27. LYLA #2
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
The shift was instantaneous. Controlled. Cold.
The air cooled too.
“I have to go take care of a few things, deal with the aftermath of what just went down,” he said gruffly.
I forced another bite past the knot in my throat, unsure of what would come next, unsure what I was supposed to say. The man had saved my life. But that didn’t make him safe. It didn’t make him good .
He watched me carefully, as if he could read the apprehension swirling in my mind. “You’re safe here. No one can get in. You’ve got everything you need.” He swiped his hand over the stubble on his chin. “You can make yourself comfortable.”
Comfortable.
In a killer’s penthouse? After nearly being auctioned off to the highest bidder? After being stalked, stripped, grabbed, sold, and saved all in the same night?
I just nodded, not trusting my voice. I had so many questions but didn’t know where to start. Who was he? Why me? How did he know so much about my life?
But none of them made it past my lips.
He was already moving—tapping away at a small black control panel on the wall between the living room and the entrance foyer. Everything about him was precise and controlled. The opposite of me.
He paused in the foyer.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
That was it.
He turned, grabbed a jacket from the coat closet near the elevator, hit the button, and stepped inside—all in one fluid motion.
He gave me one last look as the elevator doors slid shut, like he didn’t know what to do with me but walking away from me sure as hell wasn’t easy.
I sat there frozen, staring at the bowl in front of me. Then, I picked up the spoon and went back to eating, devouring every bite without shame before scraping the bowl clean.
God, I hadn’t eaten in…what? Twenty-four hours? More?
I took a sip of wine and set the glass down. No way was I going to let myself get relaxed. Not in this place.
Not until I knew exactly what kind of man he was and how I was supposed to survive him.
I rinsed my bowl in the sink, found the dishwasher tucked discreetly beneath the counter, and placed the bowl and spoon inside.
The kitchen was something out of a celebrity chef’s dream—sleek white marble countertops, polished stainless steel fixtures, flush-mounted appliances. Everything gleamed. Everything was in its place.
The fridge was full, the cabinets too—and with real ingredients for meals, not just snacks.
I also found condiments, herbs, boxes of imported teas, and protein bars lined up in perfect rows.
The man didn’t just live here—he curated the space.
And not in the way I had expected. I’d thought I would find nothing but liquor, maybe some energy drinks.
But no. It was as if this place had been designed for someone who loved to cook.
I straightened, letting my eyes sweep the room.
No family photos. No mail. The only things of real note—other than the spectacular artwork—were a wall-mounted panel by the elevator I didn’t dare touch and a single black bowl on the kitchen island filled with crisp red apples. I wondered if he had a maid or a chef.
Just then, I sensed I was being watched.
Had to be. A man like him didn’t just leave a girl in his home and allow her to roam freely.
There had to be cameras hidden everywhere.
I couldn’t explain how he’d found me in the building behind the theater or how he’d known where I was tonight, much less how he’d retrieved all my things from the theater and my apartment—unless he’d been doing more than just following me as I went about my day.
I padded into the living room, scanning for signs of anything personal. But there were no books. No receipts. No clutter. Not even a damn coaster out of place.
It was obsessively tidy.
I crossed toward the frosted-glass wall I’d noticed earlier—a room just off the main living space.
My pulse kicked up.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The hum of electronics filled the space. Giant monitors spanned the far wall, each of them black. Lights on racks of computer equipment blinked in a random pattern. Resting on desks were several industrial keyboards. I moved closer and tapped on one.
Nothing.
The desks held no notepads, no pens. No clues. Just metal, glass, and wires.
This was no home office.
This was command central.
I stared at the monitors again, unease prickling up my spine.
Had he been watching me from here? At my apartment? At the club?
Did he see me brush my teeth at night? Dance in my underwear to music on my phone? Did he see me cry?
My stomach twisted.
Why me? A backwoods hillbilly ?
Why go to all this effort for a girl he looked down his nose at? What could he possibly want from me?
I turned and left the room.
The hallway on the far side of the apartment was dark. I passed a few doors, tried the handles—all locked.
Returning to the main area, I wondered if I could get the elevator door to open. I walked over to the entrance foyer and pushed the button, but nothing happened. I tried the handle on the black door beside it, which probably led to a stairwell, but it was locked too.
The walls closed in a little tighter around me. I couldn’t tell if I was his guest or his prisoner, but it didn’t matter. The claustrophobia was already creeping in. I needed some fresh air.
I returned to the living room, crossed to the glass doors leading to the patio, and gripped the handle. Locked?
No.
It slid open.
A burst of cold air hit me. I stepped outside barefoot, the chill biting at my toes.
The terrace was massive. Low walls, thick enough to sit on, lined the edges.
In the front, there were boxwood planters.
Outdoor furniture was covered and stowed for the winter.
A tall wall of trellised vines, skeletal and thorny now that the flowers had died off, divided the space from the patio next door.
I approached the wall that led to the neighboring penthouse. It appeared to have a nearly identical layout, based on its architecture and corner view. I stared at the trellis, brushing my fingers along one of the twisted vines.
Hmm, climbing roses.
Huge hooked thorns jutted from the stems.
I could scale the trellis—maybe—and get to the other side. But then what? Hope the doors were unlocked? Hope the neighbor wasn’t some trigger-happy billionaire?
No.
Too risky.
The wind cut through my thin shirt and shorts as I crossed to the edge of the terrace and jumped up onto the thick wall. I sat down, my legs dangling over some thirty stories of empty air.
The city buzzed below. There were cars honking and sirens blaring, even during the wee hours of the morning. But up here, everything felt still.
The drop didn’t scare me. Heights never had. After all, I spent most of my nights suspended in the air above strangers’ heads. This wasn’t the same though; it was really high.
The parapet wrapped around the building toward the neighbor’s side. I followed it with my eyes. It would be possible to cross it—but not smart.
I sat there for a long minute, letting the cold wind whip against my skin. I should have been terrified. I should’ve been trying to escape. But something held me still.
The man who had taken me—he’d had every chance to hurt me.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he’d held me like I was breakable. Drawn me a bath. Cooked for me. Treated me with a tenderness that didn’t match the brutal energy coiled inside him.
Why?
I pictured the look in his eyes when I’d licked that spoon. The raw hunger. He wanted me, and he hated himself for it.
Whatever he was…he wasn’t simple.
And God help me, part of me didn’t want to escape at all.
Not until I learned more about him.
Not until I understood the way he made me feel—like I was both prey and the only thing he couldn’t bring himself to slay.
I hopped down from the ledge and stepped back inside, shutting the patio doors. The emptiness of the penthouse swallowed me again.
I walked down the other hallway toward the guest suite. As I passed a closed door, curiosity took hold of me. I paused and slowly turned the knob.
The moment the door opened, I gasped.
It was the prettiest room I’d ever seen.
Soft blush tones blanketed every surface like the inside of a pale pink rose.
Delicate florals climbed the wallpaper, entwined with hints of green, like an English garden at the height of spring.
The scents of lilac and honeysuckle drifted through the air.
For a second, it transported me back to Tennessee—to a front porch swing and my mama’s favorite summer candle.
Everything in the room was feminine. Opulent.
On the wall opposite me, beneath a mirror framed with gilt scrollwork, sat an antique white vanity with a matching stool tucked beneath.
A chaise lounge was situated next to the window, its pale cushion the perfect color for the theme of the room.
The pink silk curtains pooled glamorously on the floor.
I stepped inside.
It was a princess suite, but for a grown woman. Graceful. Romantic. Perfect.
I moved to the closet, pulled the door open, and gasped again.
It was full.
High-end dresses, blouses, skirts, coats, heels. Everything I could see still had tags and was arranged in precise rows. Purses were stacked like displays in a boutique. Every label was of a name I recognized but could never afford. Chanel. Dior. Valentino.
I ran my hand across the fabrics. Silk. Satin. Cashmere.
Whoever this woman was, someone had spent a fortune on the items in this closet.
Was she a lover? A girlfriend? A wife?
A sharp pang lanced through my chest.
I wasn’t the jealous type. Not normally.
But this? This woman was clearly everything I wasn’t.
Polished. Worldly. Sophisticated. The kind of woman a man like him would happily keep up.
I imagined her lounging on that chaise with a glass of wine, wrapped in something expensive, waiting for him to come home.
She was probably some goddess in heels with legs for days and the confidence to command any room she entered.
So what the hell did he want with me?
A barefoot bumpkin with bruises on her thighs, a girl who served coffee and worked at a strip club.
I backed out of the closet and moved into the attached bathroom. In here there was high-end everything too—the kind of soaps and shampoos that cost more than I made in a week working at Cipher. She must be someone he cared for.
Maybe she was coming back soon.
Maybe she’d walk through the door and find me here like some stray dog he’d dragged in off the street.
Unease settled deep in my stomach.
I left the room and went back down the hallway to the guest suite. It was a very nice room, but much simpler.
That was when I saw it—my phone, sitting there on the dresser.
I walked over and picked it up warily, as if it might bite.
I hadn’t seen it since I’d gone to brush my teeth at the theater. Right before they’d taken me.
How had he gotten all my things and brought them here?
I should have been more freaked out, but I was grateful to have my belongings. They weren’t much, but they were mine.
And right now, I was too tired to think about anything. Before long, the sun would be coming up.
I held the phone to my chest and glanced at the bed.
Everything since the kidnapping blurred together—a chaotic reel of smoke, pain, screaming, hands grabbing me, bodies falling, Mr. Stalker catching me.
I crawled under the covers and curled onto my side.
The phone stayed in my hand, but I didn’t unlock it.
I couldn’t.
I wasn’t ready to see the missed calls. The texts. The angry messages from the theater, my worried roommates, all the people who probably thought I’d just up and bailed on them.
Besides, there wasn’t anyone I could call—not without dragging them into this nightmare.
Not to mention I wasn’t up for seeing the perfectly filtered lives of everyone else tonight.
Not when mine had become such a dumpster fire.
I placed the phone on the nightstand and shut my eyes.
If there were any mercy left in the universe, I would wake up and discover that all of this had just been a bad dream.