Chapter 7

7

GIANNA

I stare after Michael’s retreating form, bewildered, as the front door slams shut behind him. The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel announce his hasty departure, and I’m left standing here like a lost duckling. Alone.

Did he… did he feel that too? That electric zing when our fingers brushed? Is that why he ran away?

Nah. Can’t be. A man like that, with those looks and that swagger? No way a little spark from an accidental touch would spook him.

No way he felt what I felt.

I glance around the now empty dining room, trying to shake off the sense memory of his skin on mine. The lingering heat. The phantom tingle.

Fuck. Get it together, girl. You’re sleep deprived and running on fumes. Your brain is playing tricks on you, turning nothing into something. Stop it.

I should be using this time to take stock. Plan my next move before he gets back from wherever the hell he scurried off to.

But…

Now that silence fills the space around me, I finally have time to process everything that happened… and I’m a little lost on what to do.

I can’t believe I was ‘this’ close to being shipped off back to Uncle Aldo. The dark possibility makes me shudder, and I shove it aside as the shattered plate decorating the floor catches my eye. I should clean that up.

Now where would a man like Michael stash a vacuum or broom in a place like this?

Just as that thought pops up in my head, there’s a faint buzzing sound from the foyer. I tense, heart kicking into overdrive when the door suddenly opens—as far as I know I’m alone in here right now.

Fuck, where did you go, Michael?

Instinct kicks in, and I quickly bend down to pick up a shard of porcelain, ready to defend myself as the buzzing gets louder and louder. But then—oh, for goodness’ sake.

A laugh bursts out of me, all that built-up tension draining from my shoulders. It’s just one of those automated robot cleaners, making a beeline straight for me, or rather the mess on the floor.

I take several steps back, watching in fascination as it efficiently sucks in every broken piece. When it’s done, it does a little spin—like it’s proud of itself—then rolls back the way it came.

Curious now, I trail after it, surprised when the door slides open as the machine gets closer. Huh . I was so out of it earlier, I didn’t even notice the doors are automatic.

The little bot leads me to its docking station behind the staircase and powers down with a decidedly satisfied beep. I crouch, studying the now-dormant device. Back when I still lived with Uncle Aldo, he used to rant about these whenever commercials came on TV—called them “freaks of nature” and swore he wouldn’t have one in his house even if they paid him.

My eyes land on a tiny camera at the top. So that’s how it finds its way around. Does it record? My stomach knots. If Michael has access to the feed, he could be watching me right now.

Straightening, I turn to head back to the dining room—but then something else grabs my attention. A sleek, glassy panel mounted on the wall.

I hesitate briefly, then tap on it.

“Hello, I’m Synthia. How may I assist you?”

I jolt back, eyes darting around. But no one’s there. A second later, the artificial tone registers. Right. AI.

The panel glows a soft blue, and tiny functions pop up on the screen. I squint at the words at the bottom. Synthia: Voice-Controlled Assistant.

I scroll through the options. Smart thermostat. A few taps and the room warms slightly. Huh. Neat.

Then I dig deeper. Synthia controls 90% of the functions in the house—everything from lights and heating to opening doors for the little vacuum army. There are four of them total, two upstairs, two downstairs, and Synthia clears their paths automatically.

It—or she?—also allows remote monitoring of the apartment, which means…

I swallow.

Michael really could be watching me from wherever he is.

And the cameras? Yeah, I don’t have access. My prints aren’t authorized.

I tap on the microphone option, feeling a little silly as I say, “Uh, hi, Synthia.”

There’s a beep. Then, “Hello, I’m Michael’s virtual assistant. I’m here to make navigating the house easy. How may I assist you?”

I smile but press cancel, because I don’t really need any assistance right now. Wiping my hand down my shirt, I step back and round the stairs, glancing up at the winding staircase. I’ll explore that later. First, I want to check out the rest of the ground floor.

I wander to the other side of the stairs to the only door there, but it’s just a coat closet filled with neatly hung jackets. Boring. Moving on. I shut the door and head back to the living room, which is one huge, sprawling space with an L-shaped sofa smack in the middle, facing a large flat-screen TV and an electric fireplace.

As I get closer, the door leading into the area slides open on its own, and I can’t help but smile. Fancy.

I brush my fingers along the back of the couch as I pass it to the dining area on the other side, where a dark oak table sits near the tall glass windows, surrounded by soft gray chairs that are ridiculously cozy. Beneath them, a thick, plush rug covers the space, separating it from the living room.

I grab my mug from the table and drain the last of my water, then head towards a glass door that, from the looks of it, leads to the kitchen. It slides open smoothly, and as I step inside, the wall lights flick on, illuminating the airy space.

The countertops are slick marble with a glossy finish, and I can’t help but run my hands over them with pleasure. If I was the type to cook, this might be my dream kitchen.

I rinse my mug out in the sink, then hover for a second before setting it down on the counter. A faint glow catches my eye. I turn to the window, tugging the blinds just enough to peek behind them, and streaks of sunlight bleed through.

I blink. Huh. The sun’s already up? I guess with all the curtains closed, it still feels like the early hours of the morning.

Letting the blinds fall back into place, I poke around the kitchen, not surprised to find the pantry stocked mostly with canned meals. The fridge, though, is another story.

It’s packed. Not with the random, half-used groceries I expected, but with neatly stacked plastic containers filled with frozen takeout.

My brows furrow as I study the labels. Different types of food, all—I snap the door shut before I can overanalyze it. It doesn’t mean anything that they all seem like my favorite foods. It can’t .

It’s just a weird coincidence that the meal I had earlier also tasted like something straight out of Bellevue Bistro…

Right?

A prickle creeps up my spine, but I shake it off and quickly leave the kitchen. I don’t care how the food got here or where it came from. Nope. Not at all. I make my way to the other side of the living room, drawn to a closed door I’m eager to check out.

The moment I step inside, I gasp.

Towering shelves stretch from wall to wall, stacked with thick books. A home library.

The door clicks shut behind me as I walk in, and the sweet scent of books, mixed with something faintly Michael, surrounds me, filling me with bliss. My lips curl into a delighted grin as I twirl dramatically through the open space, careful not to stumble over the sofas and tables arranged strategically around the room.

This is the first place in the house that actually carries his scent, no matter how faint. Which means he must spend real time here.

That thought catches me off guard.

Maybe it's ignorant or prejudiced, but the handsome Michael with his tattoos and piercings didn’t exactly strike me as much of a reader.

I approach the first shelf, scanning the titles on the spines. My grin vanishes.

Oh, hell no.

I move to the next shelf. Then the next. And the next. By the time I’ve circled the whole library, my mouth is hanging open. The books? Pretty much all the same .

History Books. Self-help. Language learning guides—at least fifty different languages. Textbooks on topics like agriculture, physics, machine learning, and a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo I don’t even want to attempt to decipher.

But one thing is painfully clear.

Not. A. Single. Fiction. Book.

What kind of psychopath builds a personal library without a single novel?

Shaking my head in disbelief, I pull out an astrology textbook written entirely in what looks like Russian. The pages are well-worn, the margins filled with notes, and most of the text is highlighted.

He can read Russian?

I grab another book. Same thing. More notes. More frayed edges. These books aren’t just for show—he actually reads them.

“What a weirdo,” I murmur, but something grows hot in my belly as I try to imagine him sitting here, flipping through the very book in my hands. Would he lounge on the couch? Perch on the armchair? Does he wear glasses when he reads? The cute, thin-framed kind?

I sigh, then on impulse, lift the book to my nose.

Nothing. Whatever scent it once held is gone by now.

The fact that he’s secretly a nerd, despite looking like he belongs on a motorcycle in a leather jacket, is messing with me in ways I don’t appreciate. I fan myself a little before returning the book to its spot on the shelf and fleeing the library.

What a conundrum Michael is turning out to be. My handsome, slightly unhinged savior—who, apparently, isn’t just crazy enough to kill a man to save a stranger, but also successful and an absolute knowledge junkie.

“If he’s not careful, I just might do something stupid like fall in love with him.”

I laugh at my silly joke—then pause, suddenly aware of the cameras.

Oh god. If he’s watching, he’s seeing me talk to myself and crack up like a lunatic.

That thought only makes me laugh harder.

Great. Now I must look completely unhinged.

Still grinning, I wipe at the tears in my eyes as I make my way out of the living room, back to the staircase. The lights flicker on automatically as I climb, guiding my path. Show-off.

At the top of the stairs, I turn left, but there’s only one thick door—and it’s locked. I glare at the electric pad where the keyhole should be. Seriously? Why does he need such a high-tech house anyway?

This place is stuck in the middle of nowhere, Seattle—if the endless weed, wild grass, and stuff surrounding it is anything to go by. And according to him, it doesn’t even technically exist on the map.

So how the hell did he manage to get all this state-of-the-art security installed out here?

I huff and spin around, walking past the stairs and down the hall, past the guest bedroom where my stuff is. The next door is locked as well. Shocker.

There are only two doors left. I try the first—and to my surprise, it opens . But to my disappointment, it’s just a laundry room with a big, automatic washing machine and some washing supplies on a shelf.

I sigh and head back to my room. My backpack is still damp, but I fish out the ziplock bags with my money, shove them under the mattress, and take everything else with me to the laundry room.

Figuring out how to use the damn smart washing machine is a nightmare. I curse under my breath as I fumble with the unnecessary number of buttons, scowling at Michael’s obsession with making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

But after a few frustrating minutes, I finally get it. With a triumphant scoff, I toss my damp clothes and backpack into it, slam the door shut, and hit start.

The machine whirs to life, and I watch my stuff spin behind the glass. Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter, waiting for the timer to ring.

Once the washing is done, it drains the soapy water, fills with clean water, rinses, and then—right before my eyes—dries everything in one go. All within twenty-something minutes. Impressive. This is probably something my uncle could afford if he weren’t so stubborn about doing things the ‘old-fashioned’ way.

The timer pings, then the machine counts down ten seconds before turning off automatically, the door popping open. Warm, fresh-scented clothes greet me, and I quickly gather them up. After folding everything neatly into my backpack, I sling it over my shoulder and hurry back downstairs.

Straight to the kitchen.

I slip into the pantry, hoping there are no cameras, and start stuffing my bag with as many canned goods as it can hold. Just in case.

While I trust Michael—kind of—and maybe have the tiniest, most inconvenient crush on him, he’s still a stranger. A stranger who proved he has no morals by killing a man right in front of me without even so much as a flinch. I mean, if he really did it to help me, he could have just knocked the guy out and called the cops. But no. He went straight for the kill.

And since he was sent by my uncle, I have no illusions about the kind of man he is. He found me because my uncle told him to, and even though he’s hesitating now for some reason, that could change in a heartbeat. What if he suddenly changes his mind again and decides to drag me to NYC after all?

Nope. Not happening.

The time for fun is over.

I need to protect myself and not rely on any man.

Satisfied that I have enough supplies to last at least two days, I zip up my bag and walk out of the kitchen as casually as possible. I’ll stick around for the rest of the day, get some much-needed rest, and restrategize. But as soon as the sun sets, I’m gone.

Back in my room, I drop the bag on my bed, dig out my money from beneath the mattress, and shove it into the bottom of the backpack. Once everything is in place, I leave the room, ready to continue my exploration before he gets back home.

There’s only one door left to check. I don’t expect it to be unlocked, but to my shock, it opens easily enough when I press my palm against it.

The room is unmistakably masculine—dark walls, a big ass bed draped in silky black sheets. Michael’s bedroom .

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I cross the threshold.

He’s not home anyway. I’ll just take a quick look around and get out before he returns.

The space is massive, but the bed dominates it, pushed against the center of the far wall like some oversized beast. That monstrosity is big enough to fit at least five full-grown men. The headboard is tall, reaching up to the ceiling with weird little hooks. What the hell are those for?

My gaze drifts to the right, and I freeze.

The entire wall beside his bed is covered with a large life-like mural—tulips in full bloom against the backdrop of a stormy night. The contrast between the delicate flowers and the dark, moody sky is breathtaking.

I walk closer to it for a better view, drawn in despite myself.

This man is such a paradox. First, the books in his library. Now, flowery murals in his bedroom? He’s like an onion, the more layers I peel back, the more I find. And it’s sick that the more I learn about him, the more curious I get.

I trace my fingertips along the painted petals.

I never understood why my parents gave me Tulipa as my middle name, and honestly, I never liked it much. But seeing the beauty of the flowers in the mural, I get it. Just a little.

I lose myself in the art longer than I should, until I force myself to snap out of it. I need to leave before I get caught snooping.

But as I turn to go my gaze snags on the nightstand drawer beside his bed.

“Just one more thing,” I murmur the excuse under my breath as I walk towards it, heart thumping in anticipation.

I drag the drawer open and?—

Oh.

Oh hell no .

My entire body goes up in flames as I take in the contents. It’s filled with different flavors of extra, extra large condoms. My cheeks burn so hot I swear they could start a fire. But that’s not even the worst of it.

There’s a little silk gray blindfold. A set of serious-looking metal handcuffs…

My fingers tremble as I pick them up, turning them over, and— oh my God . The hooks on the headboard. They’re meant for this .

I drop the cuffs like they just electrocuted me and fan myself for a moment, desperately trying not to imagine myself shackled to that massive bed with Michael looming over me. “Jesus Christ, Gianna.”

Clearing my throat, I rummage further, because apparently, I have zero self-preservation instincts.

A pair of tiny keys—probably for the handcuffs.

A sleek black keycard—the kind you get in fancy hotels. Curiosity prickles at my skin. What does this unlock? One of the locked doors I found earlier?

“Looking for something?”

I jolt so hard the back of my knees knock against the foot of the bed, and the next thing I know, I’m falling—my back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. But I barely feel the impact as I scramble to my feet.

Because standing in the doorway of what I assume leads to the bathroom, steam curling around him, is Michael .

Stark. Naked.

I inhale sharply, my jaw dropping as I take in the beautiful work of art that’s his body. A mixture of dark and colorful ink forming a masterpiece over the hard ridges of his abs, his biceps, his thigh. Are there tattoos everywhere?

My breath catches as my gaze inevitably drops lower.

And—

Oh. Oh.

That’s… abnormally large.

And getting bigger.

Fuck .

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.