15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Natalie
T his time around, I smell him.
It’s different, almost like he did it deliberately to throw me off. Instead of the sandalwood and musk, it’s spruce and rum spice. It could’ve been anybody—seeing as the number of people who walk in and out of the apartment are as infrequent as the faces, but I know it’s Ethan.
The door closes softly, and I pause for a hair’s breadth before I resume chopping the carrots. I have to make lunch for—heaven knows how many men — and I’ve been prepping the ingredients for twenty minutes now.
“You still don’t know how to sense danger,” he whispers behind me.
Instead of the shiver, I feel something else spread through my body. It’s light and warm, almost like sunlight on a winter morning. It hits all the right places, and I look over my shoulder with a half-smile.
“Am I supposed to be worried that you’re dangerous?”
Ethan shrugs. “Maybe?”
I purse my lips. “Huh. If you say so, then maybe I suck at being observant. You want to teach me?”
He comes to stand beside me, and I see his slight nod. “No. You should keep seeing the world the way it is. You don’t want your view tainted by the unnecessary things.”
His response is laced with vagueness, but I’ve come to expect that. This is the same man who cornered me in a grocery store, kissed me without a word, then vanished for a week.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I may never truly know Ethan Cross—only the parts he chooses to reveal.
His arm slides around my waist, the touch deceptively light, but there’s purpose in it. His fingers curl against my side, and I don’t miss the slight tremble, barely noticeable yet impossible to ignore.
“I thought about you,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet confession. “Probably more than I should have.” A beat passes before he adds, “Definitely.”
Okay . I’m caught unaware by his confession that my hold on the knife slips. He moves in to keep it from sliding down and chopping off my finger, then adds a soft “Be careful.”
Wow.
I was wrong. I assumed Ethan Cross would never let me past the surface. But he doesn’t sound like a man who makes casual admissions.
“You were gone for a week,” I say when I trust my voice not to betray the loud beating of my heart or my skittering pulse. “Why? You didn’t have to babysit Anthony anymore? Did you find your large house better than his apartment?”
“Mine,” he says. I could’ve sworn he chuckled, too, but it lasted half a second. “It’s my apartment,” Ethan clarifies when I give him a side glance. “I did put him here because I had to keep an eye on him. That’s not why I’ve been away.”
Me?
Did he decide that I was too much of a temptation and that he needed to focus on work? Did he still think I was a spy and that he had to conduct more investigation?
“I had something to attend to,” Ethan says, oblivious to my scattered thoughts. “It took far longer than I anticipated, and I still have some wrapping up to do.”
“Huh,” I mutter under my breath. It couldn’t be me, then.
The spy theory, I mean. I already told him about my parents. If he dug further, all he’d find is a short string of exes, a couple of failed gigs among good ones, and my very best friend, Danielle.
Done with the last carrot, I gently transfer it to the frying pan in preparation to stir it. I head for the chicken fillet in the bowl, picking up the knife.
“Careful,” Ethan whispers again.
“I’m not clumsy,” I say defensively.
“Oh?” he drawls. I make the mistake of glancing and he has one eyebrow arched. “The mess in my office?”
The mess? I frown, my mind racing to make sense of his accusation. Then it clicks—he’s talking about the plates.
I abandon the chicken, thrusting my hands onto my hips in full defense mode .
“Oh, absolutely not. You are not pinning that one on me. You’re the one who—” My throat tightens, betraying me at the worst possible moment. The words lodge there, refusing to come out.
Ethan’s brow arches, his smirk sharpening into something undeniably smug. A silent challenge.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s daring me to say it. To recount, in excruciating detail, what happened in his office. How he pinned me against his desk. How he bent me over. How we—
My pulse spikes. The memory rushes in. Every detail, every sound, the intoxicating scent of him all around me.
I haven’t forgotten.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me, neither has he.
Why, though? We’ve not spoken about the incident since it happened, so why now? Why would he deliberately bring it up?
Does he feel something for me? The thought sounds ridiculous and doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds. Ethan might not be like Anthony, but it’s delusional to think that because we had sex, he’s developed feelings for me.
He’s always struck me as a man with more secrets, deadlier than meets the eye. The scar, the vagueness, the undisclosed trips whenever I come over that have nothing to do with work.
The men around the apartment—I doubt they answer to Anthony—the ones around Ethan’s house and the people who attended the party.
If anything, it’s probably a ruse for something else. It might’ve had something to do with what he’s been handling—I’m a pawn in a big game.
It’s all too much for me to take in, and I find myself unable to breathe. I’m wearing a large crew neck shirt, and I reach for it, pulling forward .
“I should,” I exhale, “I should probably get back to work. I’ve been at it long enough.”
Ethan reaches out and catches my wrist before I turn. I blink rapidly, knowing I’m trapped. I don’t know if I should escape or surrender. The former sounds like a smart plan, and the latter feels too familiar.
“You smell amazing,” he says softly. “What is it?”
“Jasmine. Mango.” The words rush out as he takes a step closer, and I take one back. “That’s all. I—I bought it two days ago.”
Why is that information necessary?
It is. I need to keep my brain engaged before it turns to mush.
Ethan’s hand slides slowly from my wrist to my waist, and I know he’s about to kiss me. My guard lowers, and my eyelids flutter.
Then his phone buzzes.
I blink, momentarily thrown off by the shift in energy. One second, Ethan’s touch is setting my skin on fire, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist with purpose. The next, his phone creates a sharp intrusion that shatters whatever moment we were about to fall into.
At first, he ignores it.
His grip lingers, his breath warm against my skin. Then, with a groan, his hand drops from my waist, leaving a cold absence in its wake.
“Fuck.” The word is low, clipped with frustration. He snatches the phone, his expression darkening as he stares at the screen. Whatever or whoever is on the other end has just ruined his mood.
Without another word, Ethan storms out of the kitchen, his frustration radiating off him like heat. I stand there, my breath shallow, my body still attuned to his touch, but he’s already gone.
“Natalie,” I exhale heavily, running my hands down my jeans shorts. “Jesus, Natalie, what was that? ”
I have no idea. He was about to kiss me, and I was going to let him. If things had progressed and he had me pinned against the wall, I wouldn’t have any objections.
Sex in the kitchen? That would definitely cross something off my bucket list.
Before I can gather myself and return to the chicken, a bulky man walks into the kitchen. He’s an unknown face—but I’m used to that—so I smile politely.
“Hi. Is there something I can help you—?”
I’m knocked off my feet as he lifts me and pins me to the fridge. My feet are still dangling off the floor when I see his face coming closer to mine.
Oh no.
Jesus.
Father.
What other prayers can I offer? He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to freaking kiss me!
I begin to fight off as best as I can—hitting his chest and slapping his face. He’s stunned by the aggression, but it only elicits a deranged smile from him.
“You like it rough, huh?” His disgustingly gruff voice speaks. “Well, that’s good for me. I knew the boss liked his women to be feisty.”
Wait, what?
“What are you talking about?” I yell, still hitting him and almost gagging when his mouth touches my throat. “Which boss? I’m nobody’s woman!”
“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You must’ve gone through the others. The fact that I just got here doesn’t mean I don’t get my share.”
No. No .
I’m tiny compared to this man, and he’s determined to get his way with me. My hands are doing nothing to fight him off, and my shirt is already halfway from exposing my s.
Begging is not going to save me.
Looking down, I see my moment of glory—I rear my leg back and deliver a swift kick to his nuts. It does enough damage that he lets me down, and I scurry to the knife’s block.
My grip tightens around the handle, the weight of the knife grounding me in my stance. My legs are planted and firm, and my body tense like a spring, ready to snap. The blade gleams under the kitchen light, a silent promise of what I’m willing to do.
“You take one more step,” I warn, my voice cold, “and I swear to God, I’ll put so many holes in you they won’t even be able to tell who you used to be.”
For a second, he hesitates, his gaze flickering from my face to the weapon in my hand. Then, arrogance—or stupidity—wins out. He moves.
I lunge.
He jerks back instantly, his hands flying up in surrender, eyes wide.
“Woah, woah—okay,” he backpedals, his tone somewhere between nervous and amused. “No need for all that. You could’ve just said you weren’t in the mood. I might’ve understood.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, and honestly, I don’t care. My pulse is hammering in my ears, my grip unyielding. I don’t lower the knife. Not yet.
“Damn,” he shakes his head, more in disgust than anything. “Boss seriously has to consider the type of women he brings home. I swear they get crazier with each chick. I like them crazy, but when they’re like this, how are we supposed to take turns?”
Turns? My eyes widen as I realize the implication of his words.
I’m meat.
Free meat, actually. The boss usually shares his women, and this beast naturally assumed I was there for his pleasure.
“No,” I shake my head as the knowledge sinks deeper. “He has to be talking about Anthony.” He’s already out the door, so I’m left with my thoughts, the knife, and unanswered questions.
It has to be Anthony.
Anthony hasn’t brought anyone home since I started working here, and Ethan left seconds before the brute walked in.
Ethan wouldn’t share women with her cousins.
Which means—
“Don’t think, Natalie,” I say aloud as I begin to panic. I bite my lip to keep the scream from escaping, and the knife falls to the floor with a clatter. “Don’t think, Natalie.”
I sink to the floor as my hands run through my hair, replacing panic with despair.
Ask him. It’s better to ask than to assume. Is it, though ? Do I want to know the truth? What if it breaks me?
What if the man I never really knew turns out to be more dangerous than the devil himself?