Page 21 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Thirteen

Craving

A s Grimm crosses the living area to close the drapes, I take in the elegantly decorated space.

Designer furniture counterpointed by overstuffed pillows.

A plush throw rug spread out in front of a cozy sofa.

Beautifully bound books on an antique bookshelf.

An alcove with a desk. And a crystal bowl filled with pinecones on a side table.

Undeniably lovely, but also impersonal. As if this is a stage, not a room.

When I mention that to Grimm, he glances around, then shrugs. “Looks par for the course to me. As far as hotels go, I’d say it’s got more personality than most.”

That’s when it hits me. I haven’t got a clue about what a typical hotel room looks or feels like. “Disney World,” I whisper.

Grimm tilts his head, confusion and amusement both playing across that gorgeous face. “I beg to differ, Princess. If this were Disney, we’d be seeing some evidence of the mouse.”

I shake my head as I head to the couch. “The last time I was in a hotel, it was in Florida on a rare vacation. I haven’t slept anyplace but Reed Tower since before my mother died.” I glance toward him. “Until now.”

“Goddamn your father.” His words are barely a whisper. Even so, the vitriol in his voice is clear. There’s something else, too. Something protective that twists in my stomach and makes me dip my head again because the words seem just a shade too personal.

That, however, is only my nerves talking. I know perfectly well that being in this room has nothing to do with me. Not really. Sure, he’s protecting me. But that’s only because I’m a weapon to use against my father.

It’s when my head’s down that I notice the mess—I’ve tracked street grime all over the polished wood. Not to mention this gloriously soft and radioactively white rug.

I wince, then look up at Grimm. “I think I just lost your deposit.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t spank you.” That sparkle flares again as he meets my gaze. “Not too hard, anyway.”

“I—” I have to swallow as something warm and enticing spreads through me even as an invisible band tightens around my chest. I clamber to my feet, feeling awkward and off-center and small. “I need to clean up.”

I hurry through the bedroom and into the apartment-size bathroom. I shut the door behind me, then lean against it, as if the addition of my weight will keep the boogeyman out.

In this scenario, of course, it’s Grimm playing the role of boogeyman.

I draw a breath, trying to force myself to relax. I hate how off-balance I feel. As if it’s my fault my feet are a mess, when it isn’t at all. It isn’t even Grimm’s. It’s my father’s.

My father who basically sold me. Who’s now hunting me.

A father who drugged me and lied to me and killed my mother.

It’s because of him I feel this way—small and embarrassed and lost. And worse, I’m not even sure if it’s me that feels like this or if my reaction is the result of some psychological effect of withdrawal.

I hope it’s the latter. Because that means that when all the crap is out of my system, maybe I’ll learn that I’m strong. That I’m not truly the weak little compliant girl my father sees.

“Dammit.” The curse slips out, barely a whisper, but my body automatically goes tense. Sasha Reed, the face of Reed Cosmetics, is not allowed to curse.

“Fuck, shit, damn,” I whisper as I sit on the edge of the tub. The words hang in the air, like tiny trophies.

Sasha said a swear word. Release the balloons!

I sigh, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am, physically and mentally.

I spread a towel out on the floor, then sit on the edge of the tub, my feet inside.

I pull my leggings up to my thighs, then bend to push down the plug.

Finally, I turn on the tap and adjust the temperature.

Then, as water slowly rises over my feet, I try to simply sit and breathe.

I’m beyond exhausted—too little sleep and too much stress.

Not to mention the chemical war going on in my blood.

It’s all getting to me. And I don’t know whether to thank Grimm or curse him for being the final catalyst that sent my life spiraling in this direction.

Except he wasn’t. Not really.

I was the one who ran. More than that, I’m the one who’s still running.

And as terrifying as that is, I’m proud of myself.

I did it. I escaped. Grimm may be using me, but I’m using him, too.

And I’ll keep using him for as long as he’ll stand as a wall between me and Victor Reed.

Because there is no way I’m going back. Not now that I understand what my father did to my mother. What he did to me.

That’s why it doesn’t matter if Grimm is my savior or a devil. For right now, at least, I need him.

As if my thoughts have conjured him, there’s a tap at the bathroom door, then Grimm pushes it open and steps inside.

“Um, excuse me? Bathroom. Private time.” My voice comes out sharper than I’d intended.

He doesn’t respond. He simply walks in carrying the crystal bowl that had, moments before, been holding a cluster of decorative pinecones.

“What on earth are?—?”

His finger on my lips silences me, the unexpected touch sending an electric current coursing through me. His finger is warm, slightly rough, and the pressure against my lips is gentle but undeniably assertive.

I tell myself I should pull away.

Then I tell myself to shut up.

Our eyes stay locked. One beat, then another. Then Grimm removes his finger and sits beside me on the edge of the tub, his feet—still in shoes—on the bathmat. He half-fills the bowl with water from the tap, then sets it on the floor before reaching for my right foot and lifting it from the tub.

“You’ve cut yourself,” he says, as he examines the sole of my foot.

“Small price to pay for getting away from my father,” I say, trying—and failing—to tug my foot free.

“I suppose.” He bends over to dip a washcloth into the clear water of the bowl. Then he begins to clean my foot, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who seems to always dominate everything around him.

“And our arrangement?” he asks, his eyes hard on mine. “Is that a small price, too?”

Everything. I hug myself, unable to stop the shiver that runs through me. He must have noticed, but he says nothing, just continues ministering to my feet.

“Well?” he presses, after the silence has hung between us for what seems an eternity. He gently returns one foot to the bathwater, then lifts the other. I clutch the side of the tub tighter for balance, grateful for the excuse not to answer.

Not that he lets me get away with it. “Come now, Princess. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He cocks a brow. “I believe this game is played by my rules.”

I clench my hands into fists and look into the darkening tub.

“Something you’d like to say to the class?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. Then I tilt my head to the side, just enough so that I can see him. I’ve read enough romances to know the answer he wants. “No, sir.”

The hint of a smile touches his mouth. Barely even there. But enough for me to understand what it means— victory.

I look down, focusing on his large hands gently cleaning my small foot. Competent hands that tenderly wash away the dirt and tar and bits of stone and glass. His touch is soft enough to almost make me believe he cares. But this isn’t about caring. It’s about winning. About manipulation.

I’m not someone who matters. I’m simply a token in a game he’s playing with my father. For all intents and purposes, I’m not even really here.

“You still haven’t answered me,” he says. “Our arrangement. Is it a small price to pay, too?”

I look back down at the water, uncomfortably confused by the question.

This is the man who is so carefully cleaning my aching, filthy feet.

But he’s also a man I should hate. A man whose father is a monster.

A man who stood beside me three years ago and told me I was nothing.

Just a little brainless doll my father used to spread lies, and that’s all I was good for.

About that, at least, he was right. Because that was the press conference where the speech my father wrote, and I read to the press boldly stated that Elias Grimm had killed my mother.

Now I know the truth about my mother’s death. And now it’s Grimm using me to get to my father instead of my father using me to spread lies.

So I guess what Grimm said that night was right. I am an instrument to be wielded. To be used. And always on someone else’s behalf.

I want to scream all of that at him. I want to throw it in his face. But I can’t. For better or worse, I’ve tied my future to this man, at least until after the hearing that will decide the course of my life.

But when I open my mouth to answer him, it’s not a simpering little girl who answers. It’s a woman, and she lifts her chin, looks him in the eye, and says, “Everything? Why, no. It’s not a small price to pay at all. It’s torture.”

There’d been a teasing gleam in his eye. Now it fades into something else. Something that might be confusion. Then to something that can only be described as hard. Dangerous.

I tremble, wanting to take the words back. What the hell was I thinking? I’m not a girl who can take charge. The only place where I get to be in charge of my story is in Elysium. And I’m a long way from that safe, protective world.

“Torture,” he finally says, in a voice as sharp as a blade. “Nice to know we’re on the same page.”

He reaches for my other foot, and I try to draw it back, but he just tightens his grip. “Not your decision, Princess.”

I watch, silently seething, as he continues to clean my foot. As much as I hate that he’s forcing me to surrender, at least he’s not pretending the choice is mine. He’s not manipulating me like my father. He’s simply taking control.

It infuriates me, yes. But some small part of me can’t help but notice that it also feels disarmingly good.

We continue in silence, my attention locked on those elegant fingers. Despite what I said, this isn’t torture. Not by a long shot.

Then again, maybe it is. Because there’s something unexpectedly sensual about the way he’s gently removing bits of gravel and carefully cleaning each small cut.

“Cinderella in reverse,” I murmur, then immediately wish I could swallow the words.

Grimm pauses, looking up, two vertical lines forming above the bridge of his nose. “Cinderella?”

My cheeks go warm. “Instead of the prince trying the glass slipper on the girl’s foot, the prince is washing her feet.”

“I’m hardly Prince Charming,” he says, his blue eyes now stormy and wild. He hasn’t shaved, and a shadow of beard stubble makes him look even more dark and dangerous. No, not Prince Charming, but a dark prince? Most definitely.

“And despite my ancestry,” he continues, clearly unaware of the direction of my thoughts, “this isn’t a fairy tale.

” He tilts his head. “Or maybe it is. You know how the original fairy tales turned out.” The hint of a smile plays at his lips, but his eyes stay hard.

“I suppose if you’re not my princess, then it’s your toes that will be cut off. ”

I shudder, but he’s not wrong. If I’m not with him, my father will find me. And he’ll do worse to me than what Cinderella’s stepsisters suffered.

I think of the ancient books in his study. “The original fairy tales truly were grim. Is that how your family got its name?”

“My family?” he repeats, his voice laced with a dark humor that reminds me that he really is the black sheep. I stifle a cringe, wishing I’d said nothing.

He puts the washcloth down, then moves the bowl out of the way before rising and offering me his hand.

I hesitate only a moment before placing my palm against his. He helps me get out somewhat gracefully. Then he kneels and uses a plush towel to dry my legs. When he’s finished, he remains kneeling, his hands resting lightly on my calves.

He tilts his head up slowly, and I can practically feel the heat from his gaze as it traces up between my legs, pausing at the junction for so long that I feel the pool of warmth at my sex.

Then higher still until my nipples peak against the soft material of my bra.

My mouth is parted, and I feel his gaze on my lips with the soft intensity of a kiss.

He continues the journey, and I expect that when he meets my eyes, I’ll see heat. The kind of heat I’ve only felt in Elysium.

And the truth I’m finding so hard to swallow? I want what I’ve had with Killiam in Elysium. Only now I want it with Grimm.

Not with a fantasy, but with the devil himself. And how fucking terrifying is that?