Chapter 5
KATIE
I fucked up last night.
Fucked up spectacularly.
Should I have just let that asshole hit me? No—he wouldn’t have stopped at just hitting me. Assholes like Frederik never do.
But still. Shit.
Why the hell did Roan leave that bar right after I did? More importantly, how long was he standing there in the shadows, watching me beat one of his men to a pulp?
I swallow, wincing at the dull ache left behind by Frederik’s kick as I lean down to wipe the window sill. Now he’s suspicious—more suspicious than before—and probably already got his investigator digging into me. A complication I definitely don’t need.
“Damn it.” My rag works furiously across the wood, frustration spilling out on nonexistent dust.
Once the surface gleams spotlessly, I move to the baby grand piano tucked in the corner of the study and carefully clean the keys and the shiny black rim.
The sting in my spine lingers, but I welcome the discomfort. It grounds me, keeps me from spiraling into worst-case scenarios while I methodically work through my cleaning routine.
“Mia.” Esma slips into the room, her gaze flicking over me. “Are you okay?”
I pause mid-polish, frowning. “Of course I’m okay.” But a sinking feeling settles in my stomach as I study her expression. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” Her hand flutters nervously. “It’s just that… well, I saw Frederik follow you out last night. And then R–Roan followed too.” She actually stutters over his name, like speaking it is forbidden.
“And?” I prompt, suspecting there’s more.
“Well, I heard from Gina who heard from Matteus that Frederik was taken to the frigorifer last night… and he hasn’t been seen since.”
“Oh.”
I’ve heard rumors about the frigorifer—a freezer-like torture room I’ve passed several times during my covert explorations of the compound. It’s where traitors and rule-breakers are punished, some never to be seen again.
Damn it, what’s Roan planning to do with Frederik? Is he going to take credit for my handiwork? Or something even worse?
I tuck my cleaning cloth into my apron pocket, heart thudding as I recall the cold promise of violence in Roan’s eyes when he ordered Dhimiter to take Frederik there. I hope he delivers on that unspoken promise.
That creep deserves whatever he gets.
“Did–did Frederik hurt you?”
I sigh, gathering my scattered cleaning supplies. “He tried, but he didn’t get far.” I pause. “Is everyone talking about this? About Frederik?” About me? That’s the last thing I fucking need right now.
“Well… no. I only connected the dots because I saw you leave last night.”
“Good.” Relief floods through me. “Can you keep it to yourself for now, Esma? Please?” I add when she hesitates, her loyalty clearly warring with her love of gossip. “I’m still new here and would hate to have a rumor attached to my name.”
She nods slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “I get what you mean. I won’t tell anyone.”
I smile at her gratefully. “Thank you. I owe you one, and I’ll—” The rest dies on my tongue when I notice a shadow darkening the doorway, my smile fading when I see who it is.
Roan.
The name alone is enough to send a shiver through me. My pulse kicks up hard as his sharp gaze flicks between Esma and me.
“M–Mr. Permeti,” Esma squeaks, executing some awkward bow-curtsy hybrid before mumbling something about having work to do and practically fleeing the room.
Leaving me alone with him. Thanks, Esma.
Every nerve in my body sparks like live wire as his green eyes lock onto mine, a ghost of a smile curling at his mouth. What the hell is he doing here? And why does it feel like I’m already caught in the crosshairs before he’s even spoken?
“How are you this morning? It’s come to my knowledge that Frederik got a few hits in.”
A few hits. Right. Try one cheap shot from behind.
I raise my chin defensively. “I’m fine.” A flurry of questions threatens to spill out. Like why the hell are you punishing your own man for trying to hurt a maid? Why do you care? What’s your angle?
But I bite my tongue. Better not to draw any more of his attention—not with how suspicious he already is. I still can’t believe he could tell I was trained.
How long was he watching me?
“Can I help you with something?” I ask when he just stands there scrutinizing me with unsettling intensity.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps into the study, purposely brushing his shoulder against mine as he passes. The contact is brief but electric—I jolt back like I’ve been burned, my heart contracting so hard it’s almost painful.
What the hell was that?
But he’s already moving away, leaving only his scent—leather mixed with cigar and something indefinable, intoxicating—lingering with me as he walks along the room’s perimeter towards the towering bookshelves.
I notice how carefully he stays near the walls, avoiding the wet floor I just cleaned.
Damn him. Why’s he being considerate?
My gaze tracks him helplessly, unwillingly captivated by the way his muscles shift and flex beneath that leather jacket.
“I realize I didn’t get the chance to apologize to you last night,” he begins as he drags one long finger down a book’s spine.
For some insane reason, the sight conjures an image of that same finger dragging down my belly. Heat coils low, and I quickly shake my head, horrified by my own thoughts.
Attraction is one thing. Fantasizing while he’s right in front of me—in broad daylight, no less—is madness.
Then his actual words penetrate my hormone-addled brain. Apologize to me? “Why would you apologize to me?”
He drops his hand from the shelf and turns to face me, auburn brows pulled together in an expression that’s almost… concerned. “For what happened last night. With Frederik.”
I tilt my head at him, surprised at this turn of events. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“As long as you’re living inside my estate, you’re under my protection and shouldn’t have to defend yourself against my men.
” His voice is firm, absolute. “You don’t have to worry about Frederik again—he’s being dealt with appropriately.
And no one else will give you or any of the other maids trouble. I’ll make sure of it.”
Huh.
I’m lowkey impressed by the way he’s handling this. I expected interrogation, blame—questions about what I said or did to catch Frederik’s attention, maybe even the classic accusation that I provoked him. Worse, I half-braced for him to dig into where I learned to fight.
Instead, he’s… protecting me.
It throws me, seeing him like this—so cool–headed, logical. Not at all the man I thought I’d be dealing with.
My brows knit as I remember Esma’s words. Is he going to tell his men why he’s punishing Frederik? “What are you going to do with him?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of my caution.
Roan glances over, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why? You want to hit him some more?”
My own lips quirk despite myself. “I’m not that bloodthirsty.”
His chuckle is low as he faces the shelves again. “That remains to be seen.”
Is he… joking with me?
He drifts down the aisle, running his fingers along the spines as he goes. I can’t help staring, caught up in the ease of his movements. How does he make even that look so damn enticing?
“Do you read?”
I shake my head, then realize he’s not even looking at me—he’s too focused on scanning the titles. A frown settles in as I answer, “I’ve never really had time for that, no. Too busy surviving.”
That gets his attention. He pivots slightly, head tilted, studying me long enough to dry out my throat.
A soft curl slips loose to brush his brow, and my fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to tuck it back into the bun, to feel the texture.
I clench my hands into fists instead to stop myself from doing something catastrophically stupid.
“That’s a shame,” he murmurs, finally pulling a book from the shelf. I can see the cover from where I’m standing, but it’s written in Albanian text so I can’t decipher what it’s about.
Then he moves to one of the leather chairs and sits.
No.
My lips part in shock. “I–I still have cleaning to do in here.”
He barely spares me a glance as he flips the book open. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
Try to stay out of my way? You’re sitting in my way.
I watch him helplessly, wondering how he’d react if I just asked him to leave.
Badly, probably.
Maybe I’m the one who should leave. There isn’t much cleaning left here anyway. I could make an excuse—
Except all my supplies are sitting on the table right next to his chair, and I need them to clean the next room on my list.
Fuck my life.
I straighten my spine and tell myself to get a grip. He’s not going to accost me in broad daylight in his father’s study. Hell, he doesn’t even seem interested in me at all—he’s absorbed in his book, paying me no attention whatsoever.
Besides, I looked up those Albanian words he threw at me last night, and I’m pretty sure he was calling me some kind of dirty liar. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘man secretly attracted to you’.
So quit acting like a nervous teenager and just do your damn job.
I wipe my palms down my apron and walk towards him with as much confidence as I can fake. “You’re not in my way. I’ve actually finished here and just wanted to do some final touch-ups.”
He doesn’t even look up as I pass, just hums in acknowledgement, eyes glued to the Albanian text. A fraction of the tension leaves my chest as I scoop up my things.
See? Piece of cake. Nothing to freak out about.
I turn and start to leave, but as I walk past him, his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.
Heat explodes across my skin. My fingers go numb, useless, and everything I’m holding—bleach, towel, cleaning brush—clatter to the floor in a humiliating heap as my heart lodges in my throat.
Oh God, what—
I freeze, every muscle rigid, before slowly forcing my gaze downward. His eyes are impossibly green up close, so intense they knock the air from my lungs. For a beat, I can only stare, utterly mesmerized.
“What’s your middle name?”
“What?” The word escapes me in a breathy whisper.
“No matter how much I think about it, the name Mia doesn’t quite suit you. It sounds ridiculous. So, what’s your middle name?” His thumb strokes once across the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, and I shiver involuntarily. “You have one, don’t you?” he adds sardonically.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as warning bells shriek in my head. I blink at him speechlessly, my brain scrambling to construct a plausible response.
Say something. Anything. Give him a name, any name. Or tell him to fuck off. Just do something besides standing here like a statue.
He smiles softly and releases my wrist. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” he murmurs, but satisfaction gleams unmistakably in those too-perceptive eyes like he’s just won a game I didn’t know we were playing.
He was testing me. Probably wanted to see how I’d react, and my stunned silence told him what he needed to know. Or thought he knew. I’m not sure which is worse.
What was he testing?
Then I realize I’m free—his hand has dropped away, returning to his book like nothing happened—and I flee like my ass is on fire, leaving my cleaning supplies scattered on the floor behind me.