Page 115 of Filthy Promises

“Literally anywhere else? Running your criminal empire? Dating potential brides?”

A flicker of annoyance crosses his face. “I can run things from here. And I’ve postponed the next meeting with Anastasia.”

That gets my attention. “Why?”

“Because I have more important matters to attend to.” His eyes are unreadable in the dim light. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” I push myself to sitting, wincing at the ache in my muscles. “But better than this morning.”

“Good.” He rises, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand presses against my forehead, cool and gentle. “Fever’s down.”

I lean into his touch without thinking. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Would you prefer I treat you cruelly?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I can arrange that, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“No, it’s just…” I struggle to find the words. “This isn’t… what we do.”

“And what is it we do, exactly?”

Heat that has nothing to do with fever creeps up my neck. “You know what I mean.”

“Sex,” he says bluntly. “We fuck. We satisfy a mutual physical need.”

Put so crudely, it sounds sordid. Small. Less beautiful than what it feels like when he’s inside me, when he’s making me fall apart in his arms.

“Yes,” I agree, though it feels like a lie.

“And you think that’s all there is between us?”

My heart stutters. This is unprecedented territory. “Isn’t it?”

“No. It’s not.” He doesn’t elaborate, though. He just studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Are you hungry?”

The abrupt change of subject leaves me reeling. “A little.”

“Good. I’ll have something brought up.” He stands, moving toward the door. “Any requests?”

“Soup would be nice,” I say, still trying to process the conversation we almost had. The question he didn’t answer.

“Soup it is.”

He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can’t decipher.

For a moment, I think he might say something more.

Instead, he simply nods and leaves.

34

ROWAN

A few days later, with the flu in my rearview mirror, I go back to work. I’ve been at my desk for a grand total of two hours when the hospital calls.

“Ms. St. Clair?” Dr. Patel’s voice is carefully neutral, but I’ve been around doctors long enough to recognize when they’re padding bad news with professional detachment.

“What happened?” I grip the edge of my desk, suddenly dizzy despite being seated. “Is she okay?”

“Your mother has experienced what we call a cascade failure. Multiple systems showing stress simultaneously.”

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