Page 172 of Stormbreaker

He smirks as the doors slide open, and we ride up to the penthouse.

“They’re gone for sure?” he asks, watching the glowing numbers climb.

“Cara confirmed they were heading out at seven tonight, so the coast should be clear.”

“Who’s Cara?”

“Our housekeeper.”

He looks at me, pausing momentarily before he watches the numbers again. I hate how many differences come between us, highlighted by these constant reminders of how divided our worlds are.

“She has the night off,” I say quietly. “So she won’t be around.”

“I’m not blaming you for having a housekeeper,” he says.

“I know you’re not.”

“It’s just . . .” He runs a hand through his hair. “When it’s just you and me, I forget who you are and who I am and that none of this makes any sense.”

I cross the space and lean against him, so we’re pressed to the wall. His hands land on my hips, warm fingers digging into the exposed skin of my midriff. “I don’t care about any of that.”

“You say that, but you’re used to a certain life and I—” He pauses, a sigh heaving from his chest. “I have no idea what’s in store for me.”

I offer him a curious look. “You’ll finish at Amery and become a Storm Guard,” I say. “You’ll have all the privileges of Society. Our differences won’t matter then.”

He doesn’t reply, his mouth pressing together before the elevator glides to a stop and the doors open with a soft ping.

We enter the living room, lit only with a few dim lamps, as Rook exhales a low, impressed whistle. “This is quite an apartment.” There’s no judgment in his tone, only interest and a bit of awe.

He walks over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city before stuffing his hands into his pockets. “And this view. I think I could stand here every day. Almost feels like I could see home from here.”

Home. He says it so warmly and with such longing that I don’t know if I’ve ever really understood how much he misses it until now.

“How far is it?” I ask, approaching. We stand side by side, watching the city lights as he hesitates. A glance at his profile reveals his distant stare, like he isn’t sure how to answer me. Or maybe doesn’t want to.

“Far,” is all he says, and when it’s obvious that’s all he’s saying, I turn toward my father’s study.

“We should keep moving,” I add.

A green lamp on the desk offers enough light to maneuver through the room. I open a few drawers and pick through the contents, careful not to disturb anything too much.

Rook enters and slowly circles the space, peering at the shelves and art and furniture with acute interest.

Suddenly, I feel self-conscious with him standing in the circle of my advantages. We’ve worked so hard to break down the barriers between us. Watching him examine the opulence I grew up in is wiping away those carefully erased lines.

I open another drawer to reveal a row of shiny cards tucked into neat little slots.

“Here,” I whisper, and he walks over.

“Which one is it?”

I shake my head and begin removing them one by one, holding them up to the light. Some are obviously used for various payments, and others are different types of identification.

“These are spare apartment keys,” I say before stuffing them into their slots and revealing a few red cards emblazoned with the House Fiama logo. “This must be for his office.”

I sift through the others until I come upon a plain silver square without markings or emblems. I hold it up, examining it under the light. “You think?”

“If I wanted to create a key for a highly classified security office, I’d probably make it as nondescript as possible,” Rook answers.