Chapter 15
KATIE
Despite the warning bells clanging in my head, I decide to make dinner again tonight.
Only because I didn’t get to ask Roan the crucial questions I needed to last night, I reason with myself, studiously ignoring the thrill that shoots through my veins at the prospect of spending time with him again.
It’s not because I enjoyed his company. I didn’t.
I don’t. I couldn’t even enjoy my meal because I felt like I was sitting in front of an exposed power line with the way my body was crackling and sparking in his presence.
But now, at least I know what to expect, and I know how to navigate myself through it without short-circuiting.
Right.
I go with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas. This time, I start cooking early, giving myself a decent window to shower and look somewhat put-together before he walks through that door tonight. Not that he seemed to mind my sweaty self last night when he was kissing and nuzzling my—
Wait.
He didn’t do that.
Still, the echo of it lingers, like a scene my stupid brain insists on replaying as if it were real—his breath close to my cheek, his eyes softening, his mouth tipping towards mine.
God, what if it actually did happen? What if he stepped in close, looked at me like that for real, like the other day, and—
I cut myself off with a sharp shake of my head. No. Absolutely not. That’s not going to happen tonight. There will be no kissing. No touching. No losing control. None of it.
I push all thoughts of Roan out of my head as I cook, and because I started early, I finish just as the sun begins to set. I turn off the stove and oven, heart already racing as I make my way upstairs to my room and ensuite bathroom.
One thing I definitely don’t miss about the maids’ quarters is sharing a bathroom with other women. Here, I can linger as long as I want without feeling guilty about hogging the space.
I sigh as I drag the loofah down my arms, letting the hot water ease some of the tension from my shoulders.
Except I can’t linger tonight, can I? I need to be done, dressed, and downstairs before Roan comes home.
So I hurry through the rest of my shower, then spend an embarrassingly long time standing in my closet, trying to decide what to wear.
Not that I have many options: four pairs of slacks, two pairs of jeans, three dresses, two jumpsuits. That’s it.
My fingers drift along the hangers and pause on the dark green dress with the wide skirt that falls just below my knee. I always feel confident in it, beautiful even. But it’s too dressy for a casual dinner at home, too obviously trying. He’d know I dressed up for him.
I move on with a regretful sigh, cycling through my options again and again.
My gaze keeps drifting back to the dresses, my heart pounding as I imagine his expression if he saw me in one of them.
Would his eyes darken? Would his jaw tighten the way it does when he’s trying to control himself? God, I need to stop imagining that.
Eventually, I settle on a short-sleeved, swing A-line dress in dark grey with small pleated details on the sides. Pretty, but still casual enough to seem effortless.
See? I’m not trying to impress him at all.
I slip it on quickly and run a brush through my hair until it falls in soft waves around my neck. My hand moves to my bare throat, and I find myself wishing I had jewelry—a delicate necklace, maybe some earrings—or at least some makeup to elevate the look.
No. This is a persuasion, not a seduction.
The distinction feels important even if it’s getting harder to remember why.
My heart is thudding fast and hard as I make my way downstairs and position myself where I can see the door.
And then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
My knees bounce restlessly, toes tapping an erratic rhythm on the floor when I check the time and see it’s past nine. I’ve been waiting for almost three hours now. Where the hell is he?
My stomach churns as unwanted images flood my mind—him in a ditch somewhere, hurt or worse.
I shake my head hard. “What a vivid imagination I have.” Besides, what business is it of mine if he gets hurt?
He knew what he signed up for when he decided to continue his father’s legacy.
Getting hurt is an occupational hazard in his world.
And what the hell am I doing anyway? Cooking and waiting for him like some devoted housewife? For all I know, he could be somewhere outside the estate right now, spending time with some beautiful woman who doesn’t have ulterior motives and a sister to save.
That thought makes something ugly twist in my chest.
I get up and scoop my meal onto a plate, not even bothering to warm up the now-cold food.
The first bites go down harder than they should, my frustration growing with every slow, dragging minute.
It doesn’t make sense—I have no right to be angry.
This isn’t a date and I’m not his keeper. I have no rights to him at all.
But rationality has left the building.
No matter how much I try to calm myself down, my anger keeps spiraling until I’m vibrating with it and pacing the length of the hallway.
I check the time again: 10:48 PM.
He’s never been this late before.
My blood rushes hot through my veins, my pulse roaring in my ears as that image of him in a ditch pops back up, more vivid this time. More real.
Shit, I need to stop this. I smack my cheeks, trying to knock some sense into myself. I’m not his girlfriend or even his friend. I’m a spy sent to eventually betray him. I can’t worry about him. Can’t let him burrow under my skin like this.
I march up to my bedroom with angry, determined steps and slam the door behind me. From my nightstand drawer, I take out my sleeping pills. Just swallow one and go to sleep, I tell myself. By morning, this will feel like nothing more than a vaguely annoying blip in my memory—no big deal.
I twist the cap of the pill container, then realize I forgot to bring water upstairs.
“Great,” I mutter, still pissed as I storm back downstairs to the kitchen. I’m pulling a bottle of water from the fridge just as the sound of the code being keyed into the front door reaches my ears.
He’s home.
My anger surges to the surface, sharper and hotter than ever now that I have someone to direct it at—the very person who made me this vexed in the first place. But I have no rights. I remind myself desperately. I’m not here for some romance. This isn’t a romance.
I stiffen when his footsteps get closer and closer and reluctantly close the fridge, clutching the water bottle in one hand and my pill container in the other as I turn around and wait for him to appear.
When he finally steps into view beneath the chandelier lights I haven’t bothered to turn off, I see everything in stark, horrible detail. My eyes pop wide at the deep red stain on his collar, his chest, down his belly. Even from this distance, the metallic scent hits me.
Blood.
The bottle and pill container slip from my hands before I even register letting them go, and without thinking, without remembering to be cautious or anything resembling smart, I’m running towards him.
My heart pounds for an entirely different reason now, my anger switching to sheer panic in the blink of an eye.
“What’s this? What happened? Did someone shoot at you?
Where are you hurt?” I tug frantically at his leather jacket, trying to strip it off so I can unbutton his shirt and find the wound before he collapses.
Please don’t be dying. Please.
“Katina.” His voice is surprisingly gentle as he catches my chin and tilts my face up towards his. “The blood isn’t mine.”
What?
My brows pull together as I stare up at him, and it takes a long moment for the words to sink in because I’m lost in his captivating gaze, drowning in all that green. And then the meaning penetrates my panic-fogged brain and I startle backward, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks.
Not his blood.
I start to back away from him, but his hands land on my shoulders, his grip firm enough to hold me in place.
“Were you really worried about me? Or was that just an act?”
His question hits me like a physical blow, and I jerk against his grip, but I’m not going anywhere with how tight he’s holding me. So instead I glare up at him, all that earlier anger roaring back to life in full force. “Fuck you.”
“That can be arranged, baby.” His thumb rubs my shoulder in a gentle circle that contradicts the intensity of his gaze. “So, it wasn’t an act? I can never tell with you.”
I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but he’s already leaning down, his breath fanning my face as he gets closer and closer, and every coherent thought just fizzles out of my brain.
His lips crash into mine, and I barely have time to process what’s happening before his hands are gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The kiss is soft at first, almost questioning, like he’s testing the waters to see if I’ll push him away. But it doesn’t take long before it shifts into something harder, rougher, almost punishing. Like he’s angry—at me, at himself.
I don’t care. I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my frustration into it because I’m angry too. He’s my enemy. I’m supposed to be spying on him, gathering intelligence, not falling into his goddamn arms every time he touches me.
But God, he tastes so good—the faintest hint of whiskey and something citrusy like lemon. His tongue parts my lips demandingly, and I let him in, surrendering control because it’s the only way to maintain any semblance of it.
That doesn’t even make sense. But nothing about this makes sense anymore.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to erase every molecule of space between us. He groans against my mouth, a low, hungry sound that sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.