Page 43 of The Tower

Grimm’s phone chimes, and his body goes rigid as he reads the text. His eyes, already intense, harden to steel.

“We need to leave,” he says, hurrying toward his study. I grab the sleeve of French fries and follow him, certain that his urgency has something to do with my father. I reach the study in time to see him pocket something, then close the middle desk drawer.

“My purse,” I say, thinking of Ruby’s credit card. “I need to get it.”

“No.” His voice is calm but leaves no room for argument.

“But—”

“They’re here. Right now. Police.” He takes my elbow and steers me out of the study. “Dammit,” he says in a voice low enough that I know it’s not meant for me. “They got here a hell of a lot faster than I anticipated.”

I expect him to lead me to the elevator. Instead, he bustles us in the opposite direction, further past his study than I’ve explored. The hall twists and turns until I’m no longer sure which side of the building we’re on. Finally, he stops in front of a well-camouflaged service door.

“We’re going up,” he says, holding the door open and gesturing me into a narrow concrete stairwell.

“Up?” I repeat stupidly as I step inside, and it’s only when my bare feet hit the cold concrete that I remember I never bothered to put on shoes.

“Four flights. To the roof.” He comes in after me and pulls the door closed. “Go.”

I do, hurrying up the stairs, the concrete biting into my feet as I move like lightning.

I pause at the second landing to look back at Grimm. The copper-gold of his hair catches the dim light as he takes the stairs two at a time. His button-down shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Despite the situation, my eyes linger on the taut muscles of his forearms as he reaches the landing, his face a mask of concentration.

“Keep moving,” he says, his hand on my lower back pressing me forward. “Almost there.”

My breath catches—not from exertion, but from his touch.

Really not the time.

I force my mind to focus only on the steps, and before I know it, we’ve reached the door to the roof. Grimm puts his weight against it, the door flies open, and I stagger backward, dropping my fries as the world opens up around me, the endless sky and dizzying height hitting me like a physical blow.

I’m still in the stairwell, and I press my back to the concrete wall as I look down at my feet, trying not to think about the nothingness spreading out from the open door. Trying to ignore the way the wind howls through the stairwell, pulling at my hair, my clothes, my will.

Every instinct screams for me to run the other way.

Roofs are where the world ends, and I know that better than anyone.

I hear myself whimper. I can’t do this. I can’t. All I can do is stand here, staring down at my Scarlett Kiss-painted toes, as I try—and fail— to pretend that the door leads anywhere but this open expanse of a rooftop.

“Dammit, Sasha—listen to me.”

It’s only then that I realize that Grimm has been speaking to me, his voice like a low rumble of indiscernible noise.

I try to parse out words, but I don’t look at him. If I do, all I’ll see is the void of night behind him.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. “It’s either the roof or your father’s men.”

At the thought, my insides turn to goo. But I force myself to squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I expect him to take my hand and lead me to the helipad, so I gasp when he scoops me up, holding me like a bride. I turn my face into his chest, breathing in his scent—something expensive and masculine that grounds me, at least for a moment. Then I hear it—the thunderous approach of helicopter blades.

“Our ride,” Grimm says against my hair. “I’m putting you down now.” When my feet touch the ground, I open my eyes—just barely—keeping my hand tight in Grimm’s as the spinning blades whip my hair into a frenzy.

It’s sleek and black, with no markings. Grimm practically carries me to it, his arm a vise around my waist so that my bare feet hardly touch the ground.

The pilot doesn’t ask questions as Grimm helps me into a leather seat, then buckles me in with practiced movements, his fingers grazing my thighs. As they do, I realize I’m trembling … and not entirely from fear.

Just as Grimm reaches for his own harness, the roof access door bursts open. Three men in dark suits spill onto the helipad, weapons already drawn, my father’s head of security leading the charge. Their mouths move in furious shouts I can’t hear over the roar of the rotors, but the guns aimed at our helicopter leave no doubt about their intentions.

“Go!” Grimm barks into his headset, still securing his own belt.