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“Hilarious,” I mutter.

“You’re drunk,” he says, voice laced with judgement.

“Yes, that’s what happens when someone goes to a bar.”

“Don’t be smart.” He sounds exasperated.

I meet his eyes. “Are you going to try and kill me again?”

He matches my glare. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you get in the damn car,” he says.

Looking at him now, I don’t think he’s joking. I slide into the car seat, my head spinning. I really shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

I don’t look at him as he slides into the seat next to me, but his scent engulfs me completely when he leans over. My breath catches and I avert my eyes as he pulls my seatbelt and clicks it into place for me. I hold my breath for the rest of the way, only taking in a few shallow ones to stop myself from inhaling his scent.

Chapter Eleven: Rowan

This a bad idea. Anyone sane would know that this is a terrible idea, and I’ve lost my damn mind, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Alexander Kimura makes me anything but sane. So, instead of taking him back to his apartment, I find myself driving into the winding neighbourhoods of Queen’s Peak, not to my apartment but instead, to a quiet townhouse nestled in a cul-de-sac flanked by houses that belong to government officials, old money barons and wealthy investment bankers.

I bought this house years ago to escape The Snake’s watchful eye and lick my wounds—mostly inflicted by Alex. Ila keeps it spotless, though I rarely come here these days.

I really shouldn’t be doing this but I’m already opening the front door, watching Alex’s eyes roam over the entrance hall, the high ceiling, the expensive abstract artwork by a Russian painter I once enjoyed collecting, and finally the staircase that leads to the second floor. Some of the alcohol has worn off, but he still looks a little unsteady, like he might tip over at any moment.

God, I really shouldn’t have brought him here, but what was I supposed to do? When I saw that guy hitting on him outside that bar, something hot and dangerous rose through me so quickly it was almost blinding.

I’m not delusional enough to deny what it was. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was something darker, deeper, the kind ofpossessiveness I should have stopped feeling the morning I got arrested.

“Is this your house?” he asks, his voice more confident and steadier than I’d expected it to be. “It’s different from your old apartment. Homier.”

I look back at him and his eyes are wide, like he didn’t mean to say it. Clearly the alcohol has loosened his tongue even though he didn’t say a single word in the car and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t breathing, either.

“It is.”

He presses his lips together then, “Wait, this isn’t where you usually stay, is it? If it was, this place would be crawling with guards. They can’t leave the precious Vasilyev sons alone for too long.”

I glance at him. “Who said I didn’t send them away?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t think you did. It’s clean in here, looks completely unlived in. No shoe rack or coat hanger.”

Alexander Kimura, ever the observant detective, even in the midst of his inebriation.

“Do I strike you as a shoe rack kind of guy?” I ask, but we both know he’s right. Instead of admitting that, I head straight down a short hallway and into the modern kitchen with white marble countertops and black cabinets with brass hardware that I know many would kill for but is mostly wasted on me.

I open the cupboard next to the fridge. I need a glass of water. Maybe whisky. Something to distract me.

Ah,there it is.

Ila left my favourite bottle in one of the cabinets. Bless her.

I take out two glasses, only pouring the whisky in one and pouring water in the other. I slide it across the marbled island to Alex, who looks at the water with a raised eyebrow.

“Drink,” I instruct.

He looks at the glass again, like it might be filled with poison.