Chapter 33 Olivia
OLIVIA
The drive back to my apartment feels like wading through molasses. Every few seconds, the memory of the crack of gunfire echoes in my ears, phantom sounds that make me flinch even though it’s silent inside the car.
I can’t stop replaying it: the bullets shattering glass, Stefan’s body covering mine, the bite of cold concrete in my cheek as shadows with guns tried to—
“Stop that,” Stefan says, not looking at me.
“Stop what?”
“Thinking so loudly.” His fingers drum against the steering wheel, the only visible sign that he’s affected by what happened. “You’re fine. We’re fine.”
We’re fine. As if being shot at is a normal Tuesday for him. Hell, maybe it is. Maybe it’s about to become normal for me, too.
He parks at the curb rather than the driveway. Easier to escape that way, I assume.
“Stay behind me,” he orders as he escorts me to my own front door. The key shakes in my hand, and he plucks it from my fingers without comment.
Once inside my apartment, Stefan transforms into something feral—a wolf securing its den.
He prowls through rooms I’ve lived in for years, seeing vulnerabilities I’ve never noticed.
The sliding glass door with its flimsy lock.
The kitchen window that sticks in humid weather.
The bedroom skylight I’ve always loved for how moonlight spills across my sheets during sleepless nights.
“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, testing the front window’s latch with a disgusted shake of his head. “You may as well leave out warm cookies and a welcome mat for intruders.”
“Not all of us expect to be assassinated before breakfast,” I snap, crossing my arms to hold myself together.
The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard. I’m tired and sore and I just want a shower and bed.
Stefan continues his inspection, checking sight lines from windows, testing locks, noting entrances and exits. Every single observation gets another disappointed sigh.
When he’s done, he moves toward the door, keys jangling in his hand.
My heart leaps in fear. Is he done already? Is he leaving?
Something akin to panic flutters in my chest at the thought of being alone.
“Let me at least check that wound properly,” I blurt out. “Just to make sure it didn’t—that you didn’t— You don’t want it to get infected.”
He pauses. His expression is unreadable in the half-light of my entryway. “You did a good job the first time. I’m fine.”
“You’re already bleeding through the bandage,” I counter. “Sit down before you ruin my carpet. Do you have any idea how hard blood is to get out of wool?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I snort softly. “You probably do, actually.”
Instead of complying, he steps closer, invading my space with his heat. His hands rise to my shoulders, then slide down my arms. My breath catches as his fingers trace the curve of my wrist.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
It feels like we’re talking about something different now, though.
“I told you already, I’m fine—”
“Show me.” His fingers trace my collarbone, finding a scrape I hadn’t even noticed. “Here?”
I’m suddenly intensely aware of my pulse thudding at every point his fingers touch—throat, wrist, the tender inside of my elbow. His inspection becomes torturous with each passing second, thumbs skimming the undersides of my breasts as he checks my ribs, palms ghosting down to my hips.
“Stefan…” His name emerges as a breathless whisper. “I’m okay.”
“You could have died today.” His hands frame my face, tilting it toward the light as he examines a scratch on my temple. “Because of me.”
“You’re only worried because I could be pregnant with your baby,” I whisper. I’m talking more to myself than to him.
His entire body goes rigid against mine. The heat in his eyes hardens to frost, and I realize immediately that I’ve miscalculated, shattered whatever strange tension was building between us. His hands drop from my face like I’ve burned him.
“I didn’t mean—” I try to backpedal, but there’s something in his eyes now that makes the words die in my throat.
I don’t know what to say. Mostly because I don’t know what I think. Do I really believe this dangerous man is genuinely concerned for my wellbeing beyond my potential as an incubator for his heir? Or am I merely an investment he’s protecting?
The truth lies somewhere in the middle. In the space between his splayed fingers on my body. In the gap between his hips and mine.
“Stay here,” I find myself pleading, desperate to change the subject. “Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone after…”
After watching you kill.
After realizing just how deep this rabbit hole goes.
After feeling more alive in the past few days than I have in years.
Stefan studies me. “No.”
Oh. Well, alrighty then. I swallow the disappointment, ready to turn away so he can’t see the embarrassed tears starting to fill my eyes, when his hand tightens on my hip.
“You come stay with me.”
My pulse immediately doubles its tempo. “Wh-what?”
“My security is better,” he says, like he knows I need a practical reason to cling to. “My men are trained. The house is fortified.”
“I… I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
I say it only because one of us has to. It’s my little role in this charade. I pretend I don’t want this, he insists I do, and then multiple orgasms follow.
A cold smile curves his lips. He pulls out his phone and navigates to a document I recognize immediately: our contract, the one with the amendment I signed while his face was between my legs.
“Section 12, paragraph 4,” he recites, not even looking at the screen. “‘In the event of security concerns, the surrogate agrees to temporary relocation to secure facilities as designated by the genetic donor.’”
My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”
“Your name is on the dotted line, Olivia,” he says. He steps away from me. “Pack a bag. Only essentials. Everything else can be replaced.”
I should argue. For my home, for my freedom. Contractual clauses can’t override basic human autonomy, can they?
But the memory of bullets is too fresh. And beneath his commanding tone lies something that gives me pause.
If Stefan is scared for me, I should be terrified for myself.
“How long?” I ask instead.
“Until I know you’re safe.”
“And when will that be?”
“When the people who want me dead are no longer breathing.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I shiver.
“Who wants to kill you?” I whisper.
Add that to the list of “questions I didn’t think I’d have to ask the man whose child I might be carrying.”
“The list of people who don’t want me dead would be considerably shorter, lisichka.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”