Page 67 of The Cost of Silence

I slide out of the bed with the precision of a man diffusing a bomb, guiding her head gently onto the pillow. She murmurs something soft and unintelligible, searching blindly for me in her sleep, her hand brushing the space where my body was.

My chest tightens painfully. This woman was my enemy, and I have a sneaking suspicion she might be my ruin.

I tuck the blanket around her, because if I can’t touch her right now, I can at least make sure she’s warm. I stand there for a long moment, watching her breathe, watching her lashes flutter, watching the way her lips part like she’s dreaming.

She looks young like this. Peaceful. Fragile in a way she’ll deny with fire in her eyes.

I bend down and brush a hand through her hair, light, barely there, because it’s the closest I’ll allow myself. Anymore and I’ll climb back into that bed and do all the things I wish I could.

Then I step away before I undo every ounce of self-control I own.

I shower in the guest bathroom on the ground floor, letting the water scald the tension out of my shoulders. Last night plays on a loop in my head, her sounds, her body, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in her world. I brace a hand against the tile, breathing hard like a fucking teenager as I stroke my cock until come jets out of me, plastering the tile with my seed. God, the thought of doing that across her magnificent tits is enough to make my dick twitch back to life.

When I’m dressed, dark slacks, crisp shirt, cuffs rolled, I glance toward the bedroom again.

She’s still asleep.

Good. She needs it.

I write a note quickly, my handwriting sharp and impatient by nature.

Eat. Rest. Take the meds. I’ll be back later. —N

I hesitate before adding a final line—Rossi is outside. Don’t open the door for anyone.—then fold the paper and leave it on her nightstand.

Before I go, I call Rossi.

He answers on the first ring. “Boss.”

“I’m heading in,” I say quietly. “Have something delivered to her in an hour from that deli she likes near her building. Coffee, fruit, eggs, whatever looks decent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rossi?”

“Yes?”

“If she looks tired, make sure no one speaks to her. No interruptions. I don’t care who calls.”

He pauses. “Understood.”

I end the call, grab my jacket, and walk toward the door.

But before the door closes, I look back into the penthouse.

At the space that feels less empty than it used to. At the hallway that leads upstairs to my bedroom. At the knowledge that she’s in there, warm, safe, sleeping in my sheets.

And something deep in my chest gives a quiet, dangerous pull.

She’s getting under my skin.

And I’m letting her.

The elevator doors slide shut.

I don’t fight the thought that follows.

I can’t wait to come back to her.