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Chapter Thirty-One
Alana
I blink awake to utter silence, my mind crawling through the empty space on the hunt for reality. My nostrils flare with a delicious mix of man and coffee beans, and the present slips warmly into my mind. Home. I’m home with the man I love, who has obviously brewed my favorite pot of coffee. With a swish of blankets, I rotate, expecting to find Damion next to me, but my hand hits a piece of paper, and my heart jackhammers. What happened? Where is he? What did his father do? I snatch up the note and shoot to a sitting position, unfolding the note to read:
You have no idea how beautiful you are. I couldn’t help but watch you sleep, savoring every delicate line of your face and wishing like hell I could stay. I wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t necessary. Someone close to my father wanted to meet. We texted after you fell asleep. I’m hoping he has something to offer to help us. I’ll need to stop by the office to ensure the stockholders don’t freak out, but I won’t be long. Savage is staying with you, and he wants to check you out one last time. I love you, baby. I’m so damn glad you’re home.
I love you,
Damion
Tears pool like raindrops in my eyes, but the storm has passed, and the emotion welling inside me is almost luxurious in its celebration of finally connecting, really connecting, with Damion. Almost, I think, but not quite, because his father is still in the mix. I roll over and snap up my phone from the nightstand, intending to text him, afraid to call for fear I’ll distract him on his mission to find a way out of our troubles. It’s then that I discover the message from Lana and several missed calls. When the assistant producer tries this hard to reach you, it’s either really good or really bad news.
I push to my feet and decide I can’t possibly call her back until I make a bathroom run. But before that, I type Damion a message: I love you, too. Please be careful and come back to me.
Always, he promises almost instantly, and I swear my soul sighs with relief. I believe him. I believe we’re done running from each other. But now, I am running—to the bathroom. And as long as Damion comes home soon, I think I can check my worry, after, of course, picking Savage’s brain.
After brushing my teeth and hair, I throw on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt to ensure I’m presentable with a male bodyguard in the house, and then I’m on the hunt for coffee. After which, I’ll call Lana. I need caffeine to endure hearing my show has been cancelled. I pause at the door of the bedroom, hand on the knob, my chin lowering with that brutal thought. I don’t want it to be cancelled. The idea of losing my show when I’ve finally found the joy in it is much like spying a blossoming rose, savoring its floral scent and beauty, only to grab hold of it and catch a thorn that draws blood.
But it doesn’t matter if I lose my show, I remind myself. If Damion and I can find a path to happiness, without a grim reaper—his father—over our shoulders, all will be well. I love real estate. And I love Damion. That’s what matters. I shake it off and open the door. The minute I bring the room into view, I find a pretty brunette woman sitting next to Savage, the two of them leaning in close as they talk, their knees pressed together.
His wife, and I don’t know why this makes my heart squeeze so darn viciously and my damn eyes prickle again. It’s illogical, and I cannot name the emotion swishing through me. “Hi,” I say, and they are both on their feet.
The woman smiles brightly. “Hi,” she greets. “I’m Candace, Savage’s wife.”
“Wench Alana,” Savage says, “meet Wench Candace.”
“Wench?” Candace queries incredulously. “Seriously?”
“I mean it in the most complimentary of ways,” Savage assures her.
She rolls her eyes, and I like her already. She’s beautiful and sweet, and I feel so oddly comfortable with her already. “I hope you have a good nickname for him too, Alana,” she says.
“I wanted to go with Little Bitch,” I say, “but he forced Twinkles on me. Did you leave me any coffee, Twinkles?”
“I drank it all,” he says. “Little bitches do that.”
“I made another pot,” Candace offers. “It just finished brewing. You slept late. I was afraid it would taste old.”
“How late?”
“Okay, not late,” she laughs. “It’s only seven thirty, but I think Damion put the pot on at five thirty.”
Only seven thirty, and Lana has called me several times. Or maybe she called last night. I don’t remember, and I don’t reach for my phone that is stuck in my waistband. “I need coffee.”
“I need to check your vitals first,” Savage says. “Come sit.”
I let out a heavy breath, laden with stress rooted in the memory of that concrete room with stupid fake windows that haunt my mind and make no sense to me. Why were there windows? Did they create them to mess with my mind? Were they already there? And if so, why? I sit down, and Savage gets to work. When he’s given me a clean bill of health, I endure yet another flashback of the needle in my neck.
“What about the drug test?”
“Date rape drug,” Savage replies without hesitation. “It’s a drug that isn’t common in the US, which is logical considering we know the people who took you were Russians, probably Russian mob.”
A rush of terror overwhelms me, sickening me, my hand pressing to my belly. “Russian mob? How do you know?”
“We captured one of them, and no, he’s not talking. He’s low on the totem pole. A nobody.”
“What are we doing with him? Do we go to the police? Did we go to the police?”
