Page 36 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Not such a fun feeling.

At this rate a heart attack might take me out before Volkov Junior has a chance.

I take a steadying breath and force my heart out of my throat.

I slowly push up to sitting, the blanket pools around my waist, exposing everything to the cool underground air. I yank the heavy blanket back up to my chin and hold it there, heart slamming against my ribs. My brain crawls over the events of last night and I remember the car ride here, the quick tour, my wet towel, and then it was lights out for me. My brain and body shut down so fast all I remember is arguing with my Russian bodyguard and then I was dreaming about all his fabulous muscles.

“Well, that is embarrassing. The first night at my ex’s and I pass out before any of the good stuff could happen. Freaking figures.”

Seems about right. I’m going to end up in a coffin before I lose my virginity.

Whatever.

I scan the room for the man who stole my towel while I was unconscious, but I don’t see an inch of his glorious muscles, sarcastic smile or his infuriating alpha energy.

Or much of anything else, really. The room is empty, dim, and void of any sound. There’s no hum of traffic or sound of birds coming from beyond the rock walls. I listen longer this time, but I can’t pick up any signs of life at all. There’s only the faint whisper of ventilation and my own erratic breathing.

I press a hand to my chest and force air into my lungs. "Okay, Cora. Ease your roll.”

I scan the floor. The towel is in a waste basket by the closet, damp and discarded. My boots are at the foot of the bed, one upright, one tipped on its side. The paper is still in there. I can see the folded edge poking out of the top of the right boot.

He took off my towel. While I was sleeping. Which means he saw me naked.

The heat that crawls up my neck has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Something about knowing his eyes were on my body is a little surreal since not even his son saw as much of me as Rowan did last night. And that was before he took my towel off.

I try to be rational about this. The towel was wet. I would have caught a cold. He was being practical. He probably didn't even look.

Yeah. Sure. A man who kills people for a living definitely averted his eyes like a perfect gentleman while he stripped me naked.

I groan and fall back against the pillow, pressing the flats of my palms into my eyes.

His pillow. His bed. The man’s scent is everywhere. Cedar, pine and cold air. I'm lying on the side of the bed that dips slightly from what has to be years of use. I roll to the left to find the other side untouched. He didn’t sleep here.

I sit up again, keeping the blanket clutched to my chest this time, and look around properly.

The room is large, dark, and minimal. I expect the darkness. I mean we are underground. But he opted to make the place even darker with his structural choices.

If it’s not black, the only other color is gray. Well, the blue of the pool counts, I guess with the shimmering of the light. There’s an entrance to the lavish pool from his bedroom. And if memory serves you can also enter the body of water from the living room.

I turn my attention to the walls. They are carved from the mountainside and either they are black naturally or they have been made to appear that way.

They are simply gorgeous. To my right there’s a large open-styled walk-in closet. Motion lights flare to life when I walk in, running my hand over the expensive material of all the dark suits lined up with military precision. There’s only one empty hanger. And at the far end of the closet, folded on a shelf is a single pair of worn jeans with a gray t-shirt folded on top.

Huh. Interesting. He has one set of casual clothes. The rest are multi-thousand dollar suits. In the center is an island of gold cufflinks, several watches in a large case and carefully color-coded ties.

When I roam back to the bedroom, his nightstand has a book on it. The spine is cracked and it’s turned face down, mid-read. It’s some kind of thriller. That doesn’t surprise me. Next to it, sits a glass of water, half-finished. No second nightstand on the other side of the bed. No second anything, actually.

My phone sits on the nightstand next to his book. I must have fallen asleep holding it. I cross the room to his side of the bed and grab it. The screen lights up with another of Raine's missed calls, the timestamp from around sunrise.

She must be worried out of her mind.

I hit the callback button and hold the phone to my ear praying it goes through this time.

But nothing. No ring, no voicemail, just dead air. I check the signal and find exactly zero bars.

Of course. Underground bunker. I move around the room but don’t find a single bar except for by the nightstand where the phone was.

A bar pops up and I try dialing her again, this time putting it on speaker. I keep an eye out for Rowan, but the energy of the room tells me I’m alone.