Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
I wake to the scent of coffee and something sweet. For a moment I don't know where I am. Then it all comes rushing back—the attack, the kidnapping, the kiss.
Noah.
The sheets beside me are rumpled but empty. I run my fingers over the spot where he slept, still warm. My body aches in places I'd forgotten could ache, a delicious soreness that reminds me of everything we did last night.
"Morning."
Noah stands in the doorway, a tray in his hands. His hair is damp, like he's already showered. He wears only sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The tattoos I traced with my fingers last night map across his chest and arms.
"I brought breakfast," he says, moving toward the bed.
I pull the sheet higher, suddenly shy despite everything. "Thanks."
He sets the tray on my lap. Coffee, pancakes drizzled with syrup, fresh berries. It looks like something from a fancy hotel, not what I'd expect from a man who kills people for a living.
"You cook that much?" I ask, taking a sip of coffee. It's perfect—strong with just the right amount of cream.
"I live alone. Had to learn." Noah sits on the edge of the bed, watching me eat. His eyes never leave my face.
I cut into the pancakes, trying to ignore how strange this feels. Not just waking up in his bed, but the domesticity of it all. Last night we fell asleep, him with his arms around me, my head on his chest. I listened to his heartbeat slow as he drifted off.
I've never slept through the night with a man before. Not even David.
"You're quiet," Noah says.
"I'm processing." I take another bite. "This is weird."
"Which part?"
"All of it. You kidnapping me. Us..." I gesture between us. "Whatever happened last night. And now you're bringing me breakfast in bed like we're—" I stop, not sure what to call us.
"Like we're what?" His voice is low, dangerous.
"I don't know." I set down my fork. "That's the problem. I don't know what this is."
Noah reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my cheek. "Does it need a name?"
"Everything needs a name." I look up at him. "You're still keeping me prisoner. That hasn't changed."
"Is that what you felt like last night? A prisoner?" His eyes darken.
I think about his hands on my skin, the way I'd begged for more. "No," I admit. "But that doesn't change what this is."
"And what is this, Evelyn?" He takes the coffee cup from my hands, sets it aside.
"I don't know," I whisper. "But I'm scared to find out."
Noah finishes his coffee and sets the mug on the nightstand. His face shifts, that mask of indifference sliding back into place.
"I need to go to the Ferettis today," he says. "Meeting about the finger."
My stomach twists. In the haze of last night, I'd almost forgotten about Ivan's gruesome message. The pancakes suddenly feel heavy in my stomach.
Noah stands, stretching his arms above his head. The movement makes his muscles ripple beneath his skin. "Should take a few hours."
"I want to come with you." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Noah freezes mid-stretch. "No."
"But this is about me. If Ivan is hurting people because of me?—"
"It's way too dangerous." His voice is flat, leaving no room for argument. "The Feretti compound isn't a concert hall, Evelyn. It's where people like me discuss killing people like Ivan."
"I'm already involved." I push the breakfast tray aside and climb out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me. "If someone is being hurt because Ivan wants me?—"
"Then you're exactly where you need to be." Noah steps closer, his hands gripping my shoulders. "Safe. With me."
"I'm not a child."
"No, but you're not equipped for this world." His eyes soften slightly. "You play violin, Evelyn. I kill people. Those are very different skill sets."
I want to argue, but I know he's right. What would I do at a mafia meeting? Perform Paganini while they discuss murder?
"Matteo will come stay with you," Noah says, his tone gentler now. "Keep you company."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No, you need protection." Noah's thumb traces my collarbone. "And right now, that's with me and Matteo."
I step away from his touch, needing space to think clearly. "Fine. But I want updates. If that finger belongs to someone I know?—"
"I'll tell you everything when I get back." Noah reaches for a shirt hanging on the back of a chair. "Promise."
I watch him dress, transforming from the man who held me last night into something harder, colder. The Noah who's going to this meeting isn't the same one who brought me breakfast in bed.
"Be careful," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
Noah pauses, halfway through buttoning his shirt. For a second he looks genuinely surprised. Then his lips quirk into that dangerous half-smile.
"Careful, Evelyn. Someone might think you care."
"Care?" I scoff, clutching the sheet tighter around me. "Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want to be left alone if Ivan's men find this place while you're gone."
Noah's smile widens but it doesn't stretch to his eyes. "Right. Self-preservation."
"Exactly." I turn away, pretending to search through the shopping bags he brought home yesterday. "I'm practical, not sentimental."
"Is that what you were being last night? Practical?" His voice drops lower, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I face him again, lifting my chin. "Last night was... stress relief. A biological response to trauma. People do strange things when they're afraid."
"Is that what they teach you at Juilliard? How to rationalize fucking your kidnapper?" His words are cruel, deliberately provocative.
"Don't be crude." I feel my cheeks flush with anger—and something else I refuse to acknowledge. "And don't mistake physical attraction for emotional attachment. I've been locked in this apartment with only you for company. It's basic psychology."
Noah steps closer, invading my space. I force myself not to back away.
"So clinical, Evelyn." He reaches out, tracing a finger along my jawline. "But your body tells a different story."
I jerk my head away from his touch. "My body responds to stimuli. That doesn't mean I care about you."
"Keep telling yourself that." Noah steps back, adjusting his cuffs. "Maybe eventually you'll believe it."
Noah moves toward the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth, I don't believe you either."
Before I can respond, he's gone, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and my fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the coffee cup.
I don't care about Noah Rivera. I can't. Caring about him would be the most dangerous thing I could do.