10. Paris
Paris
Two weeks later, I’m still hiding out in Logan’s apartment, still holding on to hope that I’m safe from the Petrovs.
Days and nights blur together—a relentless cycle of waking up with unanswered questions, then falling into a restless sleep, only to repeat the agonizing cycle the next day. The silence of the nights only magnifies the questions that plague the days I have no answers to.
I’ve been flipping through the news channels to see if anything about Nikita is on the news, and still there hasn’t been one word.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or if it’s a bad thing.
I just need to know something one way or the other so all this will be over.
I’m waiting to die again just when I thought I might have a chance to live.
The last time I checked the clock, the luminous hands glow well past two in the morning. Another restless night.
I’ve been tossing and turning since I laid down because not only are my days blurring into the next, but I’m bored out of my mind. I’m learning cabin fever is a real thing, and I’m itching to go back to a normal life, whatever normal is.
This isn’t what I imagined when I planned to escape from Nikita.
I’m happy I’m free of him but I’m also stuck in another cage, and the pendulum swinging back and forth is deciding my faith.
Waiting to see where it lands is tiring.
And it’s starting to get to me. While I understand why I’m here, and why Logan hasn’t let me step foot outside the place, I still feel trapped.
I groan, throwing off the covers. I’m not going to get any sleep.
I’m in the dark about what Logan’s doing about my situation.
I’m in the dark about what’s happening with the Bratva.
I’m in the dark about every damn thing. And I hate not knowing what I need to do to get through this.
I’m used to handling my own shit before everything happened.
Now I can’t do anything but wait. And I’m tired of playing the waiting game.
It’s draining. Both physically and mentally.
When I slip out of bed, I’m in a pair of panties and a tank top, Logan bought me the second day here. He bought me a shit ton of clothes which also let me know I will be staying here longer than I want to.
For a moment I thought about asking Logan to find my brother, but I think if I did, he’d hurt him.
And even though he deserves whatever happens to him, I don’t want to be the cause of it.
He’s still my brother. I don’t think I could live with that.
I just want to know why he did this to me when I’ve been nothing but supportive through all his up and downs when I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to him.
To turn his back on me the way he’s done, I need answers. Answers that I probably won’t ever get.
I don’t bother putting on any other clothes.
I haven’t heard him return, so I’m here alone.
The silence has taken some getting used to.
At Nikita’s home there’s always noise. If it isn’t coming from the outlandish parties he throws, it comes from the staff bustling around doing whatever he orders them to do.
Or the constant noise of his men. However, I’m finding out silence can be good and bad.
And today the silence is terrible. It’s making me restless.
Ignoring the icy chill of the hardwood floors against my bare feet, I walk toward the kitchen, each step echoing in the quiet house.
Logan has a nice sized condo in the better part of the city.
I could never afford something nice like this.
My little one bedroom apartment I had before all this shit went down can fit inside this place two times over.
I wonder why a single man wants a place this big?
As I pass the dining room, the lights of the Oakland cityscape shine through the massive windows, illuminating the dark gray walls with a warm, inviting glow.
This place is amazing. The clean lines and gray and cream color scheme gives off a bachelor vibe, while also exuding luxury.
It’s not your typical bachelor pad. Instead of beer cans and takeout containers laying everywhere, it has framed black and white fine art prints, potted plants, and plush cream leather furniture.
I haven’t asked, but this place had to cost in the millions.
I don’t know what he does for a living, but he makes a fortune to be able to afford something like this.
Maybe he’s in finance?
I chuckle at that thought. There’s no way in hell a man like Logan works a corporate job.
I sigh. “Maybe a glass of wine will help me go to sleep instead of water.”
I’m not much of an alcohol drinker anymore, but I do love a glass of wine especially when I’m so wound up, I can’t sleep.
I pull a bottle of Reisling from the wine cabinet in the kitchen and sit it on the counter, humming a song from the movie I watched earlier today. Next, I move to the cabinets and rummage through them looking for a wine glass.
“Top shelf. The cabinet to your left.”
I whip around, a strangled scream rips from my throat, and my hand flies to my chest.
“Jesus, fucking Christ, Logan.” I blow out a breath of relief. “You scared the shit out of me. I’m glad I didn’t have one of your glasses in my hand.”
He’s propped against the archway that separates the dining room from the large kitchen with his massive arms across his chest looking like a god and every girl’s wet dream.
He runs his large palm through his sweat drenched, unruly, dirty blonde hair with a smirk playing on his lips.
He’s shirtless. His tan, tattooed skin, glistens with sweat, dripping onto his chiseled abs, which look as though they are carved from granite.
His white gym shorts hang low on his narrow hips, drawing attention to a noticeable bulge he makes no effort to conceal from me.
He has a boxer’s build. Wide shoulders, slim waist, defined arms and legs, and never-ending muscles.
The man is beyond gorgeous. He’s definitely one of God’s favorites, and there’s no doubt in my mind he knows it.
His mouth ticks up just a hair at the corners. This is the second time he’s let me see him smile and I get the feeling it isn’t one of the things he does a lot, but he should. It transforms his entire appearance. He doesn’t look so villainous and more like the boy next door.
His eyes shamelessly move down my body then settle back on my face. My nipples harden at his blatant attention. And this is the first time in a long time I’ve had any reaction to a man that isn’t disgust, especially when they’re so unapologetic of their scrutiny of my body.
“Do you always walk around half dressed?” his deep, sensual voice hums, sending shivers down my spine.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to physically react.
Its deep rumble, reminiscent of warm honey, sends a ripple of awareness through me igniting something deep inside me I haven’t felt in a long time. When his eyes move down my body again, and linger on my chest, he bites his lip. A blush warms my skin, and my breath hitches in my throat.
I want to nibble on his lip and soothe the sting on his skin with my tongue.
For a moment, I’m mesmerized by his captivating attention. It’s like when the boy you’ve been crushing on for the longest, finally recognizes you. Or like the world has disappeared, leaving only the intensity of his gaze as he undresses me with his unwavering stare.
The intensity in his gaze, heavy with unspoken meaning, leaves me completely breathless. Excitement rushes through me like a raging river. Once again, I haven’t had this kind of reaction to a man in a long time. It’s exciting but also terrifying.
Do I want him? Of course, I want him, but what happens if he wants me too? Can I have him after the shit I’ve experienced, or will I freak out if he touches me? Shouldn’t his attention to my body disgust me like all other men? And if he doesn’t, why?
I look down, then realize I’m in nothing but a pair of white cotton bikini briefs and a tank top. All my questions disappear from my mind.
“Oh shit!”
My dark nipples are showing through the thin cotton fabric which explains why his eyes have zeroed in on my chest. I throw my arms across my body trying to cover up the best I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize. I’ve been so caught up in his attention and the way he looks, I forgot I’m basically naked. No wonder he’s looking at me the way he is.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I’m not complaining.” I can’t help but stare at him as he makes his way toward me. “You can walk around like this or naked if you want. You have an amazing body, Paris. Never be ashamed to show it around me.”
The compliment rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to say.
“Thank you, I think,” I say a little uncertain of what my response should be.
I’m out of my wheelhouse with this situation.
It’s been a long time since a man has given me positive compliments on my body in a way that isn’t crude or made to make me feel like a whore.
And if it isn’t a compliment, it’s to make me feel like I’m a whale and not doing enough to keep my body looking good enough.
So, while I’m not uncomfortable with Logan’s attention, I’m confused by it.
While with Nikita, I was on a strict diet.
My days consisted of a bagel with a teaspoon of cream cheese in the morning and a bottle of cold water.
Lunches were a small salad and maybe a broiled chicken breast if I was lucky or he felt like I needed to be rewarded for something.
And rarely did I have dinner unless he had to show me off to a client or associate of his, then we went out to some fancy restaurant.
Even then, he ordered for me which mainly consisted of some type of salad.
The entire six months of hell I had no say in anything, including what food I ate or how much I had of it.
I lost so much weight. Most of the time, I didn’t recognize myself.
Now I’ve gained some of my weight back in the short time I’ve been here and I’m still getting used to the drastic change.
My hair is healthier. So is my skin. I actually don’t look like a walking dead person anymore.
When Logan reaches the kitchen island, he picks up the bottle of wine then inspects it before sitting it back down. “Nice choice.”
Maybe he senses my unease. I exhale, relieved by the change of topic, feeling a lightness in my chest. My emotions are all over the place because of the way my body is reacting to him and why is that reaction sexual. It isn’t ordinary for me. Not since Nikita.
Nikita’s abuse turned me off to men in general.
Their attention makes me cringe and makes my skin crawl.
I did what I needed to do to survive. No arousal.
No attraction. No nothing. But none of that’s happening when I’m around Logan.
It’s the complete opposite. I want to experience and do everything with him and to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I probably should’ve asked first.”
He waves me off. “As long as you’re my guest, what’s mine is yours.”
The glint in his eye makes me think he’s talking about more than the things in his house. He brushes by me as he walks to the cabinet and pulls down two wine glasses from the top shelf. His scent lingers in my nose. Spice, patchouli, and sweat. He smells so good.
“You mind if I join you?”
His question snaps me out of my daze as he watches me, waiting for my answer. We haven’t been this close since he woke me up from my nightmare the first night I moved in. It’s almost like he’s been avoiding me.
“Umm…sure.” I shrug. “It’s your wine.”
He pulls a wing corkscrew from a drawer, then closes it. “Can you grab the bottle of wine?” he asks then walks out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“I guess I’m following,” I murmur, grabbing the bottle of wine.