Chapter 13
GABBY
It’s hours later, and I should be asleep.
Instead, I’m up in my room, unpacking my clothes from the boxes Bogdan finally cleared to send up. It’s a weird feeling to put all of my stuff, everything from my old place, my old life, away in this room.
Though I’m grateful for the protection, I’m angry that I even need it in the first place. I never asked for any of this.
I go into the bathroom and pour myself a glass of water and try to shake it off. But anger still hums under my skin like static, refusing to die down.
I go back to my room and check the time on my phone. It’s a little after eleven. I want to sleep so badly, but I know the second I lay my head down, my thoughts will just start racing again.
A soft chime sounds through the apartment. The elevator.
My heart leaps and I shake my head in annoyance. The stupid truth is that Sasha’s the only person I’ve wanted to see today. And he’s finally home. I take one more sip of my water before heading toward the sound of his arrival.
I hear the doors open, followed by heavy, measured footsteps I’d recognize anywhere. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ve got a big, stupid smile on my face as I make my way closer and closer to the main room.
His voice carries through the space, a low mutter as he talks with someone—Bogdan, probably. A clipped order, then a quiet dismissal.
Classical music starts drifting through the apartment. When I reach the end of the hallway, I pause, laying eyes on him.
Sasha’s by the bar, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie’s undone, but not enough to make him look totally relaxed. His shirt pulls across his shoulders, lamplight painting his face with sharp lines. He looks composed and dangerous and sexy as hell.
Just the sight of him standing there is enough to make my pussy clench.
I watch him for a bit, watch as he mixes a drink, takes a sip, strolls over slowly to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and gazes out onto the city. There’s something magnetic about just watching Sasha move. Between him and the music, I’m in something of a trance.
“You’re awake.”
I clear my throat and try to look as frustrated as I feel. “Hard to sleep when you’re forcibly relocated. And insulted. Oh, and not to mention, almost killed.”
He turns slowly. “You’re safe here.”
“Define safe.” I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help be a little bit of a smartass. It’s my nature.
He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he lifts his drink and nods toward the giant, square coffee table. I hadn’t notice on the way in, but my proposal’s there.
“I read your draft.”
My pulse jumps. “And?”
“It’s good,” he says. Then, after a sip, almost lazily: “But it can be better.”
In that instant, every bit of restraint I’d been holding cracks. Of course, it can be better. Nothing’s ever good enough for him. I cross my arms, chin tilted high. “You’d find problems in the Mona Lisa given a chance.”
Sasha doesn’t even blink. “I want perfection. That’s not something I’ll apologize for.”
“It is when it’s just control with a different name.”
His eyes somehow darken ever further. They’re focused, sharp but not quite angry. “You think I want control for its own sake?”
I walk toward him slowly. “I think you want to own everything you touch. Even people. Especially people.”
He takes a step toward me; the kind of movement that makes my heart skip a beat. I’m trying to be all tough, but one look from him is enough to make me feel like I’m about to melt.
“Careful, Gabriella. I know you’ve had a difficult day, but there’s a manner in which I won’t be spoken to. You’re dangerously close to crossing that line.”
“No. You don’t get to careful me. Not today. You don’t get to order me into your home, critique my work, and then—”
“Then what?”
It’s a damn good question. Then what? What am I so mad at him about? Heat rushes up my neck. “Then pretend you didn’t just let Ruth O’Donnell insult me while you stood there like a statue.”
The air shifts. His jaw tightens. “You think I didn’t handle Ruth?” His voice drops, quiet, lethal.
I glare at him. “By doing what, exactly? Letting her only flirt with you for thirty minutes instead of a full hour?” I hate the insecurity evident in my tone. But at the same time, I don’t care.
He steps closer. “No. She learned what line she stepped over. And she learned that there would be a price to pay if she stepped over it again.”
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t mistake silence for inaction,” he says softly. His tone is rough, personal, protective in a way that makes my heart skip.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “You’re impossible.”
He’s closer now—too close, the scent of him curling around me like smoke. “And you’re still here.”
I snort, my heart pounding. “Not like I have a choice.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s mentally dissecting a problem. “You have a choice. You’re not a prisoner here, Gabriella. If you desire it, you can leave whenever you wish.” He steps closer, the air crackling between us. “But you’re not going to leave, are you?”
It takes all the strength I have, but I manage to turn away. I manage one step before stopping. He follows, closing the distance between us.
“You’re angry,” he says behind me.
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Good.”
I’m confused. “Good?”
“Anger’s honest. You hide yourself with calm.”
I spin around, my eyes flashing. “You really think you see everything, don’t you?”
“I see enough.”
“Then tell me what you see right now.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I hate the way it makes me feel. “I see a woman who wants to run, but who also wants me to stop her.”
My pussy clenches. “You’re full of yourself.”
“Probably.” He steps closer. There’s almost no space between us now. “But tell me I’m wrong.”
I want to. God, I want to. But the words stick in my throat. He reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my skin, light but scorching at the same time.
“You don’t belong in my world, Gabriella,” he murmurs. “But you don’t want to leave it.”
I lift my chin, defiant even as my heart pounds. “Maybe I’m just not afraid of you anymore.”
Another smirk. He leans in, his voice barely a whisper. “Then you’re the only one who isn’t.”
The tension between us is so intense, I’m starting to feel lightheaded, like the room’s spinning. “God, you’re arrogant,” I manage.
“Only when I’m right.”
“And you think you’re right about everything, don’t you?”
“I’m right about what’s important. I’m right about what’s true. For example, right now, you want me to touch you.”
The wire snaps between us.
He’s kissing me before I can think, before I can breathe. One second we’re fighting, the next I’m practically drowning in him. His mouth is demanding, rough, the kind of kiss that wipes every single thought from my head.
I meet him with the same fervor, tangling my fingers in his shirt, tugging him against me.
The tension I’ve been carrying since that night together two months ago comes pouring out, and I can sense by his kiss that he feels the same way.
Rage, want, confusion—it all flows out of me and into that kiss.
He takes me by the hips, pushing me back up against the kitchen bar, his hands firm on my waist, his tongue inside my mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he says. His voice is low and rough. His cock is hard as stone, pressing against me through his slacks.
I should. I really should. Instead, I grab his collar and pull him down to me. “Don’t you dare.”
He growls, the sound low in his chest, vibrating through me. His restraint, what’s left of it, breaks like glass.
He lifts me onto the counter, the marble cool under my thighs. The kiss deepens, fierce and consuming. I forget the argument, the danger, hell, even my name. There’s only his kiss, the way he holds me, and the surrender I so badly want to give into.