Page 10 of The Hitch
"Sir?" he repeats and flicks his gaze to the door. I won.
"No, that'll be all. Be ready for tomorrow, though. We'll be in the closing trenches on that building." I remove his half-full glass of whiskey from his hands and head towards the kitchen.
I swear I can almost hear him say something likeher building,but I know he's not that stupid.
"Have a good evening, sir."
"You, too."
I deposit the glasses in the sink for Marie, my housekeeper, to deal with in the morning. As soon as I hear the door latch shut, I hustle up the stairs to my home office.
My desk at home is no less impressive than the one in the office. Three separate monitors connect to my state-of-the-art computer, complete with surround sound system installed in the walls, carefully painted to blend into the damask wallpaper. The black leather executive chair sits waiting for me to settle in and review the feeds from Melody's apartment.
It's showtime.
According to the alerts on my phone, Melody got home about half an hour ago. She must have been on the closing shift at the diner. I watch the recording of her come in, look around, and freeze. Ah, she found my rose on the windowsill. A little bit of beauty on top of the paint chips, showcasing my work: prying her window loose from the years of paint.
I can't tear my eyes from her as frantic breaths wrack her body. She picks up the rose, gripping it tightly, until she drops it. She pricked herself on the thorns.
"Best to be careful with sharp things, Melody," I murmur to the screen. "You, of all people, should know that."
Stumbling backwards, she kicks the rose and sprints to her bedroom, cradling her face in her hands. I switch on the audio to hear her breathing, fast and panicked, whispering to herself. After a few moments, she drops her hands to her lap and stares into space. And she stays like that, not moving a muscle. Frozen. Frozen?
"Fuck. These goddamn cameras were nearly priceless." Fury boils up in my chest, and I flex my hands around the leather armrests. They aren't dependent on any shitty Wi-Fi in that building; they're connected to my own network, spliced in through less-than-legal means.
Her phone lights up on the bed next to her, but she still doesn't move. The video isn't frozen—sheis. Damn near catatonic. I scrub through the remainder of the footage, but she hasn't moved a muscle. Even on the live feed, she's immobile. Sitting. Staring. I can't even see her blink.
Unease snakes its way around my heart. Something isn't right. Switching the feed from my computer to my phone, I scurry out of my office and down the stairs. My keys wait for me by the door, hanging from the brass hook. Without a second thought, I head out into the night air, Melody on my mind.
"Damn her and her fourth-story apartment," I grunt to myself. Lucky for me, there's an unmonitored parking garage next door to her building. It belongs to the luxury high-rise building—owned by the Bael, no less—and it's perfect for my needs.
Melody still hasn't moved. I can see her perfectly through her window while I'm hidden behind the concrete half wall, not even twenty feet away. I desperately want to know what's going on in that mind of hers. I've never seen someone sit so still for so long. She can't be comfortable. Is she truly conscious? What's wrong with her? What if it's the same as last night, when she passed out?
As soon as the thought enters my mind, she slumps over onto her pillow. Still in the same position, with her knees bent and her hands at her face. If my stare could burn holes, her bed would be on fire. Shit, I can't see the rise and fall of her chest—I can't tell if she's breathing. She needs me.
Throwing all caution to the wind, I sprint to the garage's stairs and take them three at a time. My lungs burn in my chest as I push myself faster and faster. Down the sidewalk, up the steps, I yank open the glass doors of her building and leap up the creaking wooden stairs. All the way up to her floor. Panting, I pull out my key and try to unlock her door as quietly as possible.
Thanks to the lubricating oil I applied earlier, the hinges don't squeak and give me away. I remove my shoes silently and creep toward her bedroom door. Keeping to the shadows, I sneak down the hall and find her lying motionless on the bed. Her breaths are shallow, but sheisbreathing. I freeze. For once in my life, I'm not sure what to do.
All Icando is watch. And wait.
Time ticks by agonizingly slow. As the minutes pass, I watch her limbs relax and her breaths deepen. Once I'm completely sure she's deep in sleep, I inch closer.
Closer.
Closer.
She looks so innocent when she sleeps. I may not know all of her secrets—yet—but I know that can't be true. And yet, there's a softness to her face. No furrowed brow, no frown. A light dusting of freckles add intrigue to her already beautiful visage. Her dark brown, almost black, hair is piled high on her head in a messy bun. Loose curls have escaped the hair tie, framing her face, splaying onto her pillow.
The urge to lay next to her itches beneath my skin. I won't touch her, not yet, but I can't just stand here and watch. Ever so gently, I pad my way to the other side of her bed. With my gaze locked on my future wife, I gingerly test my weight on the edge of the mattress. The inner springs creak and groan, but Melody doesn't move.
Excellent.
The faint scent of her soap washes over me, and my heart pounds in my chest. A possessive heat coils around my heart and shoots a surge of desire down my spine. It takes all of my willpower to keep my hands to myself—for now.
I ease the rest of my body down next to her, raking my gaze up and down her soft curves. She's it. She's the key to unlocking my power. And, if she doesn't come quietly, I have no qualms about forcing her into this arrangement. I'll find out her vices and keep her in line with them, if I have to.
"Who are you, really?" I whisper into the night air, then curse inwardly. She lets out a deep sigh. Fuck! My body tenses, and I ready myself to spring out of her bed and race down the hall if I catch her eyelids even fluttering.
