When I made this plan, I knew someone would likely die, and I simply hoped it wasn’t me. Now, all I can think about is the dead man on my floor and how his blood will stain everything. Why does it matter to me? This man meant to murder me, so it really shouldn’t.
Michail keeps his eyes locked on my face and digs his phone out of his suit jacket. “Don’t move while I get one of my cleaners out here. We aren’t finished talking about this.”
I try to clear my features to keep him from seeing more than I want him to right now. I feel like an exposed nerve two seconds away from the wrong thump.
He steps away and whispers into his phone. It takes work, but I keep my gaze off the dead man and on Michail instead. Any second he’ll pounce, and I’m not ready for whatever he’ll demand from me.
Someone says my name. It sounds far away and muffled.
“Selena!”
I blink and look up to find Michail in front of me again. The anger has slipped out of his features, leaving something which looks vaguely like concern behind.
“Yes?” I ask, hoping he didn’t ask me something. All I think I heard is my name.
He reaches up to brush his thumb along my cheek. “Do what you need to do. Put on the mask if it makes things go away for a while.”
His words make sense, and I’m not in the best place to argue about the mental health of his proposition. I close my eyes, ground myself in his touch. Here in this moment, there’s a mask I haven’t put on, one some part of me is longing to wear.
I let his thumb continue its swipe over my cheek and relax into his grasp. “I need to take a shower and get out of these clothes so your friend can take them when he leaves with the body.”
He glances down at his own suit. “You’re right. You must be doing better than I thought.”
There’s a note of humor in his tone, but it’s testing, teasing. When I don’t match the lightness in his voice, he takes off his clothes one piece at a time. There’s nothing slow or sexy about it, but my mouth goes dry with every bit of his skin revealed.
I scan down his body, cataloging each scar, each freckle. His muscles flex as he kicks the last of his clothing away and waits for me to follow suit.
I’m not a self-conscious person. I only hesitate because I want to stare at him a little longer. He grows impatient and grabs the hem of my shirt and rips it over my head. My ponytail slaps back against my bare skin when he tosses the clothing away.
I scowl and swat at his next attempt to grab me. “I can do it myself. I don’t need you to undress me.”
Keeping my eyes off the crimson pool, I strip the rest of my blood-stained clothing and let them fall into the pile at Michail’s feet.
When I finish and look at him, his gaze is locked on my body, his eyes roaming from my hips to my breasts, and back down again.
So I don’t say anything stupid. I clamp my lips together and let him grab my hand. He leads me into the bathroom, opens the shower stall, and flips the faucets on. I barely wait for the water to warm before climbing in. He joins me, leaving more than enough room around us. My shower could host an orgy if I were so inclined.
Under the spray, I turn my back, but his rough hands curl around my waist before I even have time to get my hair properly wet. He spins me to face him, crowding close. “We weren’t done with our conversation. What were you thinking coming back here with a half-cocked plan and no way to defend yourself?”
I grit my teeth and glare up at him since he’s trapped me against the onyx tile with his body. “You saw my gun. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I never invited you here, and you’ve made it clear at every turn that you think I’m a useless, spoiled brat.”
The edge of his lip twitches like he might smile. If he does, I might punch him in the throat. “You don’t know a thing about what’s going on in my head, but for the record, I do think you’re a spoiled brat.”
It doesn’t escape me he neglected to add useless to his accusation. The omission registers, but not in time for me to stop my hand from connecting with his cheek.
He sucks in a loud, long breath, and another. My fingers ache a little from the contact as guilt slithers along my sternum down to my gut.