Chapter 9 #2
"Tell me what happened to kill your dreams."
He already knows the answer, but I answer anyway. "My father died. The debt collectors started calling my workplace. I couldn't keep the job and keep my family safe, so I quit and moved my mom and sister out of state with the very little reserve money I had saved up."
I take a breath and force the next words past the tightness in my throat. "I did what was needed. Found one obscure job after another until I landed at Stacked Pages. That's where I met your brother."
Drake grunts at the mention of Jonah. "He always loved out of the way places with good coffee."
Silence stretches between us, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates and the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. I can feel Drake working toward something, a question building behind his eyes that he's not sure he should ask.
"Go ahead, Drake." I set my fork down and meet his gaze directly. "Ask me what you want to know."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Why didn't my brother give you the money you needed to get rid of Victor?"
"I never asked him. Never told him." I shrug, though the motion feels heavier than it should. "I paid my monthly fees and that's it."
"Jonah never did see past his own needs."
"It's not really on him." The defense tastes sour on my tongue, but I say it anyway.
"I could have said something. He might have helped.
Or he might have told me I needed to sleep with him to get the money, and that would have made me a prostitute.
" I press my lips together and force myself to hold Drake's gaze.
"I laid awake many nights wrestling with that conclusion. I just couldn't do it."
"You would rather owe Victor than have your image tarnished."
"It's all I have left in this world. That and my pride." I adjust my glasses again, a nervous habit I can't seem to break. "My mother says it's going to be my downfall one day. Frankly, it’s one of the few things she's probably right about."
A small smile tugs at the corner of Drake's mouth. "Don't listen to her. It will ultimately set you apart from many at the end of the day. Trust me on that."
The unexpected validation makes my chest ache with gratitude I don't know how to express.
Drake is quiet for a moment, his gray eyes distant as if he's working through something in his mind. Then he refocuses on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I meant what I said earlier. Victor Kedrov's hold on you ends now. I have a friend watching for any issues. Your family is under my protection. No one touches them."
"Who do you have?"
"A friend of mine. Protection is his whole operation." Drake reaches out and takes a tendril of my hair between his fingers, caressing the smooth tips as he talks. The touch sends warmth cascading through my chest.
"He's a biker down in New Orleans. His name's Reaper. He enjoys cracking the skulls of men who prefer to learn the hard way."
I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "That's quite a skill set."
"He's got contacts in New York. Big family of friends who help each other out."
"Is this friend of a friend reliable?"
Drake's eyes crinkle with something that might be amusement. "You don't trust easily, do you?"
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. "Nope. Would you when it comes to your family?"
"Good answer." He moves his hand from my hair to lightly caress the underside of my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
"He is very reliable. Ares is no joke. Protecting the innocent practically runs in his blood since birth.
It's a long story. If you're lucky, one day you'll get to meet them all. They'd love you."
The warmth that blooms in my chest at his words catches me off guard. Drake is sharing a tenderness that lives beneath his hard exterior, offering me a glimpse of the man behind the mafia boss. I tuck that bit of information away for now, along with all the questions it brings to mind.
“Do you have a phone I can borrow? I no longer have service.” I had until today to pay and as of three hours ago, the line cut. It's embarrassing to admit, but it’s still the truth. I pull it out of my pocket and set it on the counter.
Drake pulls out his cell phone and hands it over. “Call anyone you like.”
“Thank you. My sister will freak out if she sees bikers following her around. She doesn’t exactly know about Victor or the debt or any of the issues, really. I never wanted to bog her down with the ugly truth about our father. She worshiped the ground that man walked on.”
“You’re a good sister. She will never know Ares is watching. Trust me.” Compassion softens the hard lines around Drake's eyes as he considers me for a moment.
I dial my sister’s number from memory and fill her in on the new job, the signing bonus and let her believe it everything is above board. The longer I talk the more Drake watches me. I promise to call tomorrow and to give her more details.
When I end the call, we leave the kitchen clean and the dishwasher running.
Drake slips his hand into mine, our palms settling together as he leads me back toward the bedrooms. The hallway stretches before us, all shadows and soft lighting, and I'm so focused on processing everything that's happened today that I almost miss it.
Oh.
A door I hadn't noticed before stands ajar. A glow of soft light bleeding through the crack at its base.
I slow my steps, drawn by curiosity I can't explain and our connection breaks.
"Katriana?" Drake's voice carries a question.
But I'm already pushing the door open.
I shouldn't have opened this door. But the moment I pushed it open, the rest of the penthouse ceases to exist.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line every wall, their dark mahogany frames cradling thousands of spines that gleam in the firelight. A hearth crackles in the corner, casting dancing shadows across leather armchairs and thick Persian rugs that muffle my footsteps as I drift deeper into the room.
I forget to breathe. Forget to be angry. Forget that I signed away a year of my life to a man I should despise.
My fingers brush the nearest shelf with something close to reverence, tracing gilded lettering that speaks of first editions and rare printings.
Before everything fell apart. Before the debt and the desperation and the Red Letter wish that brought me here.
This was what I wanted. A room full of stories and a life built on magical words.
"You have a first edition Austen," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.
"I have several."
Drake's voice curls through the shadows like smoke, and I spin to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest.
The firelight catches in his silver hair, turning it to burnished platinum. Those steel-gray eyes watch me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly, violently awake.
He moves into the room without hurry, each step deliberate, controlled. A predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. Not that I'm trying to run. Not at this moment, when the firelight softens the hard lines of his face and turns him into something almost gentle.
Almost.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on what is obviously a private room.”
He’s shaking his head before I finish speaking. "You can use this room whenever you like. There's nothing in here that is off limits." The small area between his brows creases like he has something else to say but decides to keep his words to himself.
"Thank you, Mr. Moses." I wish I could say more but the day has left my nerve endings frayed and my vast knowledge of language can't muster more than those two words.
He considers me for a moment before continuing like he's made his mind up about something, "During business hours it's Mr. Moses. But after hours and within the walls of our home call me Drake."
Our home? There's no way I can ever consider this my home. That's dangerous thinking. I don't give my thoughts words and just politely offer, "Okay, then." I smile softly.
His gaze caresses the slope of my cheek and travels down the delicate line of my neck before he draws his attention back to my face. "Good. And there's no need to thank me, little rose. This room is yours. It always was."
What? I shift my body to fully face him and want to ask what the heck that means, but his soft expression tells me everything I am afraid to ask.
The kindness in his voice undoes me.
My eyes sting. I look away, desperate to hide the emotion clawing up my throat.
"Most people use libraries for reading," I manage, injecting false lightness into my voice. "Not as leverage against their captives."
"You're not my captive, Katriana."
"The contract says otherwise," I counter.
He steps close enough that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. My ex's older brother stands near enough that his scent wraps around me—sandalwood and whiskey and something darker, something that makes heat pool low in my belly despite every instinct screaming at me to step back.
"The contract," he says slowly, "says you work for me. Live under my protection. That I'll care for your family and keep you safe from men like Victor Kedrov."
"And the maybe or not heir clause?"
Something flickers in those gray eyes. Not cruelty. Something softer that I don't want to name.
"We’re back on that, I see. When it happens, if it happens, it will be your choice, as I stated before.
" His voice drops to a rumble that vibrates through my chest. "I want a family, Katriana.
But I want it with someone who wants it too.
And you will. Of that I have no doubt." The first hint of arrogance I’ve seen on the man drifts across his handsome features.
I don't know what to do with this man. With his contradictions. One minute he's a ruthless mafia boss who collects rare books and gives away libraries. The next, he's watching me like I'm something precious instead of something owed.
But I know the truth.