I wake up disoriented, momentarily panicking at the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed is too soft, the room too large, the silence too complete.
Then it all comes rushing back.
I sit up slowly, my body protesting with aches in places I didn’t know could hurt. The shirt I’m wearing—Vince’s shirt—smells like him.
I hate how much I love that.
The clock on the bedside table reads 2:17 P.M. I’ve slept for almost eight hours, but it feels like minutes. I need to get out of here. I need space to think, to process everything that’s happened.
While we’re on the topic, I also need my own clothes, my own apartment, and my own life back.
I throw off the blanket and pad to the door, opening it cautiously. The penthouse is silent. If Vince is here, he’s making no sound.
I find the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, carefully avoiding the cut on my cheek. The mirror shows me a stranger—pale, wild-eyed, wearing an oversized men’s shirt, with bare legs and tangled hair. I look like the “after” photo in some cautionary tale about sleeping with your boss.
“You’re a disaster,” I tell my reflection.
She doesn’t disagree.
I locate my phone on the counter—brand new, as Arkady promised—and check for messages. Nothing. The world has continued turning while mine exploded into chaos.
After using the toothbrush I find there (desperate times, desperate measures), I venture out into the main living area.
Vince sits at the kitchen island, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking rapid Russian. He’s changed clothes, now wearing simple black pants and a gray henley that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.
His eyes lock onto mine the moment I appear. “I’ll call you back,” he mutters into the phone. He sets it down and gives me his full attention. “You should have slept longer.”
“I need to go home,” I announce without preamble.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s not wise.”
“I don’t care if it’s wise. I need clothes. I need to check on my apartment. I need something normal after…” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass everything that’s happened, like a hand wave could sum up a car crash and public murder.
“I can have clothes brought to you,” he counters. “Whatever you need.”
“That’s not—” I stop, take a breath. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t just hide in your penthouse forever.”
“Not forever,” he says reasonably. “Just until I’ve handled the situation.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “And how long will that take?”
“A few days. A week at most.”
I shake my head. “No chance. I’m going home today. Now.”
We stare at each other across the kitchen island, neither willing to back down. I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look—barefoot, wearing only his shirt, trying to stand my ground against a man who could probably snap me in half like a fucking glowstick without breaking a sweat.
A man who killed someone to protect me less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Fine,” he relents finally. “But not alone.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No, you need security.” His tone brooks no argument. “I’ll take you myself.” Before I can object, he’s closing his laptop and standing. “There are clothes in the guest bathroom. Nothing fancy, but they should fit.”
I want to argue further, but I’m suddenly exhausted again, despite the hours of sleep. “Fine,” I mutter. “But just to get some things. I’m not staying there with you hovering over me.”
His lips quirk into a smirk. “We’ll see.”
The clothes—black leggings and a soft gray sweater—fit perfectly, almost as if he had them bought specifically for me. The thought is both unsettling and strangely touching.
Thirty minutes later, we’re in another one of his cars, winding through Manhattan traffic. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say after everything that’s happened?
The silence grows thick. Weirdly, it’s not even the violence that’s top of mind right now.
It’s how Vince’s fingers felt shoving aside my panties and giving me the tiniest taste of what I’ve spent five years dreaming of.
My cheeks heat at the memory, and I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see.
When we pull up to my building, I immediately notice something off. A black sedan parked across the street. A man in the lobby who wasn’t there before, reading a newspaper but not really reading it.
“What is this?” I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.
Vince follows my gaze. “Security,” he says simply.
Anger flares inside me, hot and sharp. “You had no right.”
His eyes harden. “I had every right. You’re under my protection now.”
“I never asked for your protection!” I snap, my voice rising. “I never asked for any of this!”
“Nevertheless, you have it.” His calm only infuriates me more. “Shall we go up?”
I yank at the door handle, shoving it open before the driver can come around. I storm toward my building, aware of Vince following close behind, his presence a shadow I can’t shake.
The man in the lobby straightens when he sees us, nodding subtly to Vince. I ignore him as I march to the elevator and jabbing the button repeatedly.
“They’re just doing their job,” Vince says quietly as we step into the elevator.
“Their job is to spy on me?”
“Their job is to keep you alive.”
“By invading my privacy? By watching every move I make?” The elevator feels too small, too close. His scent surrounds me, and I hate how it makes my stupid, traitorous body respond.
“Yes,” he answers simply. “That’s exactly how.”
The elevator opens on my floor. I stride down the hallway, my key shaking in my hand. As I approach my door, I notice another man stationed at the end of the corridor. This one does an extremely half-assed job of pretending to check his phone.
“Jesus Christ, they’re everywhere.”
Vince says nothing, just waits while I unlock my door. God, his silences are as infuriating as the times he chooses to speak. I can’t decide which I’d prefer.
I step inside my tiny apartment. With him here, I’m seeing it through his eyes—the secondhand furniture, the faded paint, the single window with its depressing view of bird shit and bricks.
My life laid bare, small and shabby compared to his world of luxury and power.
But it’s mine. It’s safe. It’s normal.
Or it was.
Until he came into it.
I spin to face him. “You had no right,” I repeat, fury building. “No right to put men outside my home, to watch me, to control my life like this.”
“For the last fucking time, I’m not controlling you,” he counters, closing the door behind him. “I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t want your protection! I want my life back!”
“That’s not possible anymore.”
“Because you decided it’s not?” I step closer, anger making me bold. “Who gave you the right to make that decision for me?”
His eyes darken. “The moment those men targeted my car, with you inside it, this became non-negotiable.”
We’re standing toe to toe now, my face tilted up to his, his breath mingling with mine. The air between us crackles with tension—anger, yes, but something else, too.
“You think I want this?” he asks, voice dropping low. “You think I want you in danger? You think I want men watching your every move?”
“I think you want to control everything and everyone around you,” I retort. “And I won’t be controlled, Vince.”
His eyes flash. “Is that what you think this is? Control?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, Rowan.” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head further back to maintain eye contact. “This is me doing whatever it takes to keep you safe. Because the thought of those men getting to you—” He breaks off, jaw tight with barely contained emotion.
A knot shifts in me, anger mingling with a different heat entirely. God, I’m so fucking mad at him—and yet, the intensity of his concern cuts through my rage.
“I didn’t ask you to protect me,” I say again, but my voice has lost some of its fire.
“You didn’t have to.” His hand comes up, fingers grazing the cut on my cheek. “This happened because of me. Because you were with me. I won’t let it happen again.”
I shouldn’t lean into his touch. I should step away, maintain the rage that’s my only defense against the overwhelming pull of this man.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
“I’m still furious with you,” I whisper.
“I know.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement. “Be furious. Be anything you want. But be alive to feel it.”
The space between us shrinks to nothing. My hands find his chest, half-pushing, half-clutching. His heart pounds beneath my palm, its rhythm matching my own frantic pulse.
“Vince…” I breathe, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, fingers sliding into my hair. “Tell me, and I will.”
I should.
I know I should.
I don’t.
