Page 50 of Crude Heir

Then I catch sight of a travel bag sitting on the small couch. She was on the brink of leaving. Feelings of loss and anger rumble inside me. Why? I know where she is. I could find her the same way I found her this time, as long as she has her phone and laptop.

“So why did you run?” I ask, needing more answers.

“I lied…to you, to everyone.” She lowers her gaze. “Even after everything we did,” she whispers.

Highlights from those moments flash through my mind. Her walking in on me. Her gasp of pleasure. The level of trust she showed this morning. And feeding her. All moments that are more intimate than anything I’ve ever shared with anyone.

Yet she was walking away.

“Where were you going?” I glare at her, waiting to see what she was planning.

She hesitates, blinking rapidly. “Anywhere,” she says, her voice hollow. “I don’t really know.” She lowers her gaze, her dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks. “Wherever the next bus could take me.”

I blow out a breath, shaking my head at the audacity of this woman. “So you thought you’d just walk away, disappear into the crowd?”

She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Anger wells inside me. Whatever else she could have done, running should not have been the answer.

Pulling her arm, I lead her away from the wall. “Show me your place.”

“There’s not a lot to see.” She moves forward. “The kitchen.”

I get a glimpse of a galley kitchen with clean counters and an empty dish rack before I realize she’s favoring her left ankle. “What happened to your foot?”

“I, um, I stepped wrong,” she says, keeping her gaze from mine. “When I was going down the stairs.”

This damn woman.

Without letting her go, I head across to the hallway leading to what has to be her bedroom, bringing her with me.

We pass the bathroom, where she’s clearly just showered. The unmistakable scent of her toiletries greets me as I go by.

Then we enter a familiar space, her bedroom. It’s exactly the same as when I saw it through her camera. The small dresser on one side, with nothing on top. A bookcase with what must be some of her favorite books, along with a few figurines. The makeshift desk where she was sitting. And the bed.

“Is that the closet?” I ask, releasing her.

“Yes,” she answers, bringing her hand up to rub the spot where I was holding her.

I stare at the foot of the bed, the exact place I saw her, and lift my chin, nodding in that direction. “Show me.”

Her brow furrows in confusion then she tentatively steps toward the closet. Opening the door, she reveals an orderly space with everything put in its place. Not a single item is on the floor that doesn’t belong there. There’s no stacks of rumpled clothes.

So no matter how early she leaves to go to work, she still takes the time to make the bed and clean up the kitchen before leaving home.

She has an innate understanding of rules. She incorporates them into her daily life, even if she doesn’t know it. Her routine dictates the things that should be done, and she takes care of them, regardless.

Yet she’s ready to take off to parts unknown without a solid plan. She’s putting herself in danger, which infuriates me.

I study her, as if it’s in a whole new light. Despite the jeans and loose blouse, a stark contrast to the business attire I’m used to seeing her in, I still think of her in only one way. Mine. And that means, she’s showing off assets to any man around.

“Take off your jeans,” I growl, my jaw clenched. For a moment, she hesitates, her chest rising and falling rapidly under my intense scrutiny.

She looks down at herself then back over at me. “But I—”

I set my jaw, my expression flashing with disapproval at her failure to follow instructions.

She stops mid-sentence, closing her mouth as she deals with some sort of internal struggle for one more second.

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