Chapter 14
KATIE
The next few days blur together in a haze of false domesticity and calculated movements.
I spend my daylight hours playing the perfect maid while secretly mapping every inch of this house. Searching for camera blind spots while I dust shelves and scrub floors. Rifling through nightstands and closets for anything useful while I organize and fold.
So far… nothing. Well, almost nothing.
The good news: no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. Which means I can sleep and shower without an audience. Thank God for that, at least.
The bad news: I have access to everywhere except the two places that actually matter. His bedroom and study. And the more the days that pass, the more convinced I become that whatever intel Kayla’s captor wants will be found behind those locked doors.
But I can’t even break in without being caught on camera.
And I definitely can’t just ask him for access, because that would require actually talking to him, and hell, I haven’t had the guts to do that at all since the incident in the kitchen.
Every evening, the moment the sun dips below the horizon, I go scurrying back to my room like some kind of prey animal, heart pounding, palms sweating. Pathetic, really.
After the first night, I’ve fallen into a routine. A twisted little ritual that would probably horrify me if I thought about it too hard.
I lie on my bed, blinking at the dark ceiling, waiting with bated breath for him to come home. My heart starts its erratic racing the moment I hear the front door open, and I listen like my life depends on it as he climbs the stairs.
Each night, he pauses outside my door. Just stands there for seconds that feel like hours.
Each night, I simultaneously pray for him to knock and hope he’ll just leave me alone.
Each night, I'm both disappointed and relieved when his footsteps continue to his own room.
Only when his door clicks shut do I allow myself to breathe again, to get up and take my sleeping pill.
It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I should be more worried about drugging myself unconscious while he’s in the house. But somehow, knowing he’s here, just down the hall, makes me feel… safer. Like nothing else can hurt me as long as he’s standing guard.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
But God, I’ve had the best sleep of my life the past few days. I feel refreshed. Clear-headed. And with that clarity came a realization: I’ve been overthinking this entire situation.
Roan doesn’t suspect anything about me at all. He’s not playing some elaborate mind game or punishing me. He’s just a man acting on his desire for a woman he wants. Easy for me to deal with.
And the nickname? Please. What man doesn’t give a woman he wants a pet name? It’s practically a requirement, isn’t it?
So I’ve come up with a plan.
Afrim mentioned I should cook for Roan, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do—but not Albanian food. I don’t know the first thing about it, and learning would take effort I’m not willing to invest. Plus, Roan would definitely be suspicious if I suddenly started making traditional dishes.
No, I’m going American. Old-fashioned mac and cheese with spicy chicken wings and tossed green salad. I even raided the main mansion’s refrigerator for beer—which earned me some curious looks from the kitchen staff, but no one questioned me.
Here’s my theory: Afrim is one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met, despite being a literal crime boss.
So logically, Roan must have that same capacity for warmth buried somewhere deep inside.
I haven’t seen it yet, but it has to be there.
It has to be. And since he clearly wants me, I should be able to coax it out.
Tonight, when he gets home, I’m going to be the perfect domestic goddess.
I’ll ply him with good food and cold beer.
And once he’s relaxed and full, I’ll casually bring up how bad I feel about not doing my job completely.
When he asks what I mean, I’ll look sad and say not being able to clean his bedroom and study.
I’ll even suggest he send a guard or another maid to supervise if he doesn’t trust me in his private spaces.
I smirk, almost hearing him say there will be no need for that—and giving me those codes.
Once I have access to those rooms, I’ll have all the information I need. And I’ll finally be able to leave this estate and free my sister.
There’s no doubt in my mind that my plan will work.
What man isn’t putty in your hands after a good home-cooked meal?
A quiet hum threads out of me as I move around the kitchen, buoyed by the small jolt of hope that comes with having an actionable plan.
I’m just turning off the stove and oven, everything cooked to perfection, when I hear the security code being entered and the front door opening. My stomach drops straight through the floor, and sweat immediately slicks down my spine.
Shit. He’s early.
I’d hoped to shower and change into something… I don’t know, strategic? Something that says ‘harmless maid’ while also saying ‘you want me, so give me what I want’.
Too late now.
I swallow hard, forcing my racing heart to slow as I turn around with what I hope is a pleasant, natural smile. Then he appears in the doorway and my carefully rehearsed greeting dies in my throat.
Oh.
The light from the chandelier hits his hair at just the right angle, making the red appear richer, deeper, more vibrant than I’ve ever seen it.
And it’s down. He’s removed the hair tie, leaving it flowing freely down to his neck and shoulders in soft waves that look almost liquid.
My fingers literally itch with the urge to touch it, muscle memory conjuring the sensation of those silky strands between my fingers from days ago.
He does a visible double-take when he sees me, auburn brows shooting up. “Katina?”
Hearing that variation of my name in that deep rumble of his sends heat pooling in my belly, my core clenching with need I have absolutely no business feeling right now. I swallow again, praying nothing I’m feeling shows on my face as I gesture awkwardly towards the stove behind me.
“I hope you’re hungry. I made dinner.”
Roan frowns as his gaze travels from me to the pots on the stove and back again. “You made dinner,” he repeats like he might have misheard.
I nod slowly, trying to project confidence I don’t feel. “It’s nothing special. Just mac and cheese. I hope you like it.”
“Why?”
“Why do I hope you like it?” I deliberately misunderstand his question, shrugging as I tear my gaze away from those too-intense green eyes to a safer point on his shoulders where the tips of his curls graze his collar. “Because I spent the last two hours making it.”
“No. Why did you make dinner for me?”
“Because–because…” My hands flutter uselessly as my carefully practiced lines evaporate from my brain. Why am I so nervous? “I didn’t make it for you, per say. I need to eat. And I thought it would be rude to cook in your kitchen without making enough for you.”
Weak. That was so weak.
He just stands there, studying my face. And the longer he watches me, the more nervous I become, my heart pounding impossibly faster until my chest heaves with the effort of breathing normally.
“You can leave if you don’t want it,” I finally snap, breaking the suffocating silence. “I’ll eat mine and take the rest to the main house and—”
“It’s fine.” He cuts me off. “Give me a minute.”
He turns and disappears into the hallway before I can respond, his footsteps fading up the stairs.
What just happened?
The second he’s out of sight, I sag weakly against the counter, my limbs suddenly watery and unreliable.
Fuck. I forgot about my own reactions to him. About the way my body responds without my permission. Did I just sabotage myself with this dinner? Is it too late to back out?
No. There’s no going back now. I need to pull myself together.
You’re a professional. Act like it.
Roan is gone for exactly fifteen minutes—I know because I count every single second, alternating between second-guessing every decision that led to this moment and considering whether I can claim sudden illness and flee to my room.
Then he walks back into the kitchen and every coherent thought evaporates.
He’s showered—the damp tips of his hair give that away immediately—and he’s changed into a casual shirt and black sweatpants that have my eyes going exactly where they have no business going.
But his penis is right there in my face.
My belly clenches violently as I remember how he felt pressed against me, how hard and insistent and so very close to—
I spin around so fast I almost knock over the pot of mac and cheese.
Get. It. Together. Goddammit.
I grab the large plate I set out earlier and start dishing his food. Mac and cheese. A few spicy chicken wings. And tossed salad arranged on the side. All very neat and domestic and not at all like my insides are currently melting.
Taking a deep breath, I gather what remains of my courage and turn back to face him. He’s seated himself in the small dining area a few paces from the kitchen with just one small table and two chairs. My throat tightens as I walk over, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my steps.
I place the food in front of him, then hurry to the fridge for two bottles of beer. One goes beside his plate, and the other comes back with me to the kitchen island, where I portion out a much smaller serving before sinking onto one of the stools.
“No.”
I go still at the sound of his voice and look up.
He’s gesturing to the chair across from him. “Come here.”
My stomach churns as I eye that chair with dread. I was afraid he’d invite me to sit there. “No, it’s okay, I’m fine here.”
“I insist.” His voice hardens, leaving zero room for argument.
I lick my suddenly dry lips and stand, carrying my beer by the neck in one hand and my plate in the other. Each step towards that table feels like walking towards my execution—or something equally dangerous but infinitely more tempting.