Chapter 20
Dahlia
Steam curls around me, heavy and damp, sticking to my skin.
I press the towel tighter to my chest and glance at the counter, where I set the old phone.
Its black screen stares back at me. I’d love to think Marco slipped it in on purpose, because there’s no way Xander would hand me a phone, but even I’m not that naive.
I slide on the robe from the hook, fluffy terry cloth soft against my shoulders, and the phone sits heavily in the pocket. I need to figure out a good place to stash it, but the entire time I unpacked the box, it felt like there were eyes on me.
My thoughts keep looping in the same circle. If I can get far enough away, the police will have to protect me. No matter how powerful Xander is, there must be limits.
Right?
I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. For now, my plan is to lie low and pretend like my entire world hasn’t been turned upside down.
Teeth brushed, hair dried, face washed. There’s nothing left to do in here, but leaving the safety of this room feels like begging to be caught.
The phone feels impossibly heavy in my pocket, like at any second, it’s going to fall through the bottom and reveal all of my secrets.
My throat goes dry as I leave the safety of the bathroom.
The second I step out, my pulse hammers.
I check the corners, eyes catching on every shadow.
Of course, I’m the only one here, but the feeling doesn’t fade.
That itch of being watched clings to me.
It’s stupid, but I can’t shake the thought of a lens hidden somewhere, recording. Waiting.
A knock rattles the door. I expect Mrs. Price, my hand already halfway to the knob, when his voice cuts through instead.
“Open the door, Dahlia.” Xander’s command is crisp, and I freeze.
My fingers squeeze the handle, tight enough my knuckles ache. He could come in if he wanted to. He doesn’t need permission. The fact that he’s asking has to be a trick, the kind of choice that isn’t really one at all. If I told him no, would he actually leave? Or would the lock mean nothing to him?
The silence stretches. A soft scrape carries through the wood, something shifting on the other side. I flinch and decide not to test it. Not to push my luck.
The latch clicks under my hand, and I pull the door open, stopping short. His chest fills the frame. His hair is out of place, a few strands slipping across his brow, and he’s divested himself of his jacket from earlier.
His eyes move over me, slow, deliberate, from the hem of my robe up to my face, where heat creeps across my skin.
My arms fold tight across my chest before I remember the weight in my pocket. I drop a hand to cover it, trying to look casual. “What are you doing here?”
He lifts a small black med kit, gaze never leaving mine.
“Y…you don’t have to do that. The housekeeper said she’d come by.”
“Invite me in.”
He stays there waiting like he’s some kind of vampire, and I have to wonder if this follows the same rules. If I let him in once, doesn’t that mean he doesn’t have to ask again?
We’re at a standoff, him not leaving and me still blocking the way. When it’s clear this is never going to end, I step back.
“Fine, but just this once.”
Xander steps inside, ignoring the words like they were never spoken. His arm brushes mine as he passes, heat jolting through me. I go rigid, caught between pulling back and holding my ground. The room seems to close in, smaller and tighter with every move he makes.
“Get on the bed, Dahlia.”
The way he says it leaves no room for argument. My throat works, and before my brain catches up, I’m already sitting on the edge of the mattress. I don’t know what unsettles me more, his tone or how quick I am to obey it.
He sets the kit beside me. The air between us stretches taut, his knees inches from mine. Time slows when his hand lifts, fingers rising toward my face. A shiver sparks, anticipating his touch, but it never comes. Instead, he peels at the bandage, slow and steady.
A faint click of his tongue. “Wet.”
My lips twitch against a smile. There’s something so out of place hearing that sound from him. Once the bandage is gone, he leans closer. A graze brushes against my skin, so light I almost convince myself I imagined it.
A low hum rumbles in his chest, approving. “It’s healing nicely.”
He’s talking, but the pounding in my chest drowns out every word. His collar hovers in front of me, three buttons undone, fabric gaping just enough to show the strong line of his throat.
The scent of his cologne drifts between us, sharper this close, clinging to the air until it winds through me. Each breath pulls more of him in, and it fogs my thoughts, narrowing everything down to the steady rise and fall of his chest.
My eyes follow the strong line of muscle running from his jaw to the hollow at the base of his neck. The urge to trace it builds until my fingers twitch in my lap, aching to close the distance.
The sting of antiseptic yanks me back, and I hiss.
“Does it hurt?” He leans closer and blows over the spot, the cool air easing it.
Holy freaking crap.
“Ah…is this your house?” The words spill out before I can stop them, my mouth running to cover the heat coiling low in my stomach.
A quiet hum. Then, “It is now. Built for my great-grandmother.”
“How old is it?”
“Late nineteenth century.” Another sting, barely felt under the distraction of his voice. “Gilded Age. She wanted a summer home for their visits.”
Summer home echoes in my head, the memory of castle-like walls. “It…must have cost a lot.”
His knuckles press under my chin, guiding my gaze up until silver eyes lock on mine. “There’s nothing my grandfather wouldn’t have done for her.”
The weight in his words presses hard, his stare daring me to understand. I break, forcing the subject somewhere safer.
“So, you run a company?”
He pauses, then goes back to cleaning the cut.
“Own.”
“I thought most big companies were public now.”
A low hum. “Most are.”
“But yours isn’t?”
“My family owns multiple businesses. This is one of them.”
“And you’re in charge of it?”
A quiet chuckle. My fingers curl tight in my lap.
“You could say that. I assess businesses. Acquire them.”
“Like a conglomerate?”
The word feels clumsy in my mouth. I can’t even picture something that big.
“You must be very rich.”
He laughs, low and easy. His hand slides down, fingers tracing along my neck, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
“Would you like that?” His lips skim my ear, voice dropping deep.
The air shifts. His hand steadies at my jaw, his mouth hovering close enough that warmth spills across my skin.
My body hums. My thighs press together, nerves and want tangling until I can’t remember why I shouldn’t. I turn toward him, our lips so close they almost touch. A thrill shoots down my neck, racing across my shoulder, when his breath catches. Each exhale mingles with mine, pulling me in.
I push forward, ready to close the gap, when he pulls away instead. The snap of the med kit lid makes me flinch. He straightens, every line composed, the only sign he’s affected the quick rise and fall of his chest.
“Good night, pretty girl.”
He leaves me buzzing, breath caught in my throat, stunned. I lift my fingers to my lips, still warm from how close he was, my eyes fixed on the doorway long after he’s gone.