me to him.

So what if he gave her a book of erotic poetry? What do I care if⁠—

Click.

Before I can spin out any further, I hear the sound of a key in the lock. Grimm is back.

I shove the book back into the drawer and wipe the stupid, foolish tears from my eyes.

Then I draw a deep breath, pull on the mauve sweater, and stroll down the hall to the kitchen, as if I’ve got nothing more important on my mind than getting a fresh cup of coffee.

Nothing interesting here. Move along folks, move along.

Every step toward the kitchen pulls me deeper into a version of heaven filled with mouthwatering, spicy scents—and at least one ridiculously good-looking man.

His back is to me as I arrive, and I spend a lovely moment enjoying the way his ass looks in his jeans. Something that mysterious bitch Maya can’t do, because she’s not here.

As I kick my own ass and remind myself that we have an arrangement, not a relationship, he unpacks white paper bags stamped with an unfamiliar logo. Small containers of what looks like Mediterranean food cover the granite island—hummus sprinkled with paprika, olives glistening with oil, some kind of grilled meat skewers, and fresh, pillowy pita bread.

He turns, his smile flickering as his eyes dip to the sweater. And the moment they do, I feel a tightening in my gut. That’s it. I can’t deny it any longer.

I’m actually jealous.