Page 19 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Twelve

Soaring

G rimm’s phone chimes, and his body goes rigid as he reads the text. His eyes, already intense, harden to steel.

“We need to leave,” he says, hurrying toward his study. I grab the sleeve of French fries and follow him, certain that his urgency has something to do with my father. I reach the study in time to see him pocket something, then close the middle desk drawer.

“My purse,” I say, thinking of Ruby’s credit card. “I need to get it.”

“No.” His voice is calm but leaves no room for argument.

“But—”

“They’re here. Right now. Police.” He takes my elbow and steers me out of the study. “Dammit,” he says in a voice low enough that I know it’s not meant for me. “They got here a hell of a lot faster than I anticipated.”

I expect him to lead me to the elevator. Instead, he bustles us in the opposite direction, further past his study than I’ve explored. The hall twists and turns until I’m no longer sure which side of the building we’re on. Finally, he stops in front of a well-camouflaged service door.

“We’re going up,” he says, holding the door open and gesturing me into a narrow concrete stairwell.

“Up?” I repeat stupidly as I step inside, and it’s only when my bare feet hit the cold concrete that I remember I never bothered to put on shoes.

“Four flights. To the roof.” He comes in after me and pulls the door closed. “Go.”

I do, hurrying up the stairs, the concrete biting into my feet as I move like lightning.

I pause at the second landing to look back at Grimm.

The copper-gold of his hair catches the dim light as he takes the stairs two at a time.

His button-down shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Despite the situation, my eyes linger on the taut muscles of his forearms as he reaches the landing, his face a mask of concentration.

“Keep moving,” he says, his hand on my lower back pressing me forward. “Almost there.”

My breath catches—not from exertion, but from his touch.

Really not the time.

I force my mind to focus only on the steps, and before I know it, we’ve reached the door to the roof.

Grimm puts his weight against it, the door flies open, and I stagger backward, dropping my fries as the world opens up around me, the endless sky and dizzying height hitting me like a physical blow.

I’m still in the stairwell, and I press my back to the concrete wall as I look down at my feet, trying not to think about the nothingness spreading out from the open door. Trying to ignore the way the wind howls through the stairwell, pulling at my hair, my clothes, my will.

Every instinct screams for me to run the other way.

Roofs are where the world ends, and I know that better than anyone.

I hear myself whimper. I can’t do this. I can’t. All I can do is stand here, staring down at my Scarlett Kiss-painted toes, as I try—and fail— to pretend that the door leads anywhere but this open expanse of a rooftop.

“Dammit, Sasha—listen to me.”

It’s only then that I realize that Grimm has been speaking to me, his voice like a low rumble of indiscernible noise.

I try to parse out words, but I don’t look at him. If I do, all I’ll see is the void of night behind him.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. “It’s either the roof or your father’s men.”

At the thought, my insides turn to goo. But I force myself to squeeze my eyes tightly shut.

I expect him to take my hand and lead me to the helipad, so I gasp when he scoops me up, holding me like a bride.

I turn my face into his chest, breathing in his scent—something expensive and masculine that grounds me, at least for a moment.

Then I hear it—the thunderous approach of helicopter blades.

“Our ride,” Grimm says against my hair. “I’m putting you down now.” When my feet touch the ground, I open my eyes—just barely—keeping my hand tight in Grimm’s as the spinning blades whip my hair into a frenzy.

It’s sleek and black, with no markings. Grimm practically carries me to it, his arm a vise around my waist so that my bare feet hardly touch the ground.

The pilot doesn’t ask questions as Grimm helps me into a leather seat, then buckles me in with practiced movements, his fingers grazing my thighs. As they do, I realize I’m trembling … and not entirely from fear.

Just as Grimm reaches for his own harness, the roof access door bursts open.

Three men in dark suits spill onto the helipad, weapons already drawn, my father’s head of security leading the charge.

Their mouths move in furious shouts I can’t hear over the roar of the rotors, but the guns aimed at our helicopter leave no doubt about their intentions.

“Go!” Grimm barks into his headset, still securing his own belt.

The helicopter lurches upward, the sudden acceleration pressing me into my seat.

One of the attackers drops to one knee as he aims his gun at the pilot’s compartment.

The pilot must see him, because the helicopter banks sharply, rolling sideways just as Grimm slams the door shut.

Through the window, I see more men burst onto the roof, a few getting off more shots as we speed away.

“They were trying to disable the helicopter, not hit us,” Grimm says, his voice tight. “Your father wants you back—undamaged merchandise.”

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, adrenaline surging through me in a heady rush. I’ve never felt so terrified or so alive.

My stomach lurches as we rise into the night sky. Manhattan spreads below us, a glittering carpet of lights that makes my head spin, though not as much as I’d anticipated. The helicopter is like a cocoon, holding me close and safe.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But deep down I know the real balm is the safe and solid presence of Liam Grimm beside me.

“You’re doing well,” he says into the headset, and while I hate that he already knows my weaknesses so intimately, my cheeks warm from the praise.

We move swiftly over the city, and though I don’t look out of our safe little capsule, I can’t help but enjoy the motion. It reminds me of a dream I’d once had about Elysium in which Vale and Prince Killiam escaped a bounty hunter on the back of Ember.

He’d nestled her— me —in front of him, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other resting loosely on my thigh, his roaming fingers finding soft skin when the wind made my tattered skirt flutter.

His lips teased my ear as his fingers stroked the soft places between my legs, and when the dragon rolled down, down, down toward the castle below, I didn’t know if it was the thrill of the flight or the prince’s touch that had my body shaking in a way that probably looked like torture but felt like heaven.

There’s a crackle of static in my headphones, then “—coming.”

I tense, my cheeks burning, and I miss the next words. “What? What did you say?”

“I said we’re coming in for a landing.”

“Oh.” I relax, feeling foolish. And strangely disappointed.

Soon, we’re settled on a helipad near Wall Street, and the moment the pilot gives us the go-ahead, Grimm frees us of the safety belts and helps me out. And while it may be my imagination, I think his hands linger on my waist at least one moment longer than necessary.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That despite the random fantasy, I want nothing from Grimm but his help and protection.

But try as I might, I just don’t believe it.

Night has fallen completely now, and the cool concrete beneath my bare feet is a shock after the warmth of the copter.

“Stay close,” Grimm murmurs, and I nod, shaking off my lingering fantasies as I remember why we’re on the run.

We hurry from the heliport, and I almost cheer when Grimm flags down a cab almost instantly. Turns out that fleeing from your prick of a father is best done in shoes.

Inside the cab, he orders the driver to take us to Grand Central, then pulls me close against his side. I lean in, relishing the sense of being protected, just the way I know that Killiam will always protect Vale.

Except this isn’t a fantasy world, and Grimm isn’t protecting me because he wants me. What he wants is to destroy my father. And I’m his weapon of mass destruction.

As the cab merges into traffic, I start to pull away, but Grimm draws me closer. “I’m going to assume they’ve marked us,” he whispers, and I shiver, but whether from trepidation or the feel of his breath on my skin, I truly don’t know.

“It’s okay,” he continues, apparently noticing the way I’d trembled. “We’ll lose them again.” He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my head up to face him. “Trust me,” he says, his voice full of heat and power. “I promise I’ll get you safely away.”

I start to tell him that I do trust him, but before I say anything, he flashes a lopsided smile. “You’re my secret weapon, Sasha. The magic bullet to take down Victor Reed.”

I nod, forcing a smile. And hating the unpleasant truth that I can’t escape and that only I can see—that I want to be more than Grimm’s weapon or Father’s bargaining chip.

But some part of me knows that will never change. I was raised to be used. And the truly sad truth? I’m not sure I know any other way to live.

At Grand Central, we blend into the evening crowd, though I catch several curious glances aimed at my bare feet.

“Brooklyn,” he says, ushering me onto a crowded train.

We stand pressed together in the crush of bodies, his front to my back, his arm around my waist. I can feel his breath on my neck, and it sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the fear.

Two stops later, he pulls me off the train, leaving the phone he’d taken from me on an empty seat.

I laugh. “If they track it, the signal will lead them in the wrong direction.”

The corner of his mouth curves up. “Maybe you are more than just a pretty face on one of Reed’s shitty ads.”