I rise back up straight, about to leave, but I drop my eyes to the sheet and the way it hugs his legs. The upside-down V between them perfectly pronouncing every curve. Every muscle.
Every muscle.
Heat spreads up my neck, and I spin around, leaving the room. God, he’s got a nice body. Too bad he doesn’t know how to use it.
I head to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich, standing at the island and eating.
Vivamus, moriendum est. I stare at the words on the brick wall across the room in front of me. Stars glow outside the windows above, too high for anyone to see in and for us to see them, but I can see the stars from inside, and that’s good enough for me.
Hawke still hasn’t divulged what this place is exactly. What’s his plan? He’s known about it for a while and hasn’t really shared it with anyone other than a select few.
And me.
But someone else knows about it. Possibly several other someones. I stare at the inscription on the wall again, gauging the age of the paint, but I’m not sure. It’s definitely not new. Hawke didn’t paint it. He even said so.
Taking my sandwich, I stroll through the door to my left and down another hallway I haven’t explored yet. This may have been a speakeasy back in the day. Room after room, windowless, cool, and with the smell of oak and bourbon. The feel of wet hanging in the air. Dark.
How can the city not know that shops and eateries occupying this strip of building take up less space than what’s actually here? Don’t they have blueprints? Deeds with square footage?
Chicago isn’t far. I can imagine Al Capone and Bugs Moran using this as their black market storage for the illegal liquor they were bringing into the city.
But there’s furniture too. Pictures on the walls.
I stop and peer in closely at one of them—a girl, her blonde hair blowing in her face as she walks in a field. The sun wanes behind her, and I can almost make out her eyes behind her hair, but not quite.
These things are newer than the 1920s. People have been here since.
A small light glows ahead, and I walk toward the glass. I look through and crane my neck, trying to see as much as I can of the business on the other side of the hideout. On the other side of a mirror just like the one leading to the bakery.
Rivertown.
I smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I’d bet my life Hawke was in here, watching the cameras, and saw Dylan talking to me the other night. He showed up out of nowhere to save the day, just like Superman.
I laugh and take a bite of my sandwich, turning away. I’m not really mad, although it does aggravate me that he uses his superpowers against me.
But then realization dawns, and I stop. I cease chewing my ham and cheese.
If he has cameras everywhere else, then he has them inside here. I forgot to check.
Ugh. I run back down the hall, into the great room, and throw off the seat cushion, grabbing the duffle. Hugging it to my body, I spin around, looking everywhere. Every nook. Every corner. Around every piece of fucking furniture.
And then I see it. The small fiberoptic lens on top of the kitchen cabinet.
Another sits on top of the door frame, and there’s another on top of the window latch high above.
Oh, come on. Seriously?
But I’m madder at myself. I know better. I’m great at reading my surroundings and seeing threats. I toss the sandwich onto the counter and take my bag to my room, stuffing it under a chair and then scan every surface of the walls.
I know he has one in my room. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
A tiny glare hits the corner of my eye, and I shift back and forth, seeing it and then not again. Taking a chair, I climb up and slide my fingers into the light fixture, pulling out the little lens.
I turn it around in my fingers and then crush it in my fist. “I’m going to kill you.” I leap off the chair, yank open the door, and run to his room.
I kick the door wide, step inside, and pitch the fucking camera right at his sleeping form.
“Ow, shit!” he growls, jerking up in bed.
He grabs his cheekbone, and the lens bounces off him, to the wall, and then to the floor.
I breathe hard, glaring at him.
“Goddammit, what the hell?” he shouts, seeing me. Pulling his hand away from his face, he checks for blood, but there isn’t any. “Are you serious?”
“That was the camera in my room!” I shout.
I rush over and stomp on it, grinding it into the ground.
He grabs my arm, pulling me onto the bed. “Do you how expensive those are?”