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I lean close to her ear. "I'd like to see you try."
I guide her into the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse. We ride up in silence, her body rigid beside mine. The doors open directly into my apartment—all black leather, steel, and glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the city that people may fantasize about but could never afford.
Evelyn turns to face me, her eyes hard as ice. "You seem to like playing with me."
I keep my face blank. "This isn't a game."
"Then what is it?" She clutches her violin case tighter. "Why were you stalking me? Why did you take me?"
For a moment I consider telling her everything. But knowledge is power and right now I need her powerless.
"You need to rest." I nod toward a hallway. "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch in the room."
She laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. "You think I'm going to sleep? Here? With you?"
"You don't have much choice." I move past her toward my bedroom. "Unless you prefer the floor."
She follows, her heels clicking angrily against the hardwood. "I need a shower."
I stop, turning to look at her. She's still wearing that black dress from the performance—elegant, expensive, now wrinkled from our struggle. Her makeup is smudged, hair falling from its perfect arrangement. Even disheveled, she looks like something that doesn't belong in my world.
"Fine." I walk to the dresser, pull out a black t-shirt and sweatpants. They'll swallow her whole but it's better than nothing. I toss them onto the bed. "These will have to do."
She eyes the clothes like they might bite her. "I need my own things."
"Not happening." I move to another door, pushing it open to reveal the bathroom. "Towels are in the cabinet. Soap, shampoo—whatever you need is in there."
She stands frozen, violin still clutched to her chest.
"Your precious violin will be safe," I tell her, nodding to the case. "No one's going to touch it."
Slowly, reluctantly, she sets the case on the bed, treating it with more care than most people show their children. Herfingers linger on the case before she grabs the clothes I've left out.
"Ten minutes," I say as she walks past me into the bathroom.
She pauses in the doorway, looking back at me with defiance. "I'll take as long as I want."
The door slams in my face and I hear the lock click into place. Not that it would stop me if I wanted in.
I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, listening to the water run. The sound of her moving around in there—my space—hits differently than I expected. Like she belongs here.
Fuck.
This is bad. So fucking bad.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, head in my hands. What the hell am I doing? Ten months watching her from a distance, telling myself it was just surveillance. Just business. Just keeping tabs on a potential asset.
Bullshit.
I watched her because I couldn't look away. Because something about the way she moved, the way she played—like she was both perfectly controlled and completely wild at the same time—got under my skin.
I watched her because in her world, in those concert halls and charity events, there was something pure. Something I lost a long time ago. Something I never really had.
And now I've dragged her into my darkness.
I run my hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. Pain keeps me focused. Keeps me from thinking about her on the other side of that door.
She doesn't belong here. Not with me. Not with someone who's killed more men than he can count. Not with hands so covered in blood that sometimes I swear I can still feel it sticky between my fingers.