Jhene #2
I actually slept through the rest of the night. Really slept without waking up every half hour out of paranoia Fedorov’s men had finally found me.
It’s easily the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.
The studio is empty.
Killian must’ve left for the gym hours ago, slipping out at dawn like he said he would. The rollaway bed is already folded and shoved back into the corner, and there’s an empty protein shake bottle sitting by the sink—the only evidence he was recently here at all.
He must go to the same gym where I’ve been showering.
From what I’ve heard, it’s the best gym in Brooklyn for boxing training.
The thought makes me suddenly acutely aware of how grimy I feel. It’s been two days since my last shower, and I can smell myself in a way that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
I crawl out of bed and stand there for a moment, taking in my surroundings. The sheets are rumpled and twisted from sleep, and a strange pang of guilt hits me for messing up his space.
One thing I do remember from the seconds before I fell asleep last night was how distinct the smell of him was in the sheets.
As soon as I laid down, I could smell him.
Pepper and pine, a masculine earthy scent that belongs to him and I’ve already begun to recognize.
It was one of the final thoughts on my mind as I quickly drifted off.
I set to making his bed, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking in the corners. The result is even neater than how his made-up bed originally looked.
Then I pad over to the bathroom praying Killian won’t mind that I use his shower. It’s not like I have many other options at this point.
The water pressure is weak and the temperature hovers between lukewarm and vaguely cool, but it doesn’t even matter.
A shower is a shower these days.
I stand under the spray with eyes closed, letting it wash away the grime and sweat and funk from the past few days.
As the water runs over me, my mind drifts to Eva.
My baby sister is the only family I have left. The only person in this world who matters to me. She’s still trapped in Fedorov’s grasp, and every day I spend hiding is another day she suffers.
I can’t lose sight of that. I can’t ever let myself get comfortable here, no matter how nice it feels to sleep in a real bed and eat a full meal and bathe in a shower and not the sink of a public restroom.
Killian’s offered me help and protection, but it’s temporary. It has to be.
I can’t trust anyone, and that doesn’t just mean the Bratva. It means the Irish mob too.
He claimed I’m their territory now—their possession—but I know better than to believe that means anything good.
In the underworld, women like me are currency. We’re traded and sold and used up without a second thought. If it suits the Irish to hurt me, they will without a second thought. If it benefits them to hand me back to Fedorov, they wouldn’t hesitate.
I have to look out for myself. For me and Eva above all else.
That’s the only way we survive and have a chance of someday having a normal life…
I twist off the water and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in the only towel I can find. It smells like him like the sheets do. Distinct enough to almost be comforting.
I try not to think about how it’s probably been pressed against his naked body at some point and pad out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the worn hardwood floor.
My clothes are still on the bed.
I’ve been making it on three changes of clothes—two T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a tank top and some sweats to sleep in.
They’re clothes I was able to take from the free bins at the shelter, and though they don’t fit me the best, it’s better than the tattered rags I was in when the Bratva had me in the cages.
I’m reaching for the pile of fabric when the studio door swings open.
Killian strides through, dripping sweat and breathing hard from what was obviously an intense training session. His sleeveless white shirt is soaked through, clinging to the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
He freezes the moment he sees me.
I yelp and jump backward, clutching the towel to my body with both hands. My heart does a similar kind of leap inside my ribcage, sudden terror flooding my veins. I’m standing half-naked and exposed.
A second passes where we’re both frozen in place. We’re equally shocked that he’s walked in on me, so we stare across the cramped space at each other.
Him in the doorway, me by the bed, the air between us as thick and awkward.
I’m so thrown, I’ve started shaking. An involuntary reaction as my fingers go numb and I feel dizzy. My breath’s are coming in short, panicked bursts.
He quickly assesses these things and seems to put two and two together. He turns his back to me and grunts, “Shit. I didn’t know you’d be… if I did I would’ve waited… fuck.”
I snatch my clothes off the bed, vaguely aware I should probably answer him. Tell him it’s not his fault and that I’m in his studio.
But the panic and terror have come on way too strong.
I’m in flight mode as I clutch the towel to my body and flee to the bathroom.
The closest thing that feels like an escape in this situation.
I slam the door shut and lean against it, breathing hard.
It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but my mind’s caught up in the past. I’m flashing back to the last time I was alone with Fedorov.
Before he sent me to the cages for disobedience, he’d come to my room late at night. He’d walked right in like he always did, uncaring what state he found me in—
I squeeze my eyes shut and force the memory away.
That’s not my life anymore. I’m not that girl anymore. I’ve made it out.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t change knee-jerk reactions like this moment.
I stay hidden in the bathroom for half an hour.
Finally, Killian raps his knuckles against the door.
I’m perched on the closed lid of the toilet, changed into the T-shirt and jeans I grabbed. It’s taken time just to get my heart rate down and nerves settled.
He knocks again, his gruff voice following. “You can come out. I didn’t know you were changing. It won’t happen again.”
I hate how crazy I’m probably coming across. If he didn’t already find me a pain in the ass, he definitely does now.
I draw a deep breath and remind myself I can’t hide in the bathroom forever.
Men might make me intensely nervous and panicked, but I’m stuck with the boxer for the foreseeable future.
When I open the door and venture out into the rest of the studio, I find Killian at the kitchen counter. He’s still gleaming with sweat from his workout. His expression is slightly less gritty than usual, a vague pitying quality about how he looks over at me.
Only Killian Rourke could make concern look like a scowl.
“Sorry for using your shower,” I murmur, padding over to the kitchen table and sinking into one of the chairs. “I should’ve asked first.”
“Don’t worry about that. When I brought you here, it meant you had free use of the facilities.” He clears his throat and folds his defined arms on the kitchen counter. “Listen… I’ve done more thinking about your situation.”
I tense, bracing myself for whatever’s coming next.
“It hasn’t been easy figuring out a solution, but I’ve settled on the best course of action.
I’m sending you upstate,” he explains. “There’s a place you can stay.
One of the Callahans has an estate up there—remote, well-protected, far from Bratva territory.
His girlfriend, Chantal, lives there too. You’ve met her before.”
My brows knit in question and he goes on.
“At the Vodka Room.”
It’s been weeks, but I do remember the girl who had only briefly occupied the cages. By briefly I mean less than ten minutes.
She was very pretty and curvy, with dark brown skin and long braids, but most distinct of all, she still had an air of fight about her that the rest of us didn’t have.
It was only a moment later that she was being broken out by a man who had blood on him and seemed not to give a damn that he was opening fire in a bar full of Russian mobsters. He tossed a key at my feet before he tugged Chantal away, and she threw one final encouraging look in my direction.
“No,” I say flatly.
Maybe my favorite word.
Killian’s scowl deepens. “Wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
“I’m telling you anyway. I said no.”
“You’re going,” he grunts back. “It’s what’s best for you, seeing as you refuse the NYPD and shelters. I don’t have the space for you here, in case you haven’t noticed. Unless you want me walking in on you in a towel every goddamn day.”
Heat flares in my chest, equal parts embarrassment and defiance. “I can survive on the street. I’m stronger than you think I am.”
“This isn’t about you how strong you are.
When are you gonna get that through your stubborn little skull?
” he snaps impatiently. He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me, his massive frame filling the cramped space.
“This is about the fucking Bratva hunting you. You think you can outrun them on the streets of Brooklyn? You think hiding in alleyways and sleeping at bus stops is gonna keep you safe? They’ll find you in a day. Maybe less.”
Though he’s probably right, I hate that he’s so damn sure about it.
That he thinks I’m so weak and useless I can’t even survive on my own. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. I don’t need his protection or anyone else’s.
I’ll fight the Bratva myself if it means rescuing Eva.
…but as much as I want to push back, I’m also exhausted. I got a great night’s sleep, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been on the run for weeks and it’s extremely draining.
It’s hard to find my footing when I’m using up my energy for arguments like these.
Energy better spent elsewhere. On other things.
“Fine,” I mutter, gaze dropping to the table. “I’ll go.”
Killian studies me as though he’s deciding whether I’m being truthful or if it’s more sarcasm from me.
Honestly… it’s smart.
Because in my head I’m already planning an escape.