Page 44 of Filthy Promises

“No,” I whisper against her mouth. “You don’t get to have me.” I release her abruptly, stepping back. “Not until you’ve earned it.”

I retreat to my desk and settle into my throne, the vast expanse of my desk like a castle wall between us. “That’ll be all, Ms. St. Clair. Close the door behind you on your way out.”

13

ROWAN

I stumble back to my desk on legs that feel like they’re made of Jello rather than flesh and bone. My hand is shaking so badly I can barely grasp my mouse.

“This didn’t just happen,” I whisper to myself, touching the spot on my neck where his lips burned against my skin just moments ago. “That absolutely did not just happen.”

But it did.

My boss threatened me with a gun. Then nearly kissed me. Then dismissed me like I was nothing.

I glance at the closed door of his office. What’s he doing in there now? Is he calling someone to “take care of me”? Is he putting the gun back in its hiding place? Is he laughing at how pathetically I melted under his touch?

My phone buzzes with a text from Natalie:Lunch today? Need ALL the details about working for V-Card Vinny

I type back:Can’t today. Swamped. Tomorrow?

What I don’t say:Also, I might be dead by tomorrow if he decides I’m too much of a liability.

I gather my purse and my jacket. I need air. Space. Time to think.

“I’m stepping out for coffee,” I call toward his closed door, somehow keeping my voice steady. “Can I bring you anything?”

No response.

Fine by me.

I practically run to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster. When the doors finally open, I collapse against the back wall.

“Get it together,” I mutter. “Think this through.”

My options are limited:

One: Quit. Walk away. Never look back.

Two: Go to the police. Tell them everything I saw and heard.

Three: Stay and keep my mouth shut. Pretend I never saw the gun, the cash, or anything else.

Option One means no more triple salary. That’s a non-starter.

Option Two? Well, that’s basically suicide. If Vincent really is involved in criminal activities, I’d be painting a target on my back. And that’s assuming the police would even believe me or do anything. Men like the Akopovs probably have half the NYPD in their pocket.

Which leaves Option Three: Stay. Look the other way. Keep the money flowing.

And try desperately to ignore whatever the hell just happened between us in his office.

By the time I’ve bought my coffee and returned to the building, I’ve made my decision. I wish I could say it was a noble one, or even a smart one. But it’s the only one I can live with.

I’ll stay. I’ll keep his secrets. I’ll do my job.

And I’ll pray I haven’t made a deal that will cost me more than just my professional ethics.

Back at my desk, I throw myself into work with a frantic energy. Answering emails. Organizing files. Rescheduling a meeting that conflicts with one of those mysterious “OFFSITE” appointments.

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