Chapter 7
Lucy
Bleary-eyed and tired from fighting my comforter all night, I stumble out of my room at a little before seven in the morning to find Callum in the kitchenette, fussing with the coffee maker.
He stretches his thick neck. Crackling and popping follow.
I’m starting to think he waits for me to get up before he does that, as a way of laying on the guilt over the fact that he’s slept on the floor for five whole nights.
A twinge of something that resembled guilt did stab me when I woke that first night to grab some water and caught sight of his hulking frame camped out on the living room floor. Then I remembered how much he aggravates me, and the guilt instantly vanished.
Forget the couch. My entire apartment is too small for him.
Cohabiting with this man hasn’t been easy. He fills the entire space with his massive everything. His body. His presence. His freaking scent.
Worst of all, the need for his services reminds me of things I want to forget.
Hell, his constant presence frayed my nerves even before he started shacking up in my apartment. Am I supposed to feel safe with a six-foot-two killing machine sleeping in the next room?
Callum’s quiet vigilance protects me. And imprisons me. And though I have to admit this is the safest I’ve felt since before, I’m still not okay. Quite the opposite.
He’s completely sabotaged my routine.
I can’t do anything—and I do mean anything—without him getting in my way and screwing it up somehow.
Running on the treadmill. My carefully tailored weight training regimen. Curling up on the couch to unwind with the nature channel. Random photography projects with the camera Maya gifted me for my birthday.
Everything that makes me me—everything that’s given me a sense of normalcy and control for the past several weeks—is now over because of the gorgeous dictator standing by the sink.
I can’t even do my usual morning workout without him breathing down my neck. My room’s too cramped for yoga, but if I move out to the living space, the way I usually would, I’ll have Callum’s eyes all over my body.
He’s always watching. Always.
Ostensibly, he’s doing his job. But sometimes, his lingering gaze is a little too much. Too heavy. Too hot.
Those heated glances when he doesn’t think I’m watching flutter through my stomach like an entire swarm of butterflies and get my heart thumping. Hard. Half the time, I can’t figure out if fear drives my reaction or something else entirely.
Something I refuse to acknowledge.
Yesterday, I came out earlier than normal, and he was sitting at the table shirtless.
Shirtless. Broad shoulders, sculpted back, lean, muscular biceps, and taut abdomen, all on parade.
The apartment smelled of sweat and protein powder, and I nearly scrambled across the distance between us to see if his skin was still damp from a workout.
What a relief that his ringing phone yanked me back to reality. I never would’ve lived that down.
The warden working out in the mornings wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but I’ve hardly seen him do anything since he started guarding me.
Usually, when I don’t have a shift at the diner, he paces by the door to the balcony. Like he’s expecting a sneak attack by hang glider, and he’s got a can of Krav Maga at the ready, waiting to strike.
If he’s not pacing, he’s lounging on my sofa or leaning against a wall, reading from a tablet or the same book over and over. From the title, I can tell he’s not into light reading either. The Russian Civil War to World War II: A Selection of Essays on Military History.
If he’s not reading, he’s crunching on protein bars or eating a salad or something. The man eats like there’s no tomorrow. More than once, I’ve caught him staring into my freezer like he desperately wants a scoop of my artisanal sorbet from Gino’s down the street.
The worst thing he does is at night. After I retreat to my room, when he thinks I’ve fallen asleep, he switches on the television and watches period dramas.
Period. Dramas. Mostly British detective shows where the main characters sit around solving mysteries and sipping tea. Full-on Sherlock Holmes-type shit.
Those shows grate on my nerves more than he does.
At work, I do what I can to ignore him. Once I finish my shift, I walk home as quickly as possible and hide behind my bedroom door the minute I’m back.
I’ve taken to watching my trashy reality shows on my laptop from the safety of my bed every night to minimize the amount of time Callum and I spend in the same room.
Forget going out for fresh air. I can barely walk a foot without him tying down my shadow.
I scowl at his back while he takes a long swig from his coffee mug. He spins around, and our eyes lock before mine drop. Mine always drop first.
A naked torso stares back at me.
His navy button-down is open, exposing every inch of his toned abs and chest. The rise and fall of his diaphragm hypnotizes me with each breath.
He’s ripped. Of course he is. Darren wouldn’t hire him if he wasn’t in perfect shape for the job.
My gaze trails even lower, following the thin line of hair just below his naval. Heat blooms in my core, searing through every nerve in my body. I bite my lower lip.
And then I sense his eyes lingering too.
Glancing down at myself, a continent-sized cringe curls through my muscles. Dammit! Sleep deprived and groggy or not, I should’ve remembered to slip a robe over my silk tank and shorts pajama set. I might as well have strolled into the kitchen decked out in a teddy.
I cross my arms as embarrassment barrels through me.
On top of that, Callum’s undivided attention ignites a feeling inside me that I thought was gone for good. Or at least, buried too deep for me to remember it ever existed. Though I know his appreciative gaze doesn’t mean anything. I’m only a job to him.
I’m perturbed by intentions that don’t even exist.
And worse still, Callum notices my discomfort. Like now, for instance.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Huh?” I try to calm my racing heart. His eyes…he looks…hungry?
“I’m here in a professional capacity.” He presents me with his back so that he can pour a splash of milk into his mug. “Even if I weren’t, you’re not my type.”
And just like that, Callum Kavanagh slaps me across the face with his disinterest at seven in the freaking morning before returning to his coffee like nothing happened.
My molars grind together. Once. Just once, I’d like to break this man’s control, create chaos in his world, and see how he likes it.
I ball my hands into fists and spew out the first words that pop into my head. “Bite me.”
The tendons in his neck tense and then relax. “As much as the thought of biting you intrigues me,” he has the audacity to shoot me a chastising look, “I’m a professional, and therefore, I have no intention of crossing any personal boundaries with you.”
“I wish you would.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I cringe, wondering if it’s possible to literally die from embarrassment.
His lips part. The intensity in his clear green eyes reads as confusion. Or maybe…desire? “Excuse me?”
Triumph warms my belly. For once, I think I’ve thrown him. If he wants to play the consummate professional, then maybe I should play the tease. See how far his disinterest really goes.
My arms drop from my chest. I relax my fists and cross the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, holding his gaze the entire time. I pluck the mug from his hands, setting it on the counter.
“You heard me. I wish you would.” I slide my hand from the mug to Callum’s arm, brushing over the spot near his elbow where his rolled-up sleeve meets skin. “Go ahead, Kavanagh. Cross a line.”
I drag my teeth over my lower lip.
Callum’s chest hitches. Then his eyes narrow. He doesn’t move, but a muscle in his jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth hard enough for me to hear the grind.
I hit him with my sultriest smile and skate my fingers up his arm to his chest, pausing to toy with the button of his shirt. “Come on, I dare you. Or are you too worried about your job?”
The tension in the kitchen thickens.
Several seconds tick by with him staring at me before he inhales a quick breath and reaches up to snag my wrist. “Tread carefully, Marlow. Wouldn’t want you to get in over your head.” His voice deepens and darkens.
I repress the shiver that voice triggers and tunnel the fingers of my free hand through Callum’s hair.
“I know you said I’m not your type, but we both know that’s a lie.
” Inching closer, I brush my lips across his tense jaw as the scent of cedar and vanilla assault my senses.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. ”
A small hiss escapes him, but he says nothing. Just stands there while I continue to run my fingers through his dark auburn waves. I lower my hand, trailing my fingertips along his face, his jaw, his throat.
His eyes shutter half closed as his hold on my other wrist loosens.
My own pulse accelerates. I drag my manicured nails down his chest, relishing the twitch of firm muscle beneath my hand. When I reach his abs, his stomach tightens.
I pause to give him time to stop me, and when nothing happens, I trail my fingers lower.
Another hiss escapes his lips, and I snap my gaze to his. There’s no mistaking the feral glint in his eyes now. He stares back at me with a raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors my own.
My hand reaches the waist of his pants, and I run a finger over the cold metal of his belt buckle. “You’re not made of stone after all, are you, Mr. Bodyguard?”
Callum snatches both my hands and spins us around. I gasp as the edge of the sharp, cool countertop digs into the small of my back.
He pins me with his sturdy body, chest to chest, hip to hip. I’m trapped, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. When he presses his knee between my thighs, my core throbs.
For the first time in a long time, my body reacts to human touch in a way that doesn’t trigger a panic attack. I actually want him. Want him to put his hands on me. To kiss me. Replace my terrible memories with new ones. Good ones.
Callum leans in, his breath teasing my ear. “If we cross this line, there’s no going back. Is that what you want?”
Another voice whispers in the back of my mind. I know you want this. Don’t try to fight me. Be a good little whore and take it.
My breathing quickens as the room tilts. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Suddenly, I’m no longer in my apartment. I’m back in that awful place. Powerless and terrified.
Fear explodes through my muscles, and I shove against my assailant’s chest. I must catch him by surprise, because he stumbles back far enough for me to escape by slipping out from between him and the counter.
“Lucy? Are you okay?”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks as I meet Callum’s concerned stare. The present returns, and I duck my chin. Oh god. What the hell was I thinking?
I drag in a deep breath, reaching for the counter as the room steadies. “I…I’m sorry.” My voice trembles. “I need to…go.”
With that, I flee to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
I cover my mouth to stifle my sobs. I’m such an idiot. Did I really think I could handle…whatever that was between us? That I could touch Callum? Fantasize about doing more without succumbing to a panic attack? What if I’d let things go even further and then went into complete meltdown mode?
I’m a mess. A giant, painful, embarrassing mess.
Raking a hand through my disheveled hair, I catch a glimpse of the digital clock on my nightstand.
Oh my gosh, I almost forgot. Today’s the Runway Revolution audition. I’ve only got a few hours before I need to leave.
Happy to find something other than my recent humiliation to focus on, my lingering anxiety soon gives way to excitement as I tick off a mental list of what I need to do to prepare.
I want to run outside to release all this energy, but I can’t. According to Commander Kavanagh, I’m forbidden from stepping foot on my own balcony without him there to guard my back. It’s a “security risk.”
He thinks I could get shot.
“On the eighth floor?” I challenged him a few days ago. “Do you think my attacker is planning to parachute in?”
His only reply was a flat look and, “Do you really think Viktor Roguilin’s never hired a sniper before?”
That instantly deflated me, because no. As much as I want my life back, I’m not that naive.
My mind flies back to the rat-and-rose-in-a-box I found on my doorstep the night Callum moved in. The memory pushes my heart into overdrive.
Before I know it, I’m reaching for my biggest secret, the one I keep hidden in the bottom of my favorite makeup bag. A small external hard drive.
I’ve held onto this cryptocurrency wallet since my rescue without ever telling another living soul. Not the authorities, not Dr. Shaw, not even Maya. The wallet is the only physical souvenir I have from my time in Viktor Roguilin’s captivity.
Whenever my fear of Viktor gets to me, I plug it into my laptop just to check that everything’s still there. All one-hundred and fifty-three million dollars of it. Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly brave or nosy, I click through the contents.
The wallet doesn’t just contain money. There are also transaction records, contact databases, blackmail materials implicating some of the world’s most rich and famous. Folders upon folders upon folders of dirt Roguilin kept on people.
Even though the idea of testifying terrifies me, seeing all that other stuff—the receipts of ugly deeds done over decades—gives me an extra little boost of courage.
Like a shot of motivation that keeps me moving forward despite my terror that this asshole found where I live and has no qualms delivering gifts of decaying rodents.
The ironic thing is that I was only able to get my hands on the wallet because the monster liked me.
He ordered Sophia Kovaleva to sell dozens of women at that auction, but when he noticed me among the lineup, he instructed her to set me aside and not to let anyone near me unless they planned to outbid him.
Needless to say, no one stepped forward to cross a man like him.
And so, up until the night of the auction, he confined me to the private bedroom connected to his office for his “personal relaxation.”
Compared to most of the victims, I was lucky. But that knowledge only makes me feel worse. Like I shouldn’t still be scared. Like I should’ve recovered already. Like I’m weak. Or worse, a faker.
But I can’t think about those endless days and nights without the horrible, aching urge to climb out of my skin and flee the reality that a man like that ever laid a finger on me.
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head vigorously, trying to force the memories back.
I don’t have time for this.
I’ve only got a few hours left until the audition. There’s work to do.