Page 66 of Devil’s Reign

While I wait, I glance around the office, the faint smile still lingering on my lips. Then I go still. On the corner of his desk sits a small card. Even from this distance, I know exactly what it is. The keycard for the elevator. My pulse kicks up as I move closer to confirm it, and sure enough, it’s the card. I stand very still for a moment, listening.

The shower is still running. I shouldn’t, but I do. I pick it up, slip it into my pocket alongside the paper, and step back from the desk just as the shower cuts off.

The door opens a moment later, a billow of steam spilling out into the office as Vanya steps out, dripping wet with just a towel wrapped around his waist and another held loosely in one hand.

My breath catches, and I lick my lips as I take him in, following the trail of water down his bronzed chest, over the hard lines of his abs, to the delicious V disappearing beneath the towel. God, he’s so fucking hot.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, but his eyes darken as they roam over the turtleneck dress. Then he casually lifts the towel in his hand and drags it roughly through his damp hair. “Had a good talk with your mother?”

I nod, my stomach fluttering with nervousness as I close the distance between us. His eyes track me the whole way, and heat creeps up my cheeks. I don’t even know why I’m blushing. After everything we’ve done together, it’s ridiculous. I go up on my tiptoes, take the towel from his hand, and start drying his hair, keeping my eyes on what my hands are doing rather than his face. Then he does something that makes me go all soft and melty inside.

He bends his knees, bringing him down to my level so I don’t have to strain myself to reach him. Such a small thing, but it feels strangely intimate. More intimate somehow than the sex we’ve had. Which reminds me...

“You didn’t use a condom on the rooftop.” I keep my eyes on what my hands are doing rather than his face.

His fingers catch my chin, tilting it up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “If you don’t want to find yourself swollen with my child, you’ll need to get on birth control.” The way he says that makes the room do a slow, dizzying spin around me. “I don’t think I can go back to using condoms with you.”

My knees become jelly at that dark confession delivered so matter-of-factly, and I sway into him. His palm settles at my waist, steadying me.

“I have the morning-after pill here,” he continues in that same low voice, “as well as a birth control packet you can use until we get you on something better.”

My stomach twists strangely, my insides turning to mush. I don’t understand how something so mundane as this can make me react this way.

His lips curl into an amused smile. “Hello? Are you still in there?”

I push away from him with a muttered curse, my hands fisting around the towel still clutched in my hand. He fucking knows what he does to me. “Where are the pills?”

He walks towards his desk, and I hold my breath. If he notices the missing elevator card—But he doesn’t. He pulls open one of his drawers and produces a small paper pharmacy bag. He presses it into my hand, and my fingers close around it, the thin paper crackling under my grip.

I avoid his eyes as I set it down on the desk between us. Then I tip it over, letting the contents tumble out: the Plan B box and the round blister pack of birth control pills.

He goes to the wet bar and returns with a glass and a bottle of water, already twisting the cap off and pouring for me. While he does that, I take the plan B out of its packet and punch out two pills instead of the one instructed—he finished inside me twice; I’m not taking chances.

Our fingers brush when he hands me the glass, and a shudder runs through me. How is he still burning this hot straight out of the shower? I glance away as I toss the pills back with the water, almost emptying the glass in one gulp. Without a word, he refills it while I pop out a birth control pill. I swallow that too, scrunching my face at the uncomfortable slide of it down my throat. I wash it down with another gulp of water, then wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.

When he carries the glass and bottle back to the wet bar, I use those few seconds to gather myself. “You should probably get dressed,” I say to his back, and he glances over his shoulder at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He seems to be doing that a lot now—smiling.

“Why is that?” he asks, and I clear my throat.

“Because we need to talk, and this—” I wave a hand at his body, “—is distracting.”

He chuckles. “Then we should go to my room.” I hesitate, and the hesitation must be transparent because he shrugs. “If you want me dressed, we’ll need to go there. That’s where my clothes are.”

I weigh it: stay here and try to negotiate with him while he’s standing three feet away in a towel, or relocate to his bedroom and try to hold my train of thought within arm’s reach of his bed. Neither option is ideal…

“My mom may have found a lead on my brother. And possibly on your missing men,” I blurt out.

That lands. He stiffens, then cocks a brow. “Really?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath and walk him through it—Joan, the overheard phone call, Mamma’s search of the client’s phone, the text message with the address and time. All of it. And then: “I’m willing to share the meeting place and time with you on one condition. You take me with you.”

His reply is instantaneous. “No.”

I blink at him, stunned. “No? What do you mean, no?”

“It’s too dangerous. I’m not taking you.” He waves a dismissive hand, and I frown, hating that it sounds like an echo of what I told Mamma earlier.

“Dangerous or not, you have no way to get there without me telling you where it is,” I remind him. “Besides, if you’re going to be there, I should be safe.”