Chapter 8
FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD (HOLDEN)
Ifucked up.
I know I’ve fucked up.
I’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to miss it when it hits and bounces off my head like a rock.
Hell, I wonder if Cleo would notice if I was spontaneously struck senseless. Because ever since we left Fairfax’s lair, she hasn’t looked at me once.
So maybe I went too far.
Maybe I should’ve just let the man sing his spiel without going out of my way to grill his ass until I was convinced he was worth trusting.
I think it was that broken look on her face while we waited, the panic I could feel in her pulse.
No, I shouldn’t have grabbed her hand either. Absolutely shouldn’t have tried to rub some strength into her, fighting my inner caveman urge to whisk this fragile, worried girl away that second.
It wasn’t supposed to be so hard to trust her and her decisions, when that’s what I swore to do.
This is far from my normal.
When you work a life in security, you get good at balance. The right attitude at the right time while everybody else is flipping their shit.
Doing their dirty laundry without complaint.
Pulling your boss out of the way, protecting them from potential harm and themselves.
Doing it discreetly so no one knows.
Only, Nile still brings out the worst in me. Every bad instinct to protect her like she’s still a little girl and do it like a fucking overbearing moose.
Yes, she’s mad.
I feel the arctic chill when we’re in the same room.
That’s one thing that’s changed. When she was a kid, it was easier.
I always had more to do, other places to be, and it didn’t matter if a teenager sulked. The house was big enough for both of us and we’d go back to our neat, separate worlds after butting heads.
But here, there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do except pace this damn bedroom instead of working on my laptop.
My job begins and ends with securing Cleo and the egg.
If it didn’t, I’d be outside right now, stalking the streets. It’s still chilly this time of year, that crisp bite in the air after dark.
A walk would calm my head, far more than the breeze wafting through this window.
New York City is an endless maze and a man can walk to his heart’s content. Only, I’m trapped with my frustrations. My duty to guard what’s in this condo with life and limb.
I stop pacing long enough to listen, pressing my ear against the door.
For the past few hours since I retreated in here, I’ve heard her scribbling furiously on her sketch pad. There it is again, loud enough to picture her nimble fingers working. Probably drawing some masterpiece where I have horns and a tail.
I snort and rip myself away.
Back to pacing.
Despite being roomy, the master bedroom isn’t big enough to do this comfortably, but I still continue, wondering if I’ll wear a hole in the fancy carpet.
Shit, now I know how a bear feels caged up in a zoo.
I want to burn this off. Pump some iron. Go for a run, ignoring the hellfire in my knees. Anything to work this off and clear my mind.
I pivot too quickly when I turn and my knee stings.
Yeah, so much for that run.
I’m too young for my own body to sabotage me like this.
Another good goddamn reason to bridge careers and find something less demanding the minute this fuckery ends.
If it ever does.
I last another half hour, walking slower, working through the deafening ache until it fades, before my patience thins.
Finally, when I can’t stand it, I tear the door open and stomp out.
She’s not drawing anymore. She’s lying flat with her legs kicked over the back of the sofa, awkwardly twisted on top of a couple pillows.
My eyes flick to her ankle. I’m glad it isn’t swollen.
I stand and listen for her soft breathing, not quite a snore, wondering if she’ll pop up and give me another shitty look I probably deserve.
Not now. She’s out cold.
Fuck me.
The tension drains from my shoulders. At least she’ll hold off on harpooning me for barking shit at Fairfax tonight.
I step closer, silent as the grave.
Nile’s actually peaceful when she sleeps.
The little tornado, gone.
No anxiety on her soft face. That bleached stripe in her hair gives her an angelic look.
A sad expression curdles her face, and she twists, adjusting herself on the sofa hopelessly. There’s no way she’ll ever be comfortable on this thing.
It’s one of those chic modern fabrics, fine to sit on, but prone to catching if you move too much.
Not a place to sleep.
Let alone a place to be watched by an older damn creeper.
I sigh.
Leonidas loved his aesthetics, and it didn’t always translate to comfort. She’s not going to get any decent rest like that. And after the spill she took leaving, she’ll wind up with a nasty crick in her neck.
Dammit, no.
I walk closer and notice her sketch pad lying open beside her. On the page, there’s a detailed sketch of her holding the Hera Egg, looking hopeful. It’s sectioned off into a square panel, almost like a cartoon.
Her detail makes my breath stall, right down to the neat rows of sparkling diamonds and the stripe folded through her hair.
Behind her, a very obvious, large, scowling shadow, rippling with dark lines like a storm cloud.
Predictable.
So fucking predictable it makes me smile.
She’s still got it in her to draw me, and it’s a lot less flattering than last time. Perhaps I am a raging asshole to her, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her to wake up sore and limping.
Her attitude hasn’t changed much, and neither has mine.
After I spent a solid decade looking after this girl, old habits die hard.
She’s warm silk as I carefully slide my arms under her and hoist her to my chest. Between Leonidas’ grandkids and Kit, I’ve had a lot of practice carrying little people to bed without waking them. It’s not much different with a grown woman.
With a small noise of contentment, she settles against my chest.
That apple smell invades my nose, damnably enticing.
I silently curse it, and her, and this ridiculous position the old man put us in.
I carry her to the master, the only one with a mattress where anyone’s going to sleep tonight.
This would be so much easier if she wasn’t so soft, if her weight wasn’t warmth and supple curves.
If she didn’t smell this good.
If she didn’t feel so delicate, begging to be savaged.
Enough, you filthy fucking goat.
I try to shake the thoughts from my head as I lay her down carefully, tucking her under the covers.
Her bottom lip juts out.
For the briefest second, it looks like a pout, and it makes me think that maybe she misses my warmth.
Then she moves, folding herself up in the blankets, forming a little nest. Just like she did on the plane.
Dead to the world and, luckily, to me.
I hesitate, considering my next move.
As much as I don’t want to share a bed with this girl under any circumstances, I’m not risking a back spasm on that miserable fucking sofa.
With a sigh, I strip off my shirt and leave my shorts on, then slide into bed beside her, lying at the very edge, keeping ample fucking space between us.
I wedge a spare pillow between us for good measure.
And I think I stare at the ceiling for a whole two hours, ignoring her soft breathing and a thousand demon thoughts gnawing me raw.
I angrily shift my shorts a few times, disgusted with the hard-on from hell.
Like it or not, we have to trust Fairfax for whatever comes next.
The longer we’re trapped together like this, pure disaster is all but guaranteed. I can smell it in every apple-scented breath that hollows out my soul.
I lurch awake.
The bed beside me feels cold and empty, and it’s daylight.
I vaguely recall time passing slowly, Cleo’s oddly adorable snore, even if it could be distracting as hell sometimes. It took a lot of mental fortitude for me to ignore her presence and pass out.
Where the hell is she now? And fuck, the egg—
My eyes flick to the space next to me on the floor. I reach for the suitcase and feel the cold shell.
Still locked. Still secure.
I stand up and stretch, emerging in the great room to find Cleo swallowed by a large chair next to the window.
There’s something in front of her and a tall, green smoothie, plus two coffees that fill the condo with the smell of rich, black decadence.
Just how I like it.
Her hair looks swept up in a messy bun today, bleached stripe twisted like an ice cream cone, and she’s drowning in a red sweater about three sizes too big.
My stomach growls at the smell of food and coffee.
“Ordered you a breakfast burrito,” she says, nodding at the bag on the counter.
I walk a little farther into the room, wary, and it’s only when her gaze drops that I remember I’m not wearing a shirt.
Shit.
“Your peace offering,” she says as I turn to leave. “You know. Because I don’t really cook like you.”
“You went out and got this?” I sigh and face her again, rubbing my cheek through a yawn.
“I ran down and grabbed it from a delivery guy down in the lobby. I wouldn’t dare leave the building and give you a heart attack.
Perish the thought.” She holds up her hands innocently and uncurls those long legs before she pads over.
Taking my arm, she drags me to the other chair next to her.
“Sit and eat before you get dressed. Are you always this stubborn? I would’ve asked what you wanted, but you were pretty dead. ”
Shamefully, she’s right, and nothing about this is.
I’m supposed to look after her, but I passed the fuck out when sleep finally found me. Ironic.
“I was more tired than I thought,” I grumble, reaching into the bag for a burrito.
“They’re both for you. I got three,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Both?”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you eat.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” I growl back, tearing off the wrapper and biting into it. The first bite takes the edge off my hunger.
“Better?” she asks with a knowing smile.
“It’ll be better once that caffeine hits my bloodstream.” I take a gulp from the cup, ignoring the way it blisters the roof of my mouth.