“I’m just gonna change out of these absurd shorts real quick and then I’ll be out of your hair.” I duck into his bathroom and quickly swap out the pajama set for the only other adult-ish outfit I have on hand, which is the blue slip dress Anton gave me.
I feel weird putting it on—as if I needed any more reminders of The Medusa or its owner—but I shove that feeling into the little black hole in my heart where unwelcome thoughts go to die.
Then I step back out. Chris is holding the front door open for me. I give him another peck on the cheek and head out, the little duffel bag he lent me slung over my shoulder.
I take the back entrance out of Chris’s building just to be safe and walk two blocks away before I call an Uber. It only takes fifteen minutes to get back home. When I see the familiar gray building, I feel a warmth spread through me.
Despite everything, it feels good to be back.
The forty-eight hours of distance from what happened on the yacht has done wonders to help calm me down. But as I step out onto the curb of my building, I realize that a lot of it had to do with the comfort of Chris’s company. Without him next to me, the city feels bigger and emptier and windier.
And lonelier.
A lot lonelier.
“Buck up, J,” I tell myself in a bad imitation of Chris’s calm voice as my eyes slide down the familiar street.
There’s no one around. A few cars with registration decals for the apartment complex parked along the street. A man walking his dog at the bottom of the shallow slope. A trio of pigeons bobbing and babbling beneath a street sign that reads Henning Street.
I shudder at the memory of Anton reciting my address to me. That feeling of being seen in every possible way. Stripped naked, made vulnerable.
It’s a hard one to get rid of.
I shake my head and straighten up. Other than pigeons and pedestrians, there doesn’t seem to be much going on. A typical Monday night in a quiet part of the city.
Nothing here to fear.
I let myself into the building and walk up the stairs to the third floor. It’s dark at first, but the moment I step onto the landing, the sensors catch my movement and the lights turn on. It makes me jump and stifle a scream for reasons I can’t quite explain.
Maybe I’m not as relaxed as I keep telling myself I am.
I put my head down, hustle to my door, and jam the key into the lock. It doesn’t turn at first, but before I can worry, the rusty tumblers give way and I go stumbling into my apartment.
I close the door behind me, lean against it, and let out the breath I’ve been holding. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The duffel in my hand falls to the floor with a soft thump.
My apartment is exactly how I left it. Small, neat, open swoop of living room melting seamlessly right into the kitchen. Down a short hallway, my bedroom and bathroom await, promising a hot shower and as much sleep as I can possibly get.
Usually, there would be mail stacked on the counter, an old coffee cup next to the sink, and my collection of polishes on the coffee table so I could paint my nails while I watch TV. But it’s all tidied away.
I’d wanted to enter my new life as Mrs. Dane Dempsey with as little clutter as possible. Now, I’m just going back to what I’ve always had. Somehow, it’s not as depressing as I feared it might be.
I sigh and start to head towards my couch so I can collapse face-first into a dreamless coma, but before I get far, I hear footsteps right outside my door. I stop and turn my ear to the sound.
A second later, the door handle twists.
“Oh God!” I gasp, jerking back.
He’s here. I know it. Anton or one of his minions has been waiting for me. Why did I take that phone? Why did I think it was a good idea to steal from a Bratva don? Chris was right—he’s going to bust in here and slice me up and make me scream until I tell him everything and beg for his mercy and then he’ll—
“Fucking shite!”
I pause. That is definitely not Anton. The voice on the other side of the door is distinctly female and distinctly not-Russian. There’s a scraping sound that suggests that whoever it is is trying to force a key into my lock.
“Come on, dammit,” the slurred voice says again. I catch a whiff of an accent. Scottish, maybe?
I creep towards the door and take a quick look through the peephole. The image is cloudy, but I can make out the figure of a petite woman with dark hair. She looks innocent enough, although I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to listen to my instincts in that department for a long, long time.
I unbolt the door and open it. The woman almost falls right on top of me, but she manages to catch herself in time.