Page 92 of Filthy Promises

“Not forever,” he says reasonably. “Just until I’ve handled the situation.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “And how long will that take?”

“A few days. A week at most.”

I shake my head. “No chance. I’m going home today. Now.”

We stare at each other across the kitchen island, neither willing to back down. I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look—barefoot, wearing only his shirt, trying to stand my ground against a man who could probably snap me in half like a fucking glowstick without breaking a sweat.

A man who killed someone to protect me less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Fine,” he relents finally. “But not alone.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need security.” His tone brooks no argument. “I’ll take you myself.” Before I can object, he’s closing his laptop and standing. “There are clothes in the guest bathroom. Nothing fancy, but they should fit.”

I want to argue further, but I’m suddenly exhausted again, despite the hours of sleep. “Fine,” I mutter. “But just to get some things. I’m not staying there with you hovering over me.”

His lips quirk into a smirk. “We’ll see.”

The clothes—black leggings and a soft gray sweater—fit perfectly, almost as if he had them bought specifically for me. The thought is both unsettling and strangely touching.

Thirty minutes later, we’re in another one of his cars, winding through Manhattan traffic. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say after everything that’s happened?

The silence grows thick. Weirdly, it’s not even the violence that’s top of mind right now.

It’s how Vince’s fingers felt shoving aside my panties and giving me the tiniest taste of what I’ve spent five years dreaming of.

My cheeks heat at the memory, and I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see.

When we pull up to my building, I immediately notice something off. A black sedan parked across the street. A man in the lobby who wasn’t there before, reading a newspaper but not really reading it.

“What is this?” I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.

Vince follows my gaze. “Security,” he says simply.

Anger flares inside me, hot and sharp. “You had no right.”

His eyes harden. “I had every right. You’re under my protection now.”

“I never asked for your protection!” I snap, my voice rising. “I never asked for any of this!”

“Nevertheless, you have it.” His calm only infuriates me more. “Shall we go up?”

I yank at the door handle, shoving it open before the driver can come around. I storm toward my building, aware of Vince following close behind, his presence a shadow I can’t shake.

The man in the lobby straightens when he sees us, nodding subtly to Vince. I ignore him as I march to the elevator and jabbing the button repeatedly.

“They’re just doing their job,” Vince says quietly as we step into the elevator.

“Their job is to spy on me?”

“Their job is to keep you alive.”

“By invading my privacy? By watching every move I make?” The elevator feels too small, too close. His scent surrounds me, and I hate how it makes my stupid, traitorous body respond.

“Yes,” he answers simply. “That’s exactly how.”

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