Chapter 4
Mikhail
Ipicked Shanice up at nine the next morning for the trip to her apartment.
She came down the stairs wearing jeans that hugged every curve and a pale pink leather jacket that made her look like she could handle herself in a fight.
Her hair was down today, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and I had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and tangling my fingers in it.
Why is she so damn irresistible?
"Ready?" I asked.
"As I'll ever be." Her voice was tight, and I could see the tension in her shoulders. Oh, the fight was with me.
Interesting.
Going back to that apartment was going to be hard for her. I knew that. But she needed her things, and putting it off wasn't going to make it easier. My guess was that she’d turned that frustration into something to hate Mikhail for. Noted. I accepted the assignment and
I led her out to the SUV, opening the passenger door.
She slid in without comment, and I caught a hint of her scent mixed with freshness that only came from being just out of the shower.
It made my hands flex on the door frame.
The drive took twenty minutes. Shanice stared out the window the whole time, silent.
I didn't push. Sometimes silence was better than empty words.
When we pulled up to her building, a modest complex on the east side, she went very still.
"I haven't been here since that day," she said quietly.
"I know."
"The landlord's been calling. Wants to know if I'm keeping the lease or if he can rent it out." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Like I could ever live there again."
I killed the engine and turned to face her. "We get your things, and then you never have to come back. That's it."
She nodded, but her hands were clenched in her lap.
I reached over and covered one of her fists with my palm. Her skin was warm, soft. "I'm right here. Nothing's going to happen."
She looked down at our hands, then up at me. She nodded, putting on her bravest face.
"Okay," she said.
We got out and headed inside. The building was quiet, most people at work. I stayed close as we climbed to the third floor, close enough that my arm brushed hers with every step.
When we reached her door, Shanice stopped. Stared at the chipped paint and the number 3C like it was a death sentence.
"Key," I said.
She dug it out of her pocket with shaking hands. I took it from her, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
The apartment was exactly like I'd seen in the photos. Worse, actually, because photos couldn't capture the stillness of it. The wrongness. Furniture was overturned, cushions slashed. Books and papers scattered across the floor. A lamp lay shattered in the corner.
This was where they'd taken her. Where they'd dragged her out, terrified and fighting.
Rage surged through me, hot and vicious. I wanted to hunt down every single person involved and make them bleed.
"Jesus," Shanice whispered. She took a step inside, then another, her eyes sweeping over the destruction. "I knew it was bad, but seeing it again is different."
I followed her in, scanning the room out of habit. Checking corners, exits, any place someone could hide. The apartment was empty except for ghosts.
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Clothes. Photos. My laptop if it's still here." She moved toward the bedroom, picking her way through the debris. "Some books. Personal stuff."
I grabbed a few boxes she mentioned from the hall closet and followed her. The bedroom was less destroyed but still a mess. Drawers pulled out, clothes on the floor.
Shanice stood in the middle of it, arms wrapped around herself. We were going to need more help to get this place cleaned out and put back into good condition. I sent a quick text to one of my guys to get everything that we needed, including a truck.
"I used to love this place," she said. "It wasn't much, but it was mine. Now it just feels like something from a crime show."
"Because it is one."
She flinched, and I cursed myself. Wrong thing to say.
I set the boxes down and moved to her side. "We don't have to do this all at once. We can take breaks. Come back another day if you need to."
"No." She squared her shoulders, that defiance I'd come to recognize flaring to life. "I want it done. I want to be finished with this place."
She started pulling clothes from the closet, folding them with quick, precise movements. I helped, grabbing things from drawers and shelves. We worked in silence, filling boxes with the pieces of her life.
When we got to the nightstand, she paused. Opened the drawer and pulled out a framed photo.
"My mom," she said, showing it to me. A woman with Shanice's smile, her arm around a younger version of Shanice. "She died a few years back. Cancer."
I looked at the photo, at the joy in both their faces. "I'm sorry."
"Me too." She set it carefully in a box marked FRAGILE in thick marker. "She would've hated all this. The danger, the hiding. She always wanted me to have a normal life. College, career, maybe a nice boring guy who worked in accounting."
"Boring doesn't suit you."
She glanced at me, surprised. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." I picked up another box, started loading books. "I know you don't back down. I know you're loyal to the people you love. I know you're stronger than you think you are."
"How would you know that?"
"Because you're still standing." I met her eyes. "After everything that happened, you're still here. Still fighting. That takes strength."
For a moment, she just looked at me. Then she turned back to the closet, but I saw the way her shoulders relaxed slightly.
We kept packing. I found her laptop wedged under the couch, screen cracked but maybe salvageable.
We’d figure that out later. It did make me wonder why she had two of them.
Photos in albums, jewelry in a small wooden box.
Little pieces of her life that deserved better than this wreckage.
I called to see how much longer it would be to get the truck and to make sure my guy also brought more boxes.
He was close and also had boxes and more guys to help get things carted away.
Three hours later, we had everything loaded into the truck.
The guys had cleaned up the trash and taken away all the furniture.
Shanice stood in the doorway of her apartment one last time, staring at the empty space.
I had a cleaning crew coming to take care of the blood on the carpet, and some minor damages that had occurred during the struggle.
"I should feel sad," she said. "But I just feel angry."
"Good. Anger's useful."
I took the key from her, gave it the guy staying behind to let in the cleaning team, and we walked down to my SUV.
"What am I supposed to do with it now? This rage?"
I loaded the last box, then turned to face her. "You use it. You take your life back. You go to school, you do whatever the hell you want, and you don't let what happened define you."
"While you follow me around like a shadow." She scoffed.
"Yeah. While I do that."
She shook her head, but I caught the hint of a smile. "You're really not going to let this go, are you?"
"Not a chance. I told you. I need you very safe, Shanice."
We got in the SUV and headed back to the mansion. The things that Shanice needed with her were inside my trunk. The rest was going into storage for her to figure out later. Shanice was quieter now, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less tense. More thoughtful.
When we pulled up to the estate, she turned to me.
"Thank you," she said. "For today. For not making it worse than it had to be."
Something in my chest shifted. "You don't have to thank me."
"Yeah, I do." She opened her door, then paused. "And Mikhail? When I start classes next week, don’t make things weirder than they already are."
I smiled, slow and dark. "I wouldn’t dare."
She got out, and I watched her walk toward the house, her hips swaying in those jeans. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, like I wanted them to wrap around her waist. In time…
One week. Then she'd be on campus, surrounded by people, living her life. Giving things a fresh start. Exactly what she needed. After she was settled and feeling better, I’d approach her about making something real happen between us. Until then, I’d give her the space she needed.