Chapter 7
Seven
Cora
Iwake tired, aching and very naked.
Not to mention seriously freaked the hell out.
My mood is not improved by the fact that I’m surrounded by darkness.
I have to wait a few minutes for the room to come into full view.
Even my eyes are tired. I rub at them, but when they come into focus I see that I am actually in a room carved out of rock.
When the fog of sleep clears next, I am stuck between wanting to cry or curl up into a ball.
A swift strike of terror has my breath locking in my chest. “It wasn’t a dream.
I’m really am in Hades’ underground. I guess that’s one way to keep me out of sight.
” My seized chest wants me to believe I’m about to meet my end, but in reality I can’t pin-point where death is hiding in the shadows.
If at all. I’ve been on high alert for so long, my senses want to assume there’s danger first and verify later.
Not such a fun feeling.
At this rate a heart attack might take me out before Volkov Junior has a chance.
I take a steadying breath and force my heart out of my throat.
I slowly push up to sitting, the blanket pools around my waist, exposing everything to the cool underground air.
I yank the heavy blanket back up to my chin and hold it there, heart slamming against my ribs.
My brain crawls over the events of last night and I remember the car ride here, the quick tour, my wet towel, and then it was lights out for me.
My brain and body shut down so fast all I remember is arguing with my Russian bodyguard and then I was dreaming about all his fabulous muscles.
“Well, that is embarrassing. The first night at my ex’s and I pass out before any of the good stuff could happen. Freaking figures.”
Seems about right. I’m going to end up in a coffin before I lose my virginity.
Whatever.
I scan the room for the man who stole my towel while I was unconscious, but I don’t see an inch of his glorious muscles, sarcastic smile or his infuriating alpha energy.
Or much of anything else, really. The room is empty, dim, and void of any sound.
There’s no hum of traffic or sound of birds coming from beyond the rock walls.
I listen longer this time, but I can’t pick up any signs of life at all.
There’s only the faint whisper of ventilation and my own erratic breathing.
I press a hand to my chest and force air into my lungs. "Okay, Cora. Ease your roll.”
I scan the floor. The towel is in a waste basket by the closet, damp and discarded. My boots are at the foot of the bed, one upright, one tipped on its side. The paper is still in there. I can see the folded edge poking out of the top of the right boot.
He took off my towel. While I was sleeping. Which means he saw me naked.
The heat that crawls up my neck has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Something about knowing his eyes were on my body is a little surreal since not even his son saw as much of me as Rowan did last night. And that was before he took my towel off.
I try to be rational about this. The towel was wet. I would have caught a cold. He was being practical. He probably didn't even look.
Yeah. Sure. A man who kills people for a living definitely averted his eyes like a perfect gentleman while he stripped me naked.
I groan and fall back against the pillow, pressing the flats of my palms into my eyes.
His pillow. His bed. The man’s scent is everywhere. Cedar, pine and cold air. I'm lying on the side of the bed that dips slightly from what has to be years of use. I roll to the left to find the other side untouched. He didn’t sleep here.
I sit up again, keeping the blanket clutched to my chest this time, and look around properly.
The room is large, dark, and minimal. I expect the darkness. I mean we are underground. But he opted to make the place even darker with his structural choices.
If it’s not black, the only other color is gray. Well, the blue of the pool counts, I guess with the shimmering of the light. There’s an entrance to the lavish pool from his bedroom. And if memory serves you can also enter the body of water from the living room.
I turn my attention to the walls. They are carved from the mountainside and either they are black naturally or they have been made to appear that way.
They are simply gorgeous. To my right there’s a large open-styled walk-in closet.
Motion lights flare to life when I walk in, running my hand over the expensive material of all the dark suits lined up with military precision.
There’s only one empty hanger. And at the far end of the closet, folded on a shelf is a single pair of worn jeans with a gray t-shirt folded on top.
Huh. Interesting. He has one set of casual clothes. The rest are multi-thousand dollar suits. In the center is an island of gold cufflinks, several watches in a large case and carefully color-coded ties.
When I roam back to the bedroom, his nightstand has a book on it.
The spine is cracked and it’s turned face down, mid-read.
It’s some kind of thriller. That doesn’t surprise me.
Next to it, sits a glass of water, half-finished.
No second nightstand on the other side of the bed. No second anything, actually.
My phone sits on the nightstand next to his book. I must have fallen asleep holding it. I cross the room to his side of the bed and grab it. The screen lights up with another of Raine's missed calls, the timestamp from around sunrise.
She must be worried out of her mind.
I hit the callback button and hold the phone to my ear praying it goes through this time.
But nothing. No ring, no voicemail, just dead air. I check the signal and find exactly zero bars.
Of course. Underground bunker. I move around the room but don’t find a single bar except for by the nightstand where the phone was.
A bar pops up and I try dialing her again, this time putting it on speaker. I keep an eye out for Rowan, but the energy of the room tells me I’m alone.
The call goes directly to voice mail.
“Grrr! Son-of-a-bitch!”
Maybe it’s for the best. What would I even say? How do I explain any of this when I don't understand it myself? Raine would hear the gaps in my story and fill them with panic, and I can't manage her panic right now. Mine is taking up all the available bandwidth I have.
I put the phone down and lift my hand to the locket at my throat.
Still there. The gold is warm from my skin.
I pop it open and the dried lily of the valley sits in one half, fragile and pale, a pressed ghost of something that used to bloom in Mom's window box.
I touch it with my fingertip. Close it. Hold it in my fist.
I need a shower. The soap from last night has dried into a crunchy shell in my hair and I probably look like a creature that crawled out of a swamp. If I'm going to figure out where I am and how to get out, I should at least do it without looking like a before photo in a shampoo commercial.
I wrap the blanket around myself and shuffle toward what I hope is a bathroom.
The door on the left opens into exactly that, black marble and chrome fixtures and a shower the size of my entire bathroom back home.
Everything is sleek, expensive, and designed for one person.
One toothbrush in the holder. One towel on the rack. One razor on the shelf.
I grab the mouthwash and open drawers until I find a pack of brand new toothbrushes. “Bingo.” More towels are stowed in a closet behind the bathroom door.
Once I’m done, I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up, which takes about three seconds because of course a billionaire's underground lair has instant hot water. Steam fills the space. I drop the blanket and step under the spray.
The heat hits my shoulders and I groan out loud.
Two days of running, hiding, not sleeping, fighting off assassins and then getting hauled into the underworld of a mobster leaves a girl stiff head to toe.
My muscles scream. The cut on my shin stings when the water finds it and I look down at the dried blood washing pink down the drain.
I didn't even notice that cut last night. I was too busy trying not to die.
The soap in my hair dissolves and I lather a fresh round into the long length.
Rinse. Repeat. And then again simply because it smells like lavender and honey.
I grab the conditioner and work that in before reaching for the body wash with the scent of cedar and pine.
By the time I'm done, my whole body is going to smell like Rowan Volkov and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Actually, I know exactly how I feel about it. The heat pooling low in my belly when I breathe in his scent tells me exactly how I feel about it, and that feeling is inconvenient and inappropriate and absolutely not something I'm going to think about right now.
I shut off the water and grab the fresh towel from the rack. It's huge, plush, and simply divine against my skin. I wrap it around myself and stand in front of the foggy mirror, swiping a hand across the glass to see my reflection.
I look like hell. Bruises have formed on my forearm where the human tanks grabbed me. Dark circles color the patches of skin under my eyes. But my hair is clean and my skin is warm and I'm alive, which is more than I could say for certain twelve hours ago.
Now I need clothes.
I pad back into the bedroom and stare at the closet. Dark suits. Dark suits. More dark suits. The man owns approximately forty-seven variations of the same outfit. I bypass the suits and grab the gray t-shirt from the shelf, the one casual item he apparently owns.
I pull it over my head and it falls to mid-thigh. Long enough to cover everything that needs covering. I look like I'm wearing a nightgown made for a giant, but it's better than the towel and significantly better than naked.
My boots are still by the bed. I push the paper back in and turn it upright.