Page 24

I should have pointed her toward a cab. I should have flagged one down right there on the corner and opened the door for her like a gentleman. I should have given the driver her address and a twenty-dollar bill and watched her disappear into the night, taillights fading into the distance. I should have done the smart thing, the safe thing, the thing that would protect us both from what was coming. The thing that would keep her separate from my world, from the darkness that followed me everywhere I went. Instead, I said, “My hotel is three blocks from here.”

My words came out rougher than I intended, weighted with everything I wasn’t saying.

She stopped walking and looked up at me with those eyes that had haunted me since the moment we met. The streetlight caught them, turning them luminous, and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only stand there like an idiot, waiting for her to tell me what a mistake this was.

“Salvatore.”

I brought her hand to my chest, pressing it flat against my heart so she could feel how hard it was beating, how it hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free. “I know what I’m asking. I know what it means. And if you want to go home, I’ll put you in a cab right now. I’ll make sure you get there safely. I’ll pay the driver extra to wait until you’re inside with the door locked. I won’t push. I won’t ask for anything you’re not ready to give. I won’t even call you tomorrow if that’s what you want.”

The air between us vibrated with anticipation, heavy and charged, yet delicate enough to break with just the wrong word. I wanted to reach for her, to draw her close and erase any uncertainty, but instead I waited—letting her set the pace, letting her decide if and when that fragile barrier would fall.

“Madigan,” I whispered softly as I gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear, letting her see my truth spill out before I could second-guess it. Not like this, not with someone who mattered. My words felt raw, scraped clean of pretense, and in that moment, I hoped she could see just how much I wanted this—wanted her, not just the promise of what might come, but every heartbeat, every hesitation, every trembling step into the unknown, together.

“And if I don’t want to go home?” Her voice was steady, but I felt her pulse quicken beneath my thumb where it rested on her wrist. Her question hung between us, heavy with implication. With promise. With possibility. With the weight of a choice that would change everything, that would cross a line we’d been dancing around for hours now.

A taxi rushed past, its tires hissing on the damp pavement.

The wind picked up, sending a scrap of paper tumbling down the empty street.

“Then come with me,” I said, my voice rough and low, barely more than a growl in the charged space between us. “Come with me and let me show you what it feels like to be wanted. To be seen. To be chosen.” I paused, letting the weight of those words settle over us like a physical thing. “To be cherished the way you deserve.”

She fell silent. The hush stretched between us and gathered weight as she stood there, lost in tumultuous thought. I could see every battle raging within her—hesitation flickering in her eyes, fear threading with desire, longing and uncertainty wrestling for dominance. Her gaze revealed everything. Each emotion moved across her face without disguise. She knew, as I did, that this was the point of no return. If she stepped forward, if we crossed that invisible line together, there would be no undoing, no space left for pretense or denial. The choice we faced would unravel whatever careful distance had existed between us before, changing everything forever.

She squeezed my hand, her fingers tightening around mine with a grip that felt like both surrender and defiance. “Show me.”

We walked in silence through the city streets, her hand in mine. Every step felt as if we were falling. Like stepping off a cliff into empty air, that split second of weightlessness before gravity took hold. Like the moment before impact when you knew you were going to hit the ground, but you couldn’t stop yourself from falling, couldn’t stop the inevitable collision that was coming.

The hotel was one of those old buildings that had been converted into something modern and expensive, all sleek lines and understated luxury. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Crystal chandeliers that cast prisms of light across the lobby. A doorman in a crisp uniform, who nodded at me as we passed, professional and discreet, his eyes carefully not seeing anything worth remembering. An elevator with mirrors on every wall that reflected us back at ourselves from every angle—me in my dark suit, her in that dress that was driving me insane, our hands linked between us like a lifeline. Like the only thing that kept us tethered to reality.

I watched her in the mirror. Watched the way she was breathing, fast and shallow, her chest rising and falling beneath the fabric of her dress. Watched her pulse jumping frantically in her throat, a visible testament to her racing heart. Watched the way she kept glancing at me and then looked away, as if she couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like she was afraid that if she looked too long, I might disappear. Or worse—that I might change my mind.

I couldn’t quite believe it either. Couldn’t believe she was here with me, couldn’t believe she said yes, couldn’t believe I was actually going through with this when every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to stop.

The elevator climbed with agonizing slowness. Fifth floor. Tenth. Fifteenth. Each floor that passed felt like another layer of protection falling away, another carefully constructed wall crumbling to dust. Another piece of armor I spent years building just... gone. By the time we reached the twentieth floor, I was barely holding on, my control hanging by the thinnest of threads.

My room was at the end of the hall. I fumbled with the key card, my hands shaking, and finally got the door open, then held it open for her. I watched her walk past me into the room, and the sight of her there—in my space, surrounded by my things—made something primal surge through me.

Mine, something in me growled.

She’s mine.

The thought was primal, possessive, completely irrational. I barely knew her. But logic had abandoned me the moment she walked into my life, and I couldn’t fight this pull between us any longer.

The room was simple. Understated, even. King-sized bed with white sheets, perfectly made by housekeeping earlier that day. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, offering a view that probably cost extra but that I’d barely glanced at since checking in. A desk I never used, its surface clear except for the hotel’s leather-bound information folder. A chair positioned beside it. A bathroom with marble counters and gleaming fixtures that reflected the soft lighting. Nothing personal, nothing that marked it as mine except for the suit jacket I’d left draped carelessly over the chair and the book on the nightstand. A thriller I had been too distracted to read, the bookmark still on page thirty-seven where it had been for three days.

Madigan walked to the window, her arms wrapped around herself protectively, and looked out at the lights spread below us. Her silhouette was outlined against the glass, delicate and beautiful. The city glittered like scattered diamonds, beautiful and cold and indifferent to what was happening in this room, to the tension crackling between us like electricity.

I closed the door.

Locked it.

The sound of the bolt sliding home felt final, irrevocable. Like we were sealing ourselves off from the world outside, from everything that could destroy us.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said quietly, not turning around. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the room, I heard every word clearly.

“Done what?” I asked, though part of me already knew. Part of me had known from the beginning.

“Any of this. Gone to a man’s hotel room. Chosen this.” She paused, and I watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “Been with someone.”