Page 12 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Eight

Awakenings

A fter squashing down a mountain of mortification, I tell myself to get it together. Then I close the door behind me with a sigh and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t want Liam Grimm. He’s hot as sin, but he’s a Grimm, and just because I’m here doesn’t mean I trust him.

“Idiot,” I mutter, even as I mentally call myself half a dozen more interesting names.

The next thing I do is glance around. The guest bedroom is both elegant and drab—neutral tones, expensive linens, and not a single personal touch. Like everything else in Liam Grimm’s world, it’s carefully curated to reveal nothing he doesn’t want revealed.

I open my handbag, intending to pull out my meds and my phone.

Neither are there.

Instead, there’s a note in a bold, masculine hand: You don’t need them. And Ruby can wait for tomorrow.

It’s so ridiculous I actually laugh. Then I remember that I’m pissed off. Not so much about the meds—all things considered, I’m leaning toward believing everything Grimm’s told me. But taking the phone …

That bites. Because it’s been a hell of a long day, and I really want to call Ruby.

And if wishes were horses then I’d have been way the hell and gone from Manhattan years ago …

I grimace, then distract myself by exploring the room. After a day like today, I should be passing out face down on the bed, but I’m too wired to sleep. Instead, my mind races with questions … and with the memory of Grimm’s soft caress.

I shove that memory right back down where it belongs, then start opening doors.

The closet is empty and pristine, with padded hangers just waiting to perform their duty.

The bathroom is so bright it makes my head hurt.

Fortunately, I can dim the light, and still enjoy the way it sparkles and smells vaguely of lilacs.

The countertop displays an array of toiletries, like the kind you’d find in a world-class hotel—only times ten.

There’s a fluffy white robe hanging behind the door, and I eagerly strip out of my fairy-princess meets captive-bride outfit—resisting the urge to stomp on it, as if grinding the thing into dust would finally make me real.

I stand naked for a moment, letting my physical appearance mirror my mental state. Because for the entirety of this day, I’ve felt on display. Examined. Judged.

So, yeah, big, fluffy robe? That sounds pretty nice.

I sigh as I slide into it, but it takes a moment for me to cinch the tie since my hands are shaking.

Nerves , I think as I stare at myself in the mirror.

The robe is beyond casual, while my hair in its fancy up-do looks like I’m heading to a coronation ball, even with the few strands that have escaped the hairpins.

With a surge of unexpected fury, I start ripping those damned pins out and tossing them in the sink.

I’m so sick and tired of being a dress-up doll for everyone’s pleasure but my own.

Each tiny clatter in the basin feels like a punch — another piece of my father I’m tearing off and throwing away.

Rip out the pins. Rip out the lies. Rip out the girl he built for show.

When the pins are out, I bend over and run my fingers through my hair, loosening the braids and twists and whatever else the hairstylist did earlier today.

I shiver. Was it really only today?

I straighten, thinking of all that has happened since I woke up in my bed. Technically, that was yesterday morning, but as I haven’t slept, I figure it’s all the same.

I give myself a mental pat on the back. Today’s the day I walked out of hell. And no matter what happens next, that’s something.

I meet my eyes in the mirror and nod, as if in solidarity. My normally straight hair hangs almost to my waist, the kinks and curls from the twists and the braids giving me a wild, almost beachy look.

The mass of hair is heavy and time-consuming, and I’ve considered cutting it so many times, but my father wouldn’t allow it. I’m a little princess, after all. And my hair is my crown.

If that were the only factor, I’d shave my head and suffer the consequences. But the truth is, I like my hair, too. Despite the major pain-in-the-butt factor that comes from care and styling.

Now, I do nothing more complicated than tucking it behind my ears as I pick up the dress, then head barefoot back into the bedroom to continue my exploration.

I randomly open dresser drawers, finding extra sheets, a box of tissue, several drawers of nothing at all, and then—strangely—a sleek, silver laptop computer.

I start to close the drawer, assuming Grimm’s last guest had left it behind. But then I change my mind. This is my room now. And if there’s even the slightest chance that any of Grimm’s information is on that computer, I want to see it.

As soon as I’m settled on the bed with the lid open and the device plugged in, I know there won’t be any secrets here. The screen isn’t even locked. It simply says, “Have A Pleasant Stay.”

A bit more polite than I’d expect from Grimm, but then again, what do I know? Maybe he’s a pussycat around everybody but me.

I dim the brightness to stave off the headache that’s determined to invite friends. Then I poke around the hard drive, but there’s nothing installed on the computer except for a couple of web browsers.

And isn’t that interesting …?

For a moment, I debate logging in. After all, it’s just sitting there like a trap, all bright and shiny, like tin foil to attract a blackbird.

Doesn’t matter—I’m going in. I head over to Instagram first, then leave a U There? DM for Ruby. When she doesn’t answer right away, I assume she’s asleep. A reasonable assumption since it’s almost 3am.

Ruby, however, never turns off her phone ringer.

According to her, as my PA, she needs to be available to me night or day.

And since my father switches out my phone number every few weeks without warning—because god forbid someone I meet at a shoot should call me socially—she lets any and all calls ring through.

Thankfully, I don’t have too many three a.m. crises. And I don’t bother making friends on shoots anymore. That never works out.

It takes no time to create a new Internet-based number, then to dial hers from memory.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I frown. She usually picks up right away.

Ring. Ring.

A message pops up to tell me my party hasn’t answered—as if I couldn’t figure that out on my own—and I click the button to continue ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

I’m about to give up and just try again in the morning when I hear a click and then a breathy, “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

At first, she doesn’t do anything but breathe, but I can practically feel the relief melting off her. “Where are you?” she finally demands, her voice so low I can barely hear her. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m still with the devil.”

“I know. Your father tracked your phone. I overheard him talking to Desmond. He said you’re at Grimm Tower.”

“Yeah. I don’t think Liam lives here permanently, but apparently, all the brothers have apartments on site.”

“I’ve never heard his voice like that. He’s beyond furious.”

I hug myself. Of course, he is. “Do you know what he’s planning?”

“Not specifically,” she says. “But?—”

“Yeah. I know. He’s going to send some of his goons to get me.”

Reed Cosmetics is only one tiny piece of Reed Industries. And those much larger pieces demand a highly trained security team. The kind that recruits from covert government agencies and could extricate a damsel in distress before breakfast.

Fortunately, Grimm International has a similar status … and a similar security team. My father can’t send goons into Grimm Tower without risking a full-on war, and my father’s not a man who takes risks without first considering every other option.

That buys some time, but not much. Because my father wants me back, and Elias Grimm won’t stick his neck out for his estranged third son.

So sooner or later, those two will strike a deal, and Father’s men will converge on this place. I don’t want to be here when they do.

“I don’t know where I’m going to go,” I tell Ruby, “but I have to get out of here. And I have to ditch the phone. Keep the number I called from. I’ll try to log in when I can.”

“I will. And Sasha—never mind.” I hear the mix of hesitation and fear in her voice. It’s easy to notice since it sounds like mine.

“What?”

“What if we’re wrong? What if Liam isn’t helping you? What if he brought you back to win points with his dad? Toss Victor Reed’s daughter at Elias’s feet. That would be one hell of a peace offering if Elias Grimm wants a detente with your father.”

A wave of fear crashes over me, and I draw in a sharp breath even as I shake my head and say, “No. No, that’s not what he’s doing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure at all. But I really, really don’t want to believe it. Weirdly, I’ve started to trust Liam Grimm. At least a little.

But maybe that’s just Stockholm Syndrome. Now that she’s mentioned it, turning me over like a trophy sounds like a very Grimm family type of plan.

And that’s not good.

“Sasha …”

“I’m sure,” I snap, then immediately cringe. “Sorry. I’m just tired and stressed. And it’s not like I can do anything right now.”

“Sleep,” she says. “You need to be able to think straight tomorrow. And call when you can. If I learn anything, I’ll text you at this number and leave a message in Elysium, too.”

“Love you,” I say.

“Love you back,” she whispers, her voice cracking with what I know are nerves. “It’s going to be okay,” she says. “You’re going to get free.”

“I know I am,” I say, but for the first time since this adventure began, I’m starting to doubt that I’ll be able to make that fantasy come true. I’m just one princess in a tower, the monsters are readying to cross the moat, and there’s no dragon prince to burn them to cinders and whisk me away.

I’m not in Elysium.

I’m not in a fairy tale.