Page 72 of Inked Adonis

“Sam,” I gasp as he turns me onto my side and enters me from behind. His arms cage me against his chest, his skin burning into my back. “Please... please...”

I don’t even know what I’m begging for.

He’s already given me more than I dreamed of asking for.

25

NOVA

I wake up alone in Sam’s bed.

My hand automatically reaches for his warmth before my brain catches up. The sheets on his side are cold.

But I mean, c’mon—of course they are. Last night’s vulnerability—the whispered confessions, the way he held me as I shared my darkest fears—was an anomaly. A crack in his armor that’s probably already been welded shut.

I get up and go shuffling down the hallway, bathrobe cinched tight around my waist. It’s mostly dark, though some gray, pre-dawn gloom trickles in between blinds and through the skylight.

I’m almost at the kitchen when I hear a noise behind me and double back. To my surprise, Samuil’s office door is cracked open instead of hermetically sealed and triple-locked like it usually is.

Curiosity takes over. I stick an eye to the thin sliver of a gap.

He’s there. Seated behind his desk, radiating the kind of coiled tension that makes my stomach clench. His fingers fly across his phone screen as he fires off texts, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.

When he notices me hovering in the doorway, I smile.

But his expression doesn’t soften.

“Get dressed,” he says, eyes dropping back down again. “We’re going out.”

The order—because that’s exactly what it is—makes me bristle. I’d started to believe I was more than his prisoner, but maybe that was stupid of me. One emotional night doesn’t erase the power dynamics between us.

I’m still the dogwalker he’s keeping under lock and key.

He’s still the man who can make Chicago dance to his tune.

I open my mouth to object, but then he glances up once again. And this time, something in his steel-gray eyes makes me pause.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he adds quietly.

The gentleness in his voice is the same from last night, when he traced my scars in the dark and told me I was brave.

So, against my better judgment, I agree.

I go and get dressed quickly. When I reemerge, he meets me by the elevator. As soon as I approach, though, he turns his back to me. I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting, though I can’t quite explain why, either.

The ride down is silent. So is the drive from the penthouse to wherever the hell we’re going, not that he’s given me any clue as to where that might be.

Something I want to show you.That could be anything. It could be a grungy kill shack on the South Side or a freaking unicorn he bought for the Chicago Zoo.

Myles trails us in another black SUV, because apparently, a simple morning drive requires a full security detail. I stare out the window as Sam navigates Chicago traffic, his hands steady on the wheel, his profile carved from granite.

Then I spot the familiar storefronts of my old neighborhood, and my heart kicks against my ribs.

“Why are we in Irving Park?” I ask, sitting upright. When Sam’s jaw only tightens, I push harder. “You planning to give me a tour of my childhood trauma spots? Because I’ve got to say, that’s a weird date.”

His lips twitch, but he keeps his eyes on the road. “You talk more when you’re nervous.”

“And you talk less when you’re plotting something,” I shoot back. “Which is impressive, considering your baseline is practically mute.”

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