Page 13 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

I’m not even sure if this is my story. Because as far as my father, Elias Grimm, and Liam are concerned, I’m expendable, and not the heroine at all.

As soon as I end the call, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Of course, Father is tracking my phone. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Then again, I’ve been a little bit overwhelmed, so maybe I should cut myself some slack.

Grimm? Not so much. Surely that’s something he should have considered before bringing us here. Especially since there are only three ways out of this place—the elevator, the stairs, or parachuting out a window.

I drag my fingers through my hair as I pace the room. I can’t imagine Father will try to raid Grimm Tower tonight—there’s too much planning involved. Not to mention that if he makes a move, Elias Grimm will strike back.

No, this is a situation in which he’ll ask permission. Favors will be traded. Pacts formed to later be broken.

That will take time, so it’s a fair bet that I’m safe here for the night.

For tomorrow, too, and probably the day after, at least until dusk.

Because this is the kind of infiltration that will happen at night.

When commandoes in black will enter the building, put Grimm out of commission, and take me back with them whether I want to go or not.

The irony?

I’m basically a hostage here, completely at Grimm’s mercy. Yet this is where I want to be.

I need to tell Grimm.

The exhaustion of this long day fades in the face of my new resolve as I pull open the bedroom door and step into the darkened hallway, my bare feet silent on the hardwood as I move through the shadows.

The living area is empty, the windows still mercifully opaque.

I call out for Grimm, but my voice merely echoes through the space.

I continue exploring, stopping at an open door.

Grimm’s bedroom . The space is dominated by an enormous bed with rumpled dark sheets that whisper of restless sleep—or active non-sleeping.

My stomach twists, and an unwelcome image of Liam Grimm rolling in those sheets with a woman flickers into my mind.

I push that thought firmly away, but remain in the doorway, my gaze raking over the room.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, the bedroom feels lived in, almost primal.

A faint scent hangs in the air, something masculine and evocative that makes my pulse quicken.

I step back quickly, as if I’d just brushed up against something forbidden.

I continue exploring, then realize that I’m hearing music—a haunting cello piece that seems to glide over my skin, making me want to close my eyes and soak in the beauty of the notes.

It’s coming from behind a door that’s partially ajar.

Curious, I push it open just enough so that I can peek in—then gasp at what I see.

Liam Grimm. Shirtless and moving in slow, hypnotic patterns, his back to me.

He’s wearing only low-slung gray sweatpants that cling to his ass and thighs like a lover’s hands.

My mouth goes dry, and a flush of heat blooms beneath my skin.

His back is a masterpiece—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. Muscles shifting like liquid steel beneath golden skin slick with sweat.

A tattoo I can’t quite decipher curves sinuously along his left shoulder blade—dark, jagged lines forming what looks like a broken crown, the sharp tips splintered as if it had been shattered by force.

The same force that seems to move through him now, every slow, hypnotic shift of his body a silent promise of strength and danger.

Each movement is deliberate, almost sensual, as if he’s making love to the air.

And yet at the same time, the movements are underscored by a strength that seems coiled beneath the surface.

A dangerous power, contained and controlled by the will of this man.

Like his body’s a weapon, and he’s barely keeping it leashed.

I know I should leave. I shouldn’t be watching this private ritual, shouldn’t be letting my eyes trace the contours of his body like fingers. And I definitely shouldn’t be wondering how those muscles would feel flexing beneath my palms.

And yet here I am.

“Enjoying the view, Princess?” He hasn’t turned, hasn’t missed a beat in his slow, fluid movements.

“I—” My voice is traitorously husky. I clear my throat. “I talked with Ruby. My father is tracking my phone. He knows I’m here.”

Now he turns, and the front view steals whatever breath I had left. That well-defined chest now glistens with sweat. Those stunning abs ripple with each breath. And a crazy-sexy trail of dark hair disappears beneath his waistband like an arrow pointing to sin itself.

I have zero experience with men other than in my fantasies, but there is no doubt in my mind as to how this man would feel beneath my fingers.

With firm determination, I force myself to lift my gaze to his eyes, only to find something predatory looking right back at me.

“It will take them a while to get their shit together,” he says, cutting to the chase and ending up where my own thought process had landed.

He reaches for a towel and drags it slowly across his chest. My eyes follow the movement helplessly.

“I’ve been monitoring the situation.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly as he walks toward me with the fluid grace of a jungle cat. “That’s good to know.”

He stops just inches from me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the salt of his skin. “Shall I take you back to bed?”

My cheeks flame as forbidden images flash through my mind. “What?”

“You need to sleep,” he says, but his eyes dance with amusement. “You’re exhausted. And tomorrow will be demanding.”

“Right. Sleep.” I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. “Goodnight, Grimm.”

“Liam,” he says firmly, but I just shrug, then turn and head for the door.

“Good night, Princess. We’ll talk in the morning.”

I slip into the hallway, my body burning in places it shouldn’t as I think about his voice, his eyes, and that small smile that always seems to promise things I really shouldn’t want.

Get a grip, girl!

In my room, I drop the robe, then slide naked between the cool sheets, my body humming. I close my eyes and see him again—the fluid grace of his movements, the controlled power in every muscle, the way his sweats hang so low I can see the sharp cut of his hip bones.

I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.

I slide my hand down my bare stomach, lower and lower—then yank it firmly away. That’s not what I want. Not my own touch, familiar and flat.

And yet … well, there are other ways to escape.

I roll over and grab the laptop from where I left it on the bedside table.

I lift the lid, then type in the URL for Elysium.