Chapter 15
Nik
We step out of the elevator and into the hallway.
I’m in the penthouse on this floor, which means no one is getting to the top without permission.
We cross the hall and stop at the door, entering the code before walking inside.
She hesitates on the threshold and doesn’t say anything, but then enters like she owns the place.
The balls on this chick. I close the door behind us and lock it. That soft click echoes louder than it should.
She looks around like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Expensive place for a rookie,” she mutters. “Come with secrets or do you provide your own?”
I don’t bite. I don’t have the energy to.
I walk past her, toss my keys on the island, and pull off my hoodie, shrugging off the weight of the last hour.
I loosen my collar and watch her pace toward the floor-to-ceiling windows like she’s trying to put as much distance between us as the room will allow.
“What now?” she says, turning. “I’m just supposed to crash here like this is some kind of field trip into your double life?”
“It’s not a frat house to crash at. For tonight, it’s the only safe place for you.” I look her in the eyes, and she flinches like I slapped her. Good. She needs to take this seriously.
“Real comforting,” she spits.
I step forward a little. Not enough to crowd her, but enough to make sure she hears every word.
“This is the safest place I can offer you. No one gets in unless I let them. No back doors and no weak points,” I breathe.
“I've had to take my own measures of safety, so I can assure you, it’s fine here.
Your place? Not so safe. So let Dante's guy check on it, and since you think you're such a big girl, you can go home tomorrow.”
“Great, the hunter is now the hunted.” She studies me before turning back to the window, the city lights twinkling in the distance. “It’s hard to wrap my head around,” she says quietly. “I’ve no idea how I ended up in your world.”
“I didn’t want you in it.”
She spins to face me. “Well, you failed.”
“I was going to do the article, give you the basics. You went digging. You wanted to make an example of me.” I narrow my eyes.
She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh and turns away again. That sound slices through something in me. “So it’s my fault now? My fault Rhett turned up. My fault you did some shady shit, and it’s about to hit the fan?”
“It wasn’t supposed to ever come up again! You started that!”
The silence that follows is heavy. “I shouldn’t be here,” she says, softer this time, almost like she means it.
“But you are,” I say. “And I need you to listen to me.”
“No.” She rounds on me again. “You don’t get to decide what I need.”
“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to keep you breathing.”
“Why?” Her eyes lock on mine. “Why do you even care?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been trying not to answer since the day we met.
Because I like your fire. Because the second I realized you were in this, I knew I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.
“Because saving people is a specialty of mine.”
“Yeah? And who’s saving you?”
I stare at her.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp.
“You still know me.”
She shakes her head. “I knew the version of you that showed up in daylight. At the hospital. With the team. That guy, he’s not this.”
I laugh. “You didn’t believe that guy either. Give me the truth here, please. You didn’t believe anything Saint Nik did or said.”
She turns, facing me head-on now. “Saint Nik was too good, a little cocky, and a lot charming. But your whole image is so squeaky clean, and no one can be that perfect. Clearly, Nik Papas isn’t.”
“I’m both of those men.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to see through every version. “Then show me.”
I step forward. One more step and I’ll be close enough to touch her. She doesn’t move either; she just stands her ground, daring me to react.
“You’re dangerous,” she whispers.
“Naí.”
“No?” She laughs. “Want to rethink that?”
I shake my head. “Naí,” I say again, “means yes, in Greek. I’m agreeing with you.”
She eyes me. “You’re still lying about something. I can feel it.”
I look at her, she’s got fire and all the instinct in the world, and she’s right. But how much more do I tell her when I’m not sure I can trust her?
~~
It’s almost one in the morning, and my adrenaline is still pumping like I just played a game.
I can’t tell if it’s from the way the night unfolded, or because she’s here in my place.
In my shower. She asked to clean up, said she wanted to wash off the lies of the night.
I ignored the dig and pointed down the hallway to the bathroom.
After a moment, I heard the shower turn on, and my mom’s voice ran through my head about being a good host. Not sure if a forced sleepover is considered hosting, but I went and knocked on the door, calling out loudly, “There are towels in the closet. Extra T-shirts in the dresser in the adjoining room. Help yourself.”
I ignore the raging hard on that’s trying to blind me and come back out to the living room, falling onto the couch. My phone begins to ring and I see it's Stone, Dante’s bodyguard.
“What’s up?” I answer, lying my head back on the couch.
“I’m at her house now.” He pauses, and his tone immediately sets my nerves on edge. “There are scratches near the lock.”
I sit up. “What?”
“Not just one, several, and they look fresh. Like someone was trying to use the wrong key, but nothing about this looks like an accident.”
I scrub my face with my hand. “Anything look moved inside?”
“No, the place is pretty neat. Nothing overturned. So whoever was trying to get in was only looking for one thing.”
“And she wasn’t there.”
“Bingo.”
I let out a breath, quickly trying to figure out how this is going to go down. “Grab some of her things, but don’t make it look like she’s packed for a month away.”
“You got it. See you soon.”
I end the call and place the phone on the table.
Noelle is going to lose her mind when I tell her.
She’s going to want to go back, she’s going to want her own things, and it just can’t happen.
I’ve no idea how this entire scenario has turned so quickly, how the Pitbull of a reporter is all of a sudden someone I have to save.
And I just know she's going to fight me every inch of the way.
I stand quickly, rehearsing in my head every word she’s not going to like, but I pull up short when she emerges from the hallway, the light from the bathroom shining behind her like she’s some kind of apparition.
I let my eyes scan her from head to toe, her wet hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, her crossed arms already boxing me out, her tanned legs on display and bare feet with green nail polish.
Interesting.
She narrows her eyes at me as I continue to stare. “Want to take a picture? It will last longer.” She flips me off, and the spell is broken.
I bark a laugh as she rounds into the kitchen. “You’re something else.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that. And I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve had a half-naked woman coming from your bathroom in the middle of the night. I, however, am never that woman, so I’d appreciate it if you’d quit leering at me.”
I stand still, frozen in my spot, watching her move, and when she turns her back on me, all sense is lost. PAPAS is written across the back of the T-shirt. Of course, because the shirt is so big the letters are scrunched, but I damn well know what it says.
And my name on this woman's back looks fucking incredible.
The fridge door slamming shut breaks my trance, and I walk into the kitchen. She glances at me but tries to continue to shut me out, as she rummages around looking for a glass.
“Cabinet left of the fridge. Grab me one, too. We need to talk.”
She throws a glance over her shoulder, but grabs two glasses and puts them on the island.
I lean on it, one hand on my hip, the other on the counter, and wait.
She pours the orange juice she’s pulled from the fridge into both glasses, then turns and hoists herself up onto the island.
She looks at me with one eyebrow raised, and I huff a laugh.
Assert your place here all you’d like, Noelle.
I head to the small bar I have in the corner of the room and grab the vodka. Pouring two splashes into my glass, I raise it to her.
She holds her glass close to her. “Do I need that for our little talk?”
“Depends on how you take bad news,” I say, the edge in my voice sharper than I mean it to be.
She studies me, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes a slow sip of her orange juice without the vodka, her voice thick with sarcasm as she says, “More bad news coming from the man who basically kidnapped me tonight? Shocking.”
I lean forward just slightly, enough to close the space between us without touching. Her legs swing slowly as she sits on the counter, brushing close to me, and I swear I can feel the heat coming off her skin like a warning. The T-shirt is bunched up, her thighs on display.
“I didn’t kidnap you,” I say evenly. “I protected you. You just didn’t realize you needed protection.”
Something shifts in her expression, barely enough to notice unless you’re watching her like I am, obsessively, with far too much interest for someone who should be keeping things professional.
She could ruin me with one article. Not even a full article, a headline would do me in at this point; just enough doubt for everyone else to start digging too.
“I’m fine,” she says quietly, but it’s the kind of fine that means nothing.
“No,” I reply, my voice dropping. “You’re not. Dante’s guy checked your place. Someone got inside.”
She goes still. Her fingers tighten around the glass, but she doesn’t speak. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. And in the air between us, real fear, and something almost electric stirs.