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Honk. Honk. Honk.
The blaring of horns just outside the darkly tinted windows of the van pulls me back to the present. Dmitri pulls his hand back and my skin aches for him to touch me again. I can still smell him on me, though—that copper scent of death twined in with the mint, with the cedar, with the tang of his sweat.
When I glance down, I notice blood is all over my clothes. I’ll never be able to wear this blouse again. That’s the only kind of thought I’m capable of processing right now: dumb, simple, irrelevant. Not even the dry cleaners can get that stain out.
Dmitri squints out the window. “We’ll be there soon.”
I glance through the tinted window behind his head. If I concentrate hard, I can make out the outline of buildings as we drive past.
It takes me a moment to place where we are. This area isn’t right. The buildings are too big and intimidating, the streets are too pretty, the people are too well-dressed to belong to my part of the city.
“What’s going on?” I croak. “Where are we going?”
“My place.”
The unease in my chest stirs back up again. “I want to go home. My home.”
He doesn’t look my way. In fact, he seems intent on avoiding that for as long as possible. “For the foreseeable future, it’s best you consider my place your home.”
My throat tightens. I grip the window tightly, my knuckles turning white. “Why?”
Those silver eyes slide to mine. “Because what happened back there was not an accident or a mistake. It was an assassination attempt.”
Assassination attempt. That’s not a real thing. James Bond says stuff like “assassination attempt.” That’s what popes worry about, not personal assistants.
But here? Now? In my life? No freaking way.
Then again, I suppose it’s not that crazy. Nothing makes sense anymore and it hasn’t for a long time. So I do the only thing I can do under the circumstances: I ask the most obvious question.
“Who would want to kill me?”
He shakes his head. “Not you.” His eyes snake down to my stomach. “My heir.”
There’s that word again. But this time…
I don’t feel like laughing.
7
WREN
The van doors open to reveal sleek mosaic tile, glistening like fish scales. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and we’re not even inside yet. This is just the walled driveway that precedes the gilded façade of The Muse at Haven Crest.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be walking into the city’s most luxurious penthouse condo building at all—much less with blood on my face and the taste of vomit on my lips.
I’m waiting for someone to stop me and turn me away at the revolving door. I’m sorry, Miss—no lost causes, hot messes, or unpleasantly poor people allowed. As a proud member of all three categories, I guess I’m triply denied.
No one could ever accuse me of underachieving.
But no one so much as bats an eyelid, either, as we walk through the massive, marble-drenched atrium towards the elevators. Five sets of brass double doors stand at attention in a neat row. Dmitri leads me to the centermost one and punches in a number that I don’t catch.
I’m not doing a great job of retaining much of anything at the moment. My nerves feel like they’ve been rubbed raw, like they might snap at any moment.
“Doors opening.”
I flinch at the weirdly sultry robot voice that welcomes us into the elevator. The bottom half of the car is padded in a jade green velvety fabric, while the top half is armored with infinity mirrors.
“Doors closing.”
