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Liar.
He saw her the way she’d looked before he’d left the penthouse the day before.
You’re safe.
I know…
She’d looked like she was telling the truth. He hoped so, because whatever had happened between them in the past, whatever might happen in the future, from now on, she would be safe.
He would make sure of it.
42
She floated in and out of sleep. Sometimes she woke to find Zoya in her room, sitting in the chair by the window, bringing a new tray of food and tea or removing an old one.
But mostly, Kira slept.
She had nightmares: of Musa’s face in the moment before he’d landed the first blow to her face, of his feet connecting with the soft tissue of her body, of flashes that might have been her mind conjuring more terror or might have been memory.
She woke from those with screams bubbling up in her throat, her heart racing, chest constricting with panic.
But in between, there was Lyon. His face, creased with concern when she’d first woken up in the hospital, his hand on hers, his determined expression when the doctor had told him to leave the room.
Dreams of him were the antidote to her nightmares of Musa, although she knew she would probably still need therapy.
It was dark when she woke up feeling, for the first time, like her mind was clear. Her body still ached, and the cuts on her face and hands burned if she moved too much, but she felt coherent.
She reached for her phone on the bedside table and saw that it was three in the morning. Lyon had left the penthouse almost twelve hours earlier, headed god knew what.
Neither of them had spoken of his reason for leaving, but she’d known it was because of Musa. Having a chance to take him off the board was the only thing that would make Lyon leave her.
That meant he would be in danger, but they hadn’t talked about that either.
This was their business, their life. She’d been raised with danger, hovering like an ever-present storm cloud over every event — birthdays and holidays, funerals and illnesses.
But this was the first time it had felt real, the first time she’d felt acutely that she might lose something precious and irreplaceable.
Her father had seemed indestructible, a wizard on the highest of hills, surrounded by moats and dragons, although that had obviously been a lie.
Lyon was a man. She’d felt the blood pumping in his veins, had heard his heart beating under her ear.
He was a king. He was the Lion.
But she was no longer a child, and she knew he was a man too. He could bleed like any other.
Her heart rebelled at the possibility and she rose to a sitting position, suddenly wanting to be close to him. To remind herself that he was real, to convince herself that he would come back.
She got to her feet and waited until the inevitable wave of dizziness passed, then shuffled to the door.
The house was quiet, but she knew Zoya would be there in an instant if she called, and somewhere, Rurik watched, alert for danger.
She was safe. She was safe.
She held onto the wall as she made her way down the hall. She hesitated on the threshold of Lyon’s room, her desire to be close to him colliding with his rabid insistence on privacy.
The former won out, and she opened his door and stepped into his room.
The bedroom was the same size as hers, with a bed and all the expected furniture, plus a sitting area near the wall of windows. She knew the door on the far wall led to his private bathroom, knew the door next to it led to an expansive walk-in closet and dressing room identical to her own but more masculine in its appointments.
