Page 7 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows (Runaway Prince Hotel #5)
Chapter Six
HIGHWAY TO HELL
Théo
A nticipation makes my blood boil. I doubt I’ll find full rest tonight.
I shut my eyes and exhale. A slow smile spreads across my face as my shoulders loosen. The day has paid off.
The Renversé Hotel hallway envelops me in stillness as I eye the elevator, wondering how long their fancy machine plans to grace the ground floor with its presence.
I have all the time in the world, so it doesn’t matter. Still, the wait makes my throat dry.
As a loner—which suits my line of work—I take peace when I can get it. After the Metropolitan Museum, my mind raced—mentally checking what was left to review, strategizing my next move, and already building tonight’s agenda to wind down.
I walked back along the boardwalk, hoping the ocean air might steady me. The usual buzz was gone, the crowds thinned. That shift threw me off—in the best way.
Thank God, the storm broke long enough for me to catch the sunset over the water.
I can’t stand the rain. Simon, the amiable receptionist, was wrong.
The crappy weather hasn’t let up since I set foot in Princedelphia a few days ago.
No wonder I’ve barely left the hotel—constantly refining my well-oiled plans, ordering room service, and using the hotel facilities rather than exploring the city.
It’s a good thing I had marked visiting the museum on my calendar, or I might’ve pushed it off again. I got dressed for my afternoon outing—dressed down, I mean.
Dark jeans, light grey sweater, and worn-out combat boots. Blending in like any other tourist.
With the hotel’s umbrella and my coat, I powered through the thirty-minute walk without getting soaked. Once the job was done, I waited out the next downpour in the museum café.
Maybe it’s my Parisian heritage, but I’ve never owned a car. I have a license, yet I prefer walking or riding the subway rather than renting a vehicle.
I come prepared. And no, I’m not made of sugar.
My first visit was a success.
Room service can wait. My pulse still runs too high to eat. A strong drink sounds better.
My heart flip-flops inside my chest as I replay the scene for the umpteenth time. The painting. The theft. The prize. I’m itching to put my skills to work.
Despite the storm, the museum wasn’t as busy as I had assumed. My basic outfit enabled me to roam the premises unnoticed. My photographic memory registered every single camera, every missing detail in the blueprints I’d unearthed.
“You’ve got this,” I grunt to myself between clenched teeth. Not that I need convincing. Of course, I got this. I always do.
That’s why I don’t send regular updates to my client. The contract doesn’t require reports on my whereabouts and progress.
Runaway fairytale princes or not, I have yet again to hand it to Stanislas Volkoff—he picked a solid hotel.
The staff is professional and attentive, and the hotel perks don’t disappoint.
I’ve used the indoor pool. While relaxing there, I spotted the handsome, dark-skinned Asian man skimming the water—a welcome distraction, though I know better than to mess with the staff.
Beyond that, the location’s perfect, and they put me in this beautiful wing.
With that in mind, I grin and pry my eyes open. Slipping out of my coat, I shrug, shifting gears. I glance down. My boots are drenched. I click my tongue in annoyance.
“Good evening, sir.” A deep whisper greets me, wrenching me from my thoughts.
Behind the wrought-iron gate, there he stands—the guy I noticed by the reception the other day.
Not a guest, then.
My heart skips a beat when his light-honey gaze bores into mine through the wrought-iron gate. My throat turns even drier.
Holy shit!
People say that eyes are the mirror of the soul. His are impenetrable. I don’t care to decode whatever’s hidden there… It’s just that, if anything, my job trained me to read others effortlessly. This peculiar guy is a blank page.
Nah, strike that. He radiates a raw intensity that scrapes at my nerves. My chest tightens. I shut my eyes for a beat to collect my thoughts.
My uncooperative dick betrays me with a twitch as I take him in, slow and deliberate. Too much presence in too little space. I drop my gaze, relieved the physical barrier stands between us.
“Hello…” The word catches, scratching its way out of my throat. My lips part, nothing follows.
He swings the gate open. His mouth moves, but the sound doesn’t land. I shift my weight, trying to root myself. Before stepping inside, I swallow hard, then pull in a breath that does nothing.
As I pass him, the air thickens—humid, charged with something I can’t name. I brush close. Did I just do that on purpose? Then, I retreat to the back, spine snapping upright.
I keep my eyes off him, fixing on the ceiling light instead. It flickers, skittering shadows over the walls, warping the room’s edges.
Have I stepped out of time? He’s no echo of the previous elevator operator. No echo of anyone I’ve ever seen—and not just in form.
His gaze is hypnotic, his voice addictive—and everything about him is…
How can I put it? Larger than life?
His height; he’s way taller than my 6’1’’.
His frame; he’s sturdier than a football player.
His outfit; he’s dressed like it’s late spring rather than March.
A white linen suit paired with a cement grey dress shirt, seriously?
I guess uniforms for old-fashioned elevator operators are overrated.
Why wear linen, and white at that? And yet, it oddly enhances his olive skin tone and his well-defined dark curls…
Who cares what he’s wearing? The man belongs on a magazine cover.
Distraught by his overall appearance, I flush and will myself to put on my poker face, to no avail. Taking deep breaths, I now focus my attention on his powerful hands. Heat flares, and I’m annoyed that even the dimly lit interior surely does nothing to hide my beet-red cheeks.
Damn fair skin! Damn misplaced thoughts! Damn odd reaction!
Within seconds, the beautiful stranger, who seems to be oblivious to my hot and bothered state, turns around. He closes the door behind us. Why do I feel being trapped inside this elevator won’t be a hassle?
Eventually, I force myself to speak as his eyes land on mine again. “Good evening, yourself.”
He nods, offering me a megawatt smile. “What’s your destination, sir?”
Tempted to reply, “Your bed,” I purse my lips to suppress my impulse. “Excuse me?”
He must realize the effect he has on me, unless his expression only betrays how blasé he is.
“Which floor?” he clarifies, shooting me another toothy smile.
I make a point of staring anywhere but at his plump lips.
He looks like a force of nature, and I’d love to see him manhandling me to tame my energy overload.
Under his scrutiny, I chuckle at the ludicrous idea.
Well, it’s not totally ludicrous since sex with strangers is my go-to activity whenever I need to unwind.
But then again, I like this hotel and I don’t intend to derail my plans because my dick took the lead.
Down, boy! I can’t mess with the staff, no matter how mouth-watering they are.
“Sixteenth, please,” I supply in a shaky voice.
This is so not like me. Eager to continue this conversation that can hardly be considered one, I rack my brain to find a suitable topic aside from the weather.
I’m guessing that every other patron who cared enough to talk to him has already bored him with it.
Following his hand to the old-fashioned button for my floor, I realize that one is missing. Missing button. Missing floor. Like, totally missing!
Mmm, interesting. Guess I should have paid more attention before, but then again…
“The owners are superstitious, huh?” We slowly begin our ascent.
“I beg your pardon.” His eyes are back on me.
What is this stranger doing to me?
“No thirteenth floor.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, Sheena suffers from triskaidekaphobia.”
“Who’s Sheena?” My brow spikes up as he blushes, worrying his plump lower lip. “Tricky what?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry, TMI.” The subdued light hides nothing from the deepening color in his cheeks. “It’s happened before… When I’m here, I mean. I can’t seem to—” He pauses. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“Nah, you’re fine.” I wave my hand. For some reason, I feel compelled to wrench him out of his misplaced misery and redirect the conversation. “I’m new here, and you seem quite knowledgeable about this venue. Please, clue me in. Your revelations are safe with me.”
“Sure.” He shakes his head, as if making peace with the idea. “Sheena, the manager, hates number 13. Not sure why… That’s triskaidekaphobia.”
“So the fourteenth floor is actually the thirteenth one?”
“Nope. There is a thirteenth floor. It’s restricted to certain guests because it’s supposedly haunted.
” He chuckles, his eyes searching mine for validation or maybe for someone to stop his verbal diarrhea.
This is entertaining, although he is awfully talkative and excited for sure.
“Fearless ones.” He halts before adding, “Like me.”
What the fuck is he talking about? Plastering a knowing smile on my face, I play along. “Ohhh, so you’re a guest, but you work here anyway, huh?”
“Indeed. This isn’t my regular jam, but both women know me well. They understand I sometimes long for a spark of excitement—to break the… stillness. A pressing matter brought me to the US, so I figured, why not come here and play extra.”
“Hence, you’re on a first name basis with the owner. I get it.”
“You’re quite perceptive for a human. To be honest, the concept of last names is rather foreign to me, so…” He trails off.
This unexpected exchange is getting weirder by the second, but I school my features so my face won’t betray my growing wariness.
Instead, I joke, “Because you don’t have a last name yourself.
” My words are followed by a chuckle. It’s amazing how this reserved man turned talkative in a matter of seconds.
Still, he isn’t making sense. To confirm my assumption, he moves his head, letting his curls float around his gorgeous rugged face while proudly pointing to his name tag.
“Zagreus, right?” Riiight … My fascination for the man grows accordingly with his cryptic words.
I studied history and mythology to understand the value of the objects I was hired to steal—and handle them with the care they deserved.
It was my late father who first sparked my interest in mythology, encouraging my curiosity.
I doubt he ever imagined it would be put to this kind of use.
“Are you Greek or are your parents into ancient gods?”
“Both, actually.” His eyes spark with glee. He sighs, then grabs something from his jacket pocket and plays with it, sliding it from one finger to the next so fast that it’s almost impossible to figure out what it is.
What prompted his sudden nervousness?
I praise myself for my attention to detail, but this guy makes me lose all common sense.
Now that I think about it, he does look Greek…
on steroids. And another detail he mentioned strikes me.
“For a human…” I trail off, calling him out on his bullshit.
Since I set foot in Princedelphia, I’ve heard countless stories about the city that hosts various creatures who belong to secret kingdoms and live among us.
Hell, even my client, Volkoff, believes in this fairytale, but I’m a rational man.
“Care to elaborate?” I wonder if he’ll humor me.
He opens his appetizing mouth to speak, but the cabin shakes, sending Zagreus towards the back. My throat releases a screeching sound. Maybe this fancy elevator isn’t as safe as I thought… My pulse races as I envision my dead body crushed beneath metal debris.
Unruffled, he slides the rounded object back into his pocket. My interest is piqued.
The elevator doesn’t stop until we arrive at my floor. Safe and sound. About to step out, it gives a sudden jolt as he opens the twisting wrought-iron vines gate. I wish him a good day.
How can I resist?
On impulse, I bump my shoulder into his on my way out and pretend it’s due to the commotion.
My true nature takes the forefront, and I expertly slip my hands into his jacket pocket.
I’m too gifted for him to have fathomed what my fisted hand is holding.
Could it be a gold coin? If so, it’ll be worth a lot.
Within my next breath, the ground is swept from my feet. Falling. My vision struggles to adapt due to overwhelming darkness. Falling. The tumult of zillion people’s voices overwhelms me. Falling… as if sucked into nothingness.
My heart is about to explode from the myriad of terrifying sensations.
Gasping, I eventually land, or rather softly bump in a heap, with Zagreus standing by my side.
His gaze morphs into a mix of shock and anger.
My lungs ache as I catch my breath, touching my body and face to make sure that there’s no missing parts, then avoid him to process what just happened.
I blankly stare at the ocean before me that looks nothing like Princedelphia’s boardwalk.
Eyes bulging out of their sockets, I blurt out in a strangled voice, “What’s this place?” My astonishment rises with his answer.
“My home.”