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I still didn’t know what the hell he meant when he said that, but I kissed him regardless. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact someone like Roan loved someone like me, but I thanked God every day that he was mine. My sun. My everything.
EPILOGUE
ROAN
Three years later
Makingmy way through the crowd on the busy sidewalk, I ducked into one of the shiny, all-glass buildings.
Nodding to the security guard behind the counter, I bypassed the checkpoint and made my way to the bank of elevators. I was the only passenger on the way up, watching the floors zip by through the surrounding glass. When the doors opened again, I stepped out and surveyed the waiting area for Black Sun Security.
There were two detectives talking quietly with one another, their badges glinting on their belts. A woman in sky-high heels and a tight, purple dress sat across from them. Even with the giant sunglasses on, I knew she was looking at me. I was pretty sure I saw her face on a billboard last week. Or maybe it was a magazine. In a city full of gorgeous people, sometimes they tended to run together.
Shrugging, I waved at the receptionist and carried on down the hall. I punched in the door code and let myself through to the employee area.
Sasha was on the phone when I opened his office door. I paused, but he beckoned me inside anyway. By the look on his face, I could tell how little he was invested in the conversation.
I stepped around his desk and kissed him quickly before dropping into the chair across from him.
He leaned back in his chair, propping one elbow on the arm and rubbing his forehead. “I don’t give a fuck how many Oscars are on her mantel. My men are not there to walk her fucking dog.” He paused, his scowl tightening. “She hasn’t been relevant in twenty years. The only person who wants to kill her now is me.” With that, he hung up on whatever celebrity’s poor PA or manager that was.
“Rough day?” I asked, trying not to smile when he was clearly in a bad mood.
He grunted in reply, typing something into the computer. It was probably an email to Ilya warning him to be prepared for a shit storm. As the company’s second-in-command and PR rep, I’m sure he was used to handling clients put off by Sasha’s bluntness.
“Any reason there are two detectives waiting out front?” I asked, throwing my thumb in their general direction.
“We’re consulting,” he replied, clicking out of the program and forcing the computer into sleep mode.
“You’reworking with the cops?” I raised my brows at him. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Who better? It takes a thief to catch a thief.” He smirked at me as he stood. “Besides, they’re here for Casey. It’s his case and they prefer dealing with former cops instead of former criminals.”
As much as he bitched about how bored he was in the office, he was no less intimidating behind a desk than he was in the field. People paid him a pretty penny to break into their houses and their companies, all for the sake of testing their security.
Sasha strolled around the desk and leaned down, bracing a hand against each of the chair’s arms, caging me in. He looked damn fine in his white button-up, opened at the top, and black pants. If we had more time, I’d be game for a little office role play.
“I’m very pleased with your progress, nonetheless,” I said, holding my ground as he came closer and closer, his nose brushing against mine. “Unless there’s something you need to tell me. Some way you’ve been coping, maybe…?”
“I haven’t killed anyone since we moved to Los Angeles. I swear.”
“What about torture? Maiming?”
“Not one.” He shook his head, but stopped suddenly, looking off into the distance. “Although, I have been tempted…”
“Kidnap anyone lately?” I asked with a smirk of my own.
“Just you. Always you.” Pressing his lips to mine, he sucked on my lower lip before pulling away with a frown. “We’re going to be late.”
“Are you sure about this? You really don’t have to. We’re ok here.”
“I know. I want to.”
“Ok…” I slipped my hand into his and followed him out of his office.
Traffic was terrible, as always, but we managed to get to our destination with five minutes to spare thanks to Sasha’s driving. If I thought Chicago was bad, L.A. was a thousand times worse — a fact he liked to remind me about. Frequently.
Walking into the tattoo shop behind Sasha, I was immediately hit by the clean smell. Not bleach, but some sort of similar disinfectant. The black-and-white tile floors gleamed, showcasing the red, sparkly chairs.
