26. Chapter 26

26

Wren

I stretch languidly, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light. This ain't my shithole apartment, that's for damn sure. The sheets beneath me feel like fucking clouds, all silky and smooth against my bare skin. I prop myself up on my elbows, taking in the room properly for the first time.

Fuckballs. It's… nice. Like, really fucking nice.

Not the gaudy, gold-plated crap I'd expect from a mafia boss. The walls are a calming sage green, adorned with tasteful abstract art. There's a massive bookshelf along one wall, crammed with leather-bound volumes. The furniture is all dark wood, sleek and modern. A gentle breeze carries the scent of jasmine through the cracked window, along with the cheerful chirping of birds.

My body relaxes involuntarily. It feels… fucking safe here. Peaceful. Which is fucked up, considering I nearly got snatched by some Russian goons last night.

I run a hand through my tangled hair, wincing as my fingers catch on a knot.

"Fuck me," I mutter, memories of last night flooding back. D's hands on my body, his cock filling me up so good I thought I'd split in two. My thighs clench at the phantom sensation.

I'm not gonna delude myself. This is just a one-time thing. Fuck, okay, fine, two-time thing.

But I can't let this happen again. No more playing with fire, no matter how good it burns. I've got enough shit to deal with without adding "mafia boy toy" to the list.

Tossing D out of my thoughts, I focus on the important stuff . Em, Lenny, I hope they are okay. I need to call them. And find some goddamn food before my stomach starts eating itself.

I slide out of bed, my feet sinking into a plush area rug. Christ, even the floor is fancy. I spot the burner phone on the nightstand and reach for it. For a stone-cold killer, he's got an eye for details that would make my gran proud. Who'd have thought Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly would be so… considerate? It's almost unsettling, like finding out a shark enjoys cuddles or some shit.

I flip the phone around in my hand, teeth grinding. Part of me is itching to call Em, to make sure she's okay. But what if I lead those Russian psychos right to her doorstep? Fuck . Those goons from last night weren't exactly selling Girl Scout cookies.

My finger hovers over the power button, then falls away. "Goddammit," I mutter. Looks like I'm gonna have to sit tight and let D handle this shit. For now.

Because if there's one thing I know, it's that when you're neck-deep in mobster bullshit, sometimes you gotta pick the devil you know.

I let out a long breath, tossing the burner phone back onto the nightstand. It lands with a soft thud, a reminder of the shitstorm I'm in.

"Fuck it," I mutter, running a hand through my tangled hair. "I'll do a quick check on Em and Lenny later."

The thought of my siblings sends a pang through my chest, but I can't risk leading those Russian bastards straight to them. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding as I push down the guilt. They're safe. D promised he'd watch over them.

My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Food first, then I'll figure out how to contact the kids safely.

I look around for my clothes, but my T-shirt is MIA. Flashes of D carrying me up here like some kind of caveman Tarzan play through my head. Right. That's where it went.

No way in hell am I putting on that itchy-ass pole outfit again. With a shrug, I pad over to a sleek dresser and start rifling through drawers. "C'mon, rich boy, give me something to work with here."

My eyebrows shoot up when I hit the jackpot. I pull out a soft, well-worn black T-shirt that's gotta be three sizes too big for me. It smells faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely… him.

I slip it on, the hem hitting mid-thigh. It's comfy as fuck but leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable. Like I'm wearing his mark or some shit.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. "Get it together, Wren. It's just a fucking shirt."

I catch sight of myself in a full-length mirror and smirk. My hair's a rat's nest, last night's makeup is smudged to hell, and this shirt makes me look like I'm drowning in fabric. But somehow… I kinda dig it.

My fingers absently trace the hem of D's shirt. This is a bad idea. No, scratch that; it's the mother of all fuck-ups waiting to happen. I've spent years building walls, keeping everyone at arm's length. And here comes D, smashing through them like they're made of paper.

Stop it, Wren! It's just fucking, nothing else!

Even as the thought forms, I feel my body call bullshit. My thighs clench involuntarily, remembering the feel of him between them. My nipples harden against the soft fabric, betraying me further.

"Fuck," I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut. Who am I kidding? I want him like I want my next breath. The danger, the raw intensity—it's like a drug, and I'm already jonesing for another hit.

Fuck . I need to get my shit together before I start humping the furniture or some equally desperate bullshit. I drag my ass to the bathroom, half-expecting more rich boy extravagance. But it's just… normal.

I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing off last night's raccoon eyes with a washcloth that feels like it might disintegrate.

My gaze catches on a towel hanging from a hook nearby. Before I can stop myself, I'm shuffling over, fingers reaching out to touch the soft fabric.

I lean in, inhaling deeply.

Geez, that reeks of his scent. All woodsy and spice and pure fucking man.

"Pull yourself together, you thirsty bitch," I mutter, forcing myself to hang the towel back up. It's just pheromones or some shit. Doesn't mean anything.

A quick sniff test on the pit has me wrinkling my nose.

"Ew," I snarl. Damn it, I reek like a stripper's lunch break. It'll have to do until I can grab a real shower.

I'm about to bail on this bathroom when I catch my own eye in the mirror. Fuck me. There's something there I haven't seen in ages.

A spark. Like I'm actually alive for once.

Last time I saw that look, I was about to do something monumentally stupid. And here it is again, staring back at me.

That spark… it's dangerous.

It's the same one when I start to trust someone.

The spark that shows up when I like someone more than I should.

Fuck .

Somehow, I trust D, but that's a fuckin' one-way ticket to the morgue, and I know it.