Chapter 15
GABBY
Iwake up the next morning with a big, stupid smile on my face.
My eyes are closed, the sheets cool against my skin, my body humming with the delicious, floaty ache he put there. Memories from last night slide in, playing like my favorite movie—his mouth at my throat, the rough way he said my name, the delicious stretching of him inside me. And the quiet after.
I stretch my toes under the sheet and bite my lip, hoping he’s still here—close enough to drag back into more fun, the slow and lazy kind, before coffee.
I roll over and reach for him. I only touch cold linen, empty space.
My eyes open to an immaculate, massive bed that looks like no one else slept it in. The other pillow is perfectly aligned. The sheet is smoothed. Of course, it is.
I close my eyes again and think about what happened last night after the sex. He’d laid me down on the couch, fed me this amazing boysenberry sherbet, and covered me in a thick, warm blanket as I laid with my head on his lap, the fire crackling in front of us.
It’d been perfect.
I sit up and look around. I’m in my room, the space otherwise empty. I must’ve fallen asleep on his lap, and then he carried me up here. Sweet. But I really want to see him.
A sleek, modern clock hangs on the wall, and the time reads a little after seven. I roll out of bed, see that I’m in some comfy, slightly oversized sleeping pants, colored in a very masculine blue and black pattern. And my shirt is an XL tank top.
His stuff. I pause for a moment, grabbing the fabric of the tank top and bunching it in my fist, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the scent of him. Musky and woodsy and perfect.
Outside, the day is a misty gray—standard fare for late winter in Chicago. I find myself looking forward to summer. By then, my belly will be huge with this baby. The idea is kind of scary and kind of exciting.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s not Sasha’s booming rap, but a gentler thing.
“Yes?” I ask out loud.
A woman’s voice—warm, professional, answers. “Ms. Resse? I’m Mrs. Kunetsova, the housekeeper.” Her voice has a heavy Russian accent. “Breakfast will be ready shortly. Mr. Orlov is out with Mr. Bogdan.”
“Okay, thank you!” I reply, trying to sound chill and casual, like talking to housekeepers, is something I do all the time.
Her footsteps fade, and silence presses back in.
I shower in the ridiculously luxurious spa bathroom, steam curling around the black marble, the delicious water pressure easing the sleep out of my muscles.
When I’m done, I throw on a pair of yoga pants and my University of Chicago t-shirt.
In the closet I find a gorgeous, soft, fluffy robe and toss that on over everything, cinching it tight.
After stepping into my slippers, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
My hair’s still wet, and I spot the slightest whisper of a hickey on my neck.
My face reddens, and even though it’s kind of middle school, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little turned on by him marking me like that.
Downstairs, the kitchen gleams like a spaceship. My neck gets hot as I lay eyes on the kitchen bar, remembering what happened there last night.
Mrs. Kunetsova has laid out a feast: eggs, berries, toast—the works. There’s even coffee in a big carafe marked “D” for decaf.
“Please sit,” she says. Her accent lilts. I wonder if she’s from wherever in Russia Sasha is from. “Anything else you need?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She excuses herself to another part of the penthouse. I hover at the island, instead of sitting. For some weird reason, the idea of making a plate and eating alone at a giant dining room table makes me feel odd.
Daylight makes the penthouse feel even colder than before. The penthouse has no photos, no clutter. Not a stray book, or a forgotten cardigan, or anything else that might indicate someone lives here, and this isn’t just some gorgeous display.
When I’m done with my meal and coffee, I clean my mug and put it back exactly where I found it. Anxiety nips at me. Restless, I wander.
The west wing is off-limits. Bogdan’s warning plays in my mind: That’s Sasha’s private space. The phrase makes my spine itch. What does private mean to a man like him? And why does he need a whole wing for it?
I veer the other way, past the staircase and along a hall I hadn’t noticed before. The doors here are dark wood, flush against the wall, handles hidden. Soft, recessed lights glow in faint amber.
At the far end, a set of double doors sits slightly ajar. I can’t help myself. I want to know more about him. I should leave it alone. But I can’t. I drift closer, holding my breath like someone might hear me.
Then I’m at the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I nudge it open with a fingertip.
On the other side is Sasha’s office. If the living room of his penthouse is a sterile showroom, his office is the nerve center.
Matte black walls, a big, square window that looks out over the city.
Low amber light. A massive slab of a desk sits in the back middle, dark wood, raw enough to show grain.
Three phones rest on matching leather trays. Two laptops sit open but are asleep.
There’s a wall of TVs and a sitting area with a wet bar off to the side. The room is huge, cavernous, built to function, but also to intimidate and impress.
I step into the room, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to help myself.
The wall of screens is angle after angle of security cam footage.
There’s the lobby, the building entrance, the blocks around the building.
There’s AngelCorp Tower’s entrance, a camera for each floor that cycles through different feeds.
On the far wall, a glass case glows softly. Inside are weapons. Not movie-prop nonsense, or antique guns from the Civil War or something, but real weapons. Pistols laid out in a row, a rifle above them. Knives with dark handles, edges clean. Each in its own place, each spotless.
I take a small step back and feel the room tilt. This is all for protection, I’m sure. But also preparation. This is the room of a man who’s expects violence and is planning for it down to the last bullet.
On the desk, a folder sits open neatly, in the way all of his things are. A line of Cyrillic curls across the top. I don’t read Russian, but my name is in regular English among the rest.
My file. My fingers twitch. I don’t touch it.
My heart is in my throat. The office hums softly, like there’s machinery in the walls I can’t see. I back up too fast, clipping the doorframe with my shoulder. The sound is louder than I want it to be.
“Smooth,” I whisper, wincing and rubbing my shoulder.
I step back into the hall and start walking again, faster now. My slippers are silent on the wood, but my heartbeat is loud in my ears. At the end of the corridor, another door is slightly open. A draft brushes my ankles. I should know better, but I can’t help it.
I glance in.
Metal floor. Lockers. Benches. Three men in black tees sit at a stainless-steel table, cleaning guns with the sort of casual vibe that suggest they do this every day. A fourth leans against a locker, earpiece tucked behind his ear, eyes flicking to me as soon as the door opens.
Everything stops. One of them stands. He’s polite in a way that chills more than anger would.
He raises a huge tattooed hand in my direction. “Ma’am,” he says, a Russian accent dripping off the word, “this area is restricted.”
The other hand rests lightly on the gun at his hip. Would he really do it? Would he shoot me?
“I’m sorry,” I manage. My tongue feels thick. The room smells like oil. “Wrong… Wrong door.”
No one smiles.
I back out, heart ricocheting against my ribs. I turn and walk fast, then faster. The hallway stretches too long, the air too thin. I need to get away. I need to get out. I know I’m being totally irrational, but I don’t care.
The elevator panel blinks at me when I hit the button. Nothing. No call. No friendly ping. Of course, it needs a keycard. And of course, the one person who could summon it is out with Bogdan.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Plan B.”
I hurry to the kitchen, where the emergency stairwell is. Once there, I push the door open and start down. It’s all smooth concrete, harsh lighting, and cool air. I peer over the railing. It’s a long way down.
But it’s my only way out.
I head down the stairs, moving with speed that surprises me. My robe swishes around my calves, and I clamp it closed with one hand, the other on the railing.
I don’t know what my plan is. Last time I looked, it was thirty degrees outside.
The robe is nice and warm, but it’s not going to do a damn thing against a February-in-Chicago wind.
It doesn’t matter. I need to get away from Sasha, away from all those guns, away from those men who I’m sure know how to use them.
By the time I hit the lobby level, my legs are shaking like crazy.
I push through the stairwell door and into the room of polished marble and too-bright light.
I step out onto the main floor of the lobby and realize I must look totally insane.
The desk attendant blinks, startled. I glance down at myself and remember I’m in a robe and slippers with a crazy look in my eye.
“Miss? Are you alright?” he asks, stepping forward slowly, as if I’m a stray cat that might bolt at the first hint of surprise.
“I’m fine,” I lie, breathless from the stairs. “I just need some fresh air.”
“Of course,” he says, uncertain. He leads me to the main doors and holds one open.
The morning chill hits me like a slap. Cold February air. Sunlight bouncing off glass and steel. Traffic zipping along Wacker, like nothing in the world is wrong.
I step onto the sidewalk and wrap my arms around myself, trying to both warm myself and steady my breathing.
People move past without looking—men in suits, kids in sneakers, a woman jogging past leading a miniature dog in a little sweater.
Normal. All of it aggressively normal, a total contrast to the freaking barracks I just walked in on.
No one pays me any attention. That’s one of the nice things about living in the city—you see so many crazy sights on a regular basis that a manic woman in a robe and slippers out in the butt-end of winter is a pretty blasé occurrence.
Images spin in my head—surveillance feeds, the weapons case, my name on a folder written in a language I don’t speak. Men cleaning guns in a room a few dozen feet from where I slept.
You’re safe here, he’d said.
I take a step, then another. I don’t know where I’m going. Away from the tower, away from the weapons, away from the men who’d been trained to kill.
Away from Sasha.
My robe flutters. I grip it tighter and keep moving, half-expecting a hand to close on my arm, a voice to tell me to come back upstairs, where it’s safe and controlled and watched.
But when I glance over my shoulder, I see that no one is following me. No Sasha, no Bogdan… no one.
The wind cuts through the robe and raises goosebumps on my skin. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, then fades. A gull cries over the river. My heartbeat is finally slowing, but my thoughts aren’t. They tumble over each other, loud and ugly.
What did I just walk into?
When I reach the corner of the block, I stop and look back. The tower glints, impassive. My gaze drifts up, all the way to the penthouse windows at the very top. The sky above is a gray sheet.
I turn my face toward the crowd and move, disappearing into the masses. One more anonymous body moving through a city that doesn’t care whether I’m confused or scared or falling hard for a man who keeps a war room next to the bedroom.
I keep walking.