Page 39 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I take a few more steps out from under the partial overhang to fully soak in the rays. Gray morning light gives way to pure sunlight, a stark contrast to the dim blue of the compound interior. The view is the same staggering expanse of lake, but from here I can feel the wind on my face and it feels a lot like freedom.

I cross the terrace to the glass wall at the edge. Freedom, if I could fly that is. From up here, one slip over the wall and it would be adios Cora. I lean over the wall just a fraction and yeah, that is a long way down.

I back up and turn my attention back to the raised beds pristinely positioned between me and the door back into the underground compound.

“A garden.” Or what used to be one.

Raised beds built from expensive lumber are filled with dry, cracked soil. Dead stems poke up as if reaching for the last hope of life. Brown leaves cling to shriveled stems and the beds hold nothing but the skeletal remains of things that stopped growing a long time ago. Someone planned this space with care, measured every angle, built it with intention.

And then abandoned it.

I crouch at the edge of the nearest bed and push my fingers into the soil. Dry, but not powdery. The dirt still has some structure to it. With a little help, it could provide again. I dig a little deeper and find moisture a few inches down. The drainage is good. The beds are positioned for maximum light. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.

They just stopped doing it.

A watering can lies on its side near the far bed. It is tipped over like someone tossed it aside and never came back.

The gardening books with the cracked spines and the dog-eared pages come to mind.

He tried, but bless him nothing stayed alive. My chest aches for the man who only wanted a little life in his dark world.

A stubborn weed catches my eye near the base of the raised bed to my right. Three stalks push up through the dry soil, refusing to die despite the lack of attention. I crouch down and look at it more closely.

“Tough little thing.” I brush dirt off the leaves. "Look at you. Still hanging on."

The low hum of a motor and the clank of metal on metal draws my attention toward the entrance of the compound, bunker, dark underworld. I’m not sure what to call it. My prison seems adequate, but so does sanctuary.

A mechanical hum and the shift of gears tells me the elevator is bringing someone down.

I stand up, brush the dirt from my fingers.

He's back.

It doesn't take long for him to find me.

Goosebumps rush across my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, every nerve firing the same warning that a predator is close.

But not to hurt me. Every cell in my body knows the difference.

His presence rolls over me, warm and solid, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of his shirt against my back.

I don't turn around. The door to the terrace eases open. The cold mountain air spills across my bare legs only to be chased away by the heat of him stepping up behind me. Tension rolls through my body. Every nerve suddenly wakes and pays attention in a way that has nothing to do with fear. I keep my eyes on the dead garden because if I turn around, I'll have to look at him, and I'm not sure if I can keep from falling into his arms and begging him to kiss me.

A little dramatic, but I had one helluva dream last night that has me wondering if his lips are as soft as they were in my dream.

I hold that truth close while my brain tries to work out where the sudden attraction comes from. He's my ex's father. He semi-kidnapped me for my own good. I'll work that out in therapy once this is all over. He's twice my age and probably has a body count higher than my credit score. None of this should be doing anything for me, and yet my pulse is racing and I'm hyperaware of how little fabric separates my body from his.

And then there’s the fact that I don’t have on panties. Again.

"You found it."

His voice is deeper than I remembered. Rougher. His accent is thicker, like he's not bothered to smooth it out.

"Kinda hard to miss." I gesture toward the raised beds to either side of me and the few in front toward the edge of the terrace floor. "It's the only thing in your entire compound that doesn't look like a minimalist designed it to zap the color from your life."

He doesn't respond to that. I risk a glance over my shoulder. Without him knowing, I take in the angle of his face. The slight space between his lips. Even the neatness of his trimmed beard. Nothing goes unnoticed. Especially the intensity of his eyes as he studies me, too.

He's changed clothes since last night. Fresh suit, dark as the others, no visible blood this time. A shopping bag with an expensive logo hangs from one hand.