by Nikki Chase
“It can be more than a fleeting thing, princess. You know it, and I do too. We can make a real go at this. We can work this out,” he says. “Tell me what I can do to make this right. You want me to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? Because I can do that. I love you. I’d do anything for you.”
I glare at him.
If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have gone to that abandoned house. He wouldn’t have tied me up and sat me on the floor to watch him threaten my dad. He wouldn’t have pulled his gun out. There were so many moments where he could’ve changed his mind.
So how dare he tell me he loves me now?
Damon sinks to the floor. “I’m so sorry, princess. I love you. If you forgive me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
I make some kind of sound in my throat, but no word comes out.
“Please, princess.”
The door bursts open, and we both freeze.
Miranda pops her head into the room. She pauses in surprise when she sees Damon on his knees. Then, she says, “You need to leave. The doctor is coming. He can’t see you here.”
Damon
I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time,” Miranda says.
We’re standing by the emergency door at the back of the hospital, hiding in the dark.
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve done enough,” I tell her. “Thank you.
“It’s not right.” Miranda shakes her head. “We’re supposed to be looking after the patients and doing our best for them. I’m sure it does her no good to stop her from seeing someone who cares about her.”
Despite the heavy weight in my gut, I give Miranda a smile. “Thank you. But I don’t think she wants to see me.”
“That’s not true. I saw her crying while she was reading your notes,” she says.
“That’s the problem, though. All I do is make her cry.” I tilt my head heavenward and drag the night air into my lungs. “Thanks for everything, Miranda.”
As I walk across the parking lot toward my bike, it occurs to me—not for the first time—that it’s the only thing I have anymore.
I’ve lost my job with Enzo, obviously.
I never had much money, but I never had problems finding employment either. Big mob bosses used to offer me work out of nowhere in an attempt to steal a good man from Enzo.
But I’ve probably obliterated my good name to the point where none of them would even see me anymore. Why would they risk everything by hiring a guy who’s crazy enough to kidnap his boss’ daughter and point a gun at the boss himself?
I didn’t think finding employment would be an issue. It was short-sighted of me, perhaps. But I honestly thought I’d either be dead or I’d emerge as a new mafia boss—with sizable assets and a fearsome reputation.
But I have nothing.
When Enzo and I took Elena to the hospital, my men took all the money in Enzo’s briefcase. They’ve disappeared with it, of course.
The paperwork giving me ownership of the clubs was worth shit. Enzo was planning to kill me before I even had the chance to review the documents, so he just printed out some old, useless pieces of paper.
All I have is this life. It’s a worthless life, but I can’t throw it away because Elena has risked her precious life saving me.
I suspect that’s why Enzo isn’t coming after me even though he could.
While I was spending almost all my waking hours at the hospital, Enzo had his men break into my apartment and raided everything of value.
The coke. Whatever remained of the cash I took from the Russian deal. My TV. Elena’s phone that I left in a drawer in the kitchen.
I stick the key into the ignition and hop on my Harley. “It’s just you and me against the world now,” I say as I turn the key and wrap my hands around the handlebars.
Miranda told me Elena is leaving tomorrow. I’m glad she’s gotten well enough to go home, but that also means there will be absolutely no chance of me ever seeing her because security will be even tighter than before.
But I’m not giving up. I can’t give up.
Elena has taken away my old life purpose—the one that had fueled me for the past decade. I don’t even want Enzo dead anymore.
So she’s my new purpose now.
Even if it costs me my life, I’ll make her see that she belongs with me.
Elena
Six Months Later
Dad, I can see the guy’s shirt. Seriously. Could you knock it off?” I point at the tree in a small park opposite my apartment building.
Judging by his all-black clothes, his sunglasses, and his furtive glances, he must be someone my dad hired. Oh, and also the fact that he’s hiding behind a tree.
“What are you talking about?” Dad laughs as he glances at the tree I point at. He puts his arm around my shoulders and turns me to face my new building. “I’ve got to admit this is a pretty nice place.”
“Dad, don’t change the subject. I don’t want your people spying on me.” I look over my shoulder at the man who’s still looking nervously in our direction. “Call the guy off already. Give him some other job.”
Dad sighs. “Okay, okay.” To Jared, his personal bodyguard, he says, “Tell what’s-his-name it’s off.”
Watching Jared walk across the street, I say, “Promise me you won’t send him back here. Or any other guy. If you do, I’m going to ask my boss to transfer me to a different city, preferably somewhere on the east coast. And then we’ll only see each other at Christmas.”
“I just want you to be safe.”
“I am safe. You’ve taught me a lot about staying safe. I know how to take care of myself. And if I don’t, unlike you, I can call the cops.”
We stand on the sidewalk rehashing the things we’ve already discussed a thousand times before, but finally my dad leaves in one of his black, luxury cars—taking the man who was hiding behind the tree with him.
As I wave, I huff a sigh of relief.
Finally, it’s done.
I have my own place.
It took months of reflection and negotiation, but I have my freedom now.
Honestly, I never thought this would happen. I thought I was going to live in my dad’s house until I got married and move out into my husband’s house. It’s tradition.
I think my dad regrets letting me get a job now. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to threaten him with talk of working abroad.
Leverage.
Really, Dad should be proud. I learned a thing or two from him. I actually listened to his lectures.
With the keys dangling from my fingers, I walk toward the glass automatic doors, scan my key fob, and smile as the doors slide open for me.
The next morning, as I head out to work, I wake up to a bouquet of flowers right on my doorstep. Roses.
I frown as I pick it up. Could it be a welcome gift from the building manager?
Taking a closer look, I find a small, white card hidden among the long, de-thorned stems of the red roses. It’s about the size of a credit card, and there’s just one word on it.
Sorry.
That handwriting.
There’s no envelope and it’s not a get-well-soon card, but I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.
I’d fallen asleep reading that one word in the same handwriting hundreds of times. When my vision began to blur and I started to drift off into sleep, that was the last word I saw–and often the first word I read when I woke up in the morning too.
When I moved in yesterday, I stored those old cards in a small box locked inside a drawer in my wardrobe. I’m not afraid of my dad seeing them anymore. I just don’t want to find them and obsess over them myself.
But now, like a recurring dream, here it is again. That word. In that handwriting.
A thousand emotions war in my chest.
Damon’s here. He knows I live here. How does he know? How did he enter this building?
And then, that old anger resurfaces. The one that first showed its ugly f
ace when Damon visited me at the hospital.
One of the reasons I left my dad’s house was to forget about him. Every time I saw the living room, I couldn’t help but think about the time he’d caught me reading a naughty book on my Kindle.
So now that I’ve taken a dramatic step to escape Damon’s ghost, how dare he follow me to my new home and deny me my fresh start? Will I always think about him when I open the door in the morning now? Will I be disappointed when I don’t see his flowers?
I throw the flowers onto the kitchen counter.
There’s no time for this. It’s Monday. I’ve got a morning meeting, and I don’t want to be late.
Damon has already dominated my nights, making it hard for me to fall asleep. I can’t let him take control of my mornings too.
That night, I lie in bed, but sleep won’t come.
I’ve taken my box of cards out of the locked drawers. I honestly thought it’d take me longer than one night to do that. I was hoping it’d be at least a month.
But I spent most of my second night in my new home obsessively analyzing every single stroke of the pen on the new card, comparing it with the writing on the old cards.
I’ve put the old cards back in the box but it’s resting on my nightstand now, within my reach. The new one is in bed with me. I touch it, caress it, smell it. I can’t take my hands off it.
Damn it. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?
How am I supposed to sleep now? Every time I hear the slightest sound outside, I fly toward the front door and look out the peephole, hoping to catch a glimpse of Damon.
I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him. I have no idea what I’d say to him. But if he’s right outside my front door, I have to know.
But I also need to sleep, or I’ll be a zombie tomorrow when I’m supposed to do a presentation.
Grabbing my phone, I open my meditation app and play an audio of a guided meditation to help me sleep. Finally, the soothing voice of the narrator and the gentle sound of rain in the background lull me to sleep.
Even in my sleep, I’m plagued by dreams of Damon.
In the morning, I open my eyes even before my alarm. Immediately, I’m alert. I sit bolt upright and get up to my feet, then rush toward the front door.
There’s another bouquet of red roses. Another plain, white card. Another “sorry.”
That night, I move to sleep on the couch in the open-plan living room.
I spent weeks agonizing over what kind of bed frame and mattress to get for my bedroom. Right now, none of that matters. I just need to hear it when someone comes to my door.
But then I fall asleep again and find more flowers and another card on my doorstep again in the morning.
After a full week of this, I can’t take the torture anymore. I even spend my working hours scouring the Internet for solutions.
On Friday, I decide a tiny camera specifically made to fit a peephole would be the perfect solution and order two for same-day delivery—one to install and another one to keep for backup.
It takes me no time to set the camera up and connect the feed wirelessly to my laptop. But I’m so tired I can’t stay up to wait for the mysterious flower delivery.
Besides, will he even come on weekends? Maybe the flowers are just for me to find before work.
On Saturday morning, I wake up to find another bouquet of flowers.
Right away, I rush back inside to check the video recording.
And there he is, on my laptop. Just after four a.m.
My captor. My seducer. My mysterious flower giver.
Looking at the image of him on my screen, I get the crazy urge to jump inside the monitor and touch him. Sometimes, especially when I’m alone at night, I wish I had at least given him a hug when he sneaked into the hospital for me.
That said, I don’t know if I’ll do that once I catch him in the act and talk to him. So many things have happened in the past six months. I don’t even know if I still have feelings for him or if I’m just infatuated with the idea of him.
I’ll figure that out. But first, I’ll have to get him.
I spend the entire day sleeping, then I drink about a gallon of coffee just before midnight.
I’m going to see Damon in the flesh if it kills me by caffeine overdose.
Damon
Sometimes I wish there was something else I could give Elena, something other than fragile, delicate flowers.
I park my bike, then take off my helmet and unzip my jacket. Like some kind of cheap magician, I pull out a bouquet of flowers from inside my leather jacket.
Every damn night, I worry these flowers won’t make it safely to the destination.
I tried sticking them in the space between the windscreen and the handlebars, but they fell off one time, and I had to return to the store to buy a new bouquet. I tried putting them in a backpack, but they got crushed, and I had to go back to the flower shop that time too.
That second time, the girl who worked at the shop fluttered her eyelashes at me. After giving me my second bouquet of roses for the night, she slid a piece of paper with her number across the counter and said, “In case you need . . . more.”
Thankfully, the flower petals are unharmed so I won’t have to go back there tonight. I think I’ve had my technique down pat. I just wear a larger jacket, stick the stems under the waistband, and ride slow.
I wait just in front of Elena’s building until a couple approaches the entrance. They’re walking arm in arm, swaying left and right, unsteady on their feet as his hand slips under her jacket.
Perfect. A couple of drunk, horny people won’t mind a stranger—even one who looks as dangerous as I do—slipping into the building when they open the doors.
The plastic wrapped around the flower crinkles as I climb up the emergency stairs. I can’t use the elevator because I don’t have the key fob required to get to any floor other than the ground floor.
Elena lives on the twelfth floor, which isn’t terrible considering this building has about fifty floors.
A thin film of sweat has covered my skin by the time I see the number 12 painted on the wall. As I push the emergency door open and enter the carpeted, air-conditioned hallway, I take a deep breath.
There’s a hint of Elena’s scent in the air, although maybe that’s just my imagination since she probably spends two minutes in this hallway a day.
Standing just outside her apartment door, I wish I had X-ray vision so I could see what she’s doing.
She’s home—that much I know for sure because I’ve been following her to make sure she’s okay. As much as I hate Enzo, we can probably agree that Elena could become a target at any time because he has way too many enemies in this city.
As usual, I pull out a pen from my jacket pocket. Holding the card against the door, I start to write my apology on the small card I got from the flower shop.
When the door gives way, I tumble forward.
The card and the pen fall to the floor . . . inside Elena’s apartment.
“Got you,” she says.
I stand there, slack-jawed, taking her in. She looks perfect, even though her makeup has smeared around her eyes and she’s only wearing yoga pants and a tank top.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night. What makes you think this is a good time for a visit?” Elena glances at her phone. “Four a.m.? Can’t you just call ahead and buzz my apartment like a normal person?”
She’s speaking faster than normal and making wild gestures with her hands. She’s moving like a squirrel on crack.
The scent of coffee fills my nose—that explains it. “How much coffee did you have?”
Elena pauses but only for a moment. “What does it matter? You think it’s easy to stay up until four a.m.? I needed the coffee to function.”
“You stayed up for me?” I can’t help but smile.
“Yeah, I stayed up to catch you in the act. What other reason is there? To buy a vacuum cleaner for only three easy installments of twenty-nine n
inety-nine from the home shopping ch—”
Suddenly I’m cupping the back of her head and kissing her lips. Her soft, delicate, sweet lips. The same lips that have been on my mind every single waking moment of the past few months.
Elena tries to resist, her hands on my chest pushing me away as she continues another string of arguments. But we both know she wants this too; otherwise she wouldn’t have waited for me.
Soon she’s parting her lips, letting me in, kissing me back. And the pressure from her hands gets weaker and weaker until she slides them onto my back, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me closer.
It feels like we’re letting out everything we’ve been holding in for months. The kiss is hot, passionate, and my cock is raging hard when we break apart.
But the look in her eyes tells me this isn’t going further. And that’s okay.
This is not a booty call. It’s not just sex I want from her.
I want more. I want to have her, live with her, see her face right before I fall asleep and right after I wake up in the morning, and someday I want to raise our children together.
She glances over her shoulder. I let my hands fall to my side.
“Come in,” she says awkwardly, pointing at the couch.
The crumpled-up blanket on it tells me that’s where she sat, waiting for me. The cup of coffee on the table still has white steam rising up from it.
I take my seat and glance at her laptop. “You’ve been doing some surveillance, huh?”
Elena sits beside me then leans forward to grab her coffee and shuts the laptop. “Something like that.” She takes a sip.
“You know, you could’ve left me a note on your door if you wanted to see me.”
She stares at me. “I didn’t think of that.”
I laugh. “You thought of a spy cam instead.”
“Guess I’m more like my dad than I thought.” Elena shrugs.