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“Michaels.” I rub the sleep from my eyes and rest my back on the headboard. “Ms. Cannon?”
“She left around three, sir.” He stands in the doorway,his body straight and his shoulders broad. “I appointed Stovic to your door while I personally made certain she arrived home safely.”
“She went to her apartment in Manhattan?”
“Yes, sir. I watched her enter the building, and I confirmed with security when she entered her unit and closed the door.” He hesitates for a beat before adding, “She took nothing with her but the clothes on her back, plus her purse, laptop, and phone. Her closet remains untouched.”
“Thanks.” I rest my head back and exhale. “Did she speak to you?”
“Only to say she was leaving and request I open the gates for her exit. I think she intended to walk, sir.”
“You put her in a car?”
“Yes. And drove it myself. Patterson remains outside her building now, sir. She’s yet to leave.”
“Good.” I toss my blankets aside and push up to stand, grateful I’m wearing boxers, which will save my soldier from having to see my cock.
Moving through the shadows and toward my bathroom, I murmur, “Have Mary come up and reset my room. Get my phone from the formal dining room and bring it to me. And get me some food.” I stalk out of my room and onto tile, but I add, “Please.”
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t see him retreat, but I hear the snick of my door closing.
Flipping the shower on and starting the steamy spray, I slide my shorts down and step under the water to wash away the dregs of… well, I’m not sure. A long-ass week. An even longer night, that felt like an eternity and not nearly long enough, both at the same time.
I got my twelve hours with Christabelle, and now they’re done. My prisoner is free, and my heart… has become hers.
Though, we don’t say that shit out loud.
I wash up and lather shampoo in my hair, making fast work of preparing for my day, then stepping out of the shower again, I snag a fresh towel and wrap it around my hips.
Heading back into my bedroom, I find the balcony doors already open. Light, already spilling across the carpet. My phone sits on the bedside table, plugged in and charging. But my bed is not yet made, and Mary remains hidden; discreet, as I pass through and into my closet.
I dry off and select a fresh pair of boxers, and as I pull them along my legs and up to sit on my hips, I think of Christabelle wearing a matching pair just a few days ago.
Her choice to wear my underwear rather than nothing at all. Her long, creamy legs peeking out from the too-big, black fabric, and her fiery eyes burning me with every second she stared.
She’d have killed me if she could. Sunk a blade into my chest and ended my life, if only she had a weapon and the chance to do so.
But things change. People and opinions alter. Because she easily could have used her steak knife to slit my throat while I slept last night, ending a war so many others continually try to start.
She had that power, and she chose not to use it.
That means something.
I select a pair of pants and a shirt, then pulling everything on, I grab a tie from my drawer, and shoes from the rack, then I move back into my room to prepare myself for a new day.
My first without Christabelle.
Picking up my phone as I pass the bedside table and checking the battery—twenty percent—I consider it good enough for now, then I head into the hall and go in search of my brother.
It’s been too long since we talked. Too much has happened. And I know more will have transpired during my twelve-hour hiatus.
“Micah?” I jog down the stairs and work on my tie as I go. “Where are you?”
“Kitchen,” he calls back, predictably awake, and when I walk through the door, I find him showered, dressed, and ready to kill the day.
He looks me up and down, approving of my choice of outfit, but when his eyes latch onto my fussing hands, he sets his cup of coffee on the counter and comes around to take over. “Sleep well?”
