Where the hell am I?
Panic grips me when I open my eyes and see I’m not in my own bed, Tiffany softly snoring on the other side of the room. My heart races, adrenaline rushing through me.
I sit up, the soft glow of the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the windows, warming my face. Suddenly, it comes back to me.
I’m at Samuel’s place. I’m safe. I’m not in Misha’s clutches, not in some rat-trap apartment.
I look around, taking in the sight of the cozy room. The windows give me a sweeping daytime view of Midtown. I get up and make my way over to admire the scenery.
It’s funny. The view from my place is of the adjacent building’s brick wall, two feet away. Being able to look out over the city, to see the sky, the sun, and billowy clouds is a gift.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I have no obligations, no pressing fears, no one lurking in the shadows. I have a Sunday off and I’m going to savor it.
I walk over to my duffel, my muscles loose, my mind clear. I pull out a pair of black leggings and a T-shirt, slipping them on then stepping out to explore the condo.
Samuel’s place is immaculate. Sleek. A two-level sanctuary of dark wood, clean lines, and open space, an understated luxury.
The living room is all leather and steel, with tall, expansive windows with views of the mountains almost obscured by the beautiful trees. The kitchen is spotless, every knife and pan exactly where it should be. The bedrooms are tucked away on the other end of the first floor, the space somehow expansive and minimalist at the same time, as well as very inviting.
I run my fingertips along the edge of the granite countertop, admiring the cabin. This place is a fortress. It’s hard to believe that just yesterday, I was lying awake in my cramped apartment, wondering when the next nightmare would knock on my door.
I wander down the hallway, pausing in front of Samuel’s bedroom door. I didn’t hear him leave this morning, but I don’t hear him now, either. He strikes me as the type of man who doesn’t sleep in late, so I assume he’s already left.
The temptation to pull out my phone and text him strikes me. Just to know where he is. But I roll my eyes at myself, scoffing under my breath.
Get a grip, Erin. You’re not his girlfriend. He’s just letting you stay here until Misha backs off. That’s all.
I take a deep breath. I’ve only been here for part of a day, but the thought of leaving this place makes my chest tighten. Here, I’m safe. Here, the walls are solid, the locks firm, the shadows held at bay.
It feels too good. Too stable.
A girl could get used to this. The safety. The luxury. Him.
I push the thought down, locking it away with everything else I can’t afford to want. This isn’t permanent. It can’t be. I know better than to let myself hope for anything more.
Turning away from his door, I head for the stairs. There’s a whole second floor, and I want to see it. As I reach the top of the stairway, I notice the first door to my right leads into a large home gym, filled with weights and cardio machines. Samuel’s in killer shape; the gym explains that.
Another door leads to an office, stately and imposing. Beyond that is a cozy library, complete with a gas fireplace.
This man sure knows how to live.
I reach the final door, laughing when I see what’s inside.
A polished pool table gleams under overhead lights in the middle of the room. There’s a wet bar, a dart board, a shelf of board games, and a small sitting area. A humidor’s tucked into the corner.
I grab a stick, head over to the pool table, and rack the balls. The weight of the cue stick is familiar in my hands. With everything going on, this feels like control—a simple game with clear rules and satisfying outcomes.
I bend over the table, eyes narrowed, lining up a particularly tricky shot. My tongue peeks between my teeth as I focus, my fingers steady on the cue. The world narrows to the geometry of the table, the sharp angles, and the path of the ball.
Just as I’m about to take the shot, a low throat-clearing slices through the silence.
I squeal, straightening so fast I nearly drop the stick. My heart leaps into my throat, adrenaline shooting through me. I spin around, holding the stick like a weapon, ready to jab whoever decided to creep up on me.
Samuel stands in the doorway, hands raised in surrender, that infuriatingly sexy smirk curving his lips. His eyes sparkle with amusement, glinting under the soft lighting.
“Whoa,” he says. “Didn’t plan to die today.”
I press a hand to my chest, my heart pounding, but the tension seeps out of me like a deflating balloon. Laughter slips free before I can stop it. “You should know better than to sneak up on a girl holding a big stick.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, should’ve been a little more considerate, especially with everything going on.”
“It’s fine. Seriously. Don’t blame yourself for me being jumpy. It’s not like you grabbed me and shouted boo.”
He steps into the room, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator who knows exactly what kind of effect he has.
“Do you play?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the pool table, “or are you just threatening innocent bystanders?” He grins and my fingers tighten on the cue stick, the challenge sparking something reckless inside me. I lift my chin, smirking back.
“Been known to play a little. You don’t work in bars all your life without picking up a few things here and there.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
“Only if you’re up for one.”
His eyes lock onto mine. A delicious shiver snakes down my spine, but I don’t back down. His gaze drops to my lips, then slides back up.
“You want to make it interesting?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth lifts, his gaze burning into me. “What did you have in mind?”
I can smell the faint hint of his cologne—dark, musky, intoxicating. My mind flashes to things that have nothing to do with pool and everything to do with the way his body would feel against mine.
I shrug. “Friendly match. Maybe one-pocket, if you’re into that.”
“I am. Just need to grab a stick.”
He steps over and reaches for the cue stick I’m holding, his fingers brushing mine. The contact is brief, but it sets my skin on fire.
“This is my favorite one,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
I don’t let go. My fingers tighten around the stick, a silent dare, a refusal to back down. His breath fans across my face, warm and tantalizing. The world around us fades, the edges blurring until there’s nothing but us. Before I can think, his mouth is on mine.
His mouth is warm, firm, and just rough enough to make my knees weak.
The kiss is slow at first, exploring, testing, and there’s an undercurrent of restraint, of tension ready to snap. My eyes flutter shut, and I let myself fall into it, the taste of him sinking into my bones.
The cue stick slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor, forgotten. My hands find his shirt, clutching the fabric. His fingers slide around my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies are flush.
He deepens the kiss, and a soft moan escapes me. His tongue brushes against mine, teasing, coaxing, until I’m lost, drowning in him. The world spins, my thoughts shattering like glass.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, my eyes dazed. He doesn’t move away, his forehead resting against mine, his breath just as ragged.
“I guess I lost that round,” he says.
