Page 23 of Devil's Tulip

Shaking my head in disbelief, I pull out an astrology textbook written entirely in what looks like Russian. The pages are well-worn, the margins filled with notes, and most of the text is highlighted.

He can read Russian?

I grab another book. Same thing. More notes. More frayed edges. These books aren’t just for show—he actuallyreadsthem.

“What a weirdo,” I murmur, but something grows hot in my belly as I try to imagine him sitting here, flipping through the very book in my hands. Would he lounge on the couch? Perch on the armchair? Does he wear glasses when he reads? The cute, thin-framed kind?

I sigh, then on impulse, lift the book to my nose.

Nothing. Whatever scent it once held is gone by now.

The fact that he’s secretly a nerd, despite looking like he belongs on a motorcycle in a leather jacket, is messing with mein ways I don’t appreciate. I fan myself a little before returning the book to its spot on the shelf and fleeing the library.

What a conundrum Michael is turning out to be. My handsome, slightly unhinged savior—who, apparently, isn’t just crazy enough to kill a man to save a stranger, but also successful and an absolute knowledge junkie.

“If he’s not careful, I just might do something stupid like fall in love with him.”

I laugh at my silly joke—then pause, suddenly aware of the cameras.

Oh god. If he’s watching, he’s seeing me talk to myself and crack up like a lunatic.

That thought only makes me laugh harder.

Great. Now I must look completely unhinged.

Still grinning, I wipe at the tears in my eyes as I make my way out of the living room, back to the staircase. The lights flicker on automatically as I climb, guiding my path. Show-off.

At the top of the stairs, I turn left, but there’s only one thick door—and it’s locked. I glare at the electric pad where the keyhole should be. Seriously? Why does he need such a high-tech house anyway?

This place is stuck in the middle of nowhere, Seattle—if the endless weed, wild grass, and stuff surrounding it is anything to go by. And according to him, it doesn’t even technically exist on the map.

So how the hell did he manage to get all this state-of-the-art security installed out here?

I huff and spin around, walking past the stairs and down the hall, past the guest bedroom where my stuff is. The next door is locked as well. Shocker.

There are only two doors left. I try the first—and to my surprise, itopens. But to my disappointment, it’s just a laundryroom with a big, automatic washing machine and some washing supplies on a shelf.

I sigh and head back to my room. My backpack is still damp, but I fish out the ziplock bags with my money, shove them under the mattress, and take everything else with me to the laundry room.

Figuring out how to use the damn smart washing machine is a nightmare. I curse under my breath as I fumble with the unnecessary number of buttons, scowling at Michael’s obsession with making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

But after a few frustrating minutes, I finally get it. With a triumphant scoff, I toss my damp clothes and backpack into it, slam the door shut, and hit start.

The machine whirs to life, and I watch my stuff spin behind the glass. Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter, waiting for the timer to ring.

Once the washing is done, it drains the soapy water, fills with clean water, rinses, and then—right before my eyes—dries everything in one go. All within twenty-something minutes.Impressive.This is probably something my uncle could afford if he weren’t so stubborn about doing things the ‘old-fashioned’ way.

The timer pings, then the machine counts down ten seconds before turning off automatically, the door popping open. Warm, fresh-scented clothes greet me, and I quickly gather them up. After folding everything neatly into my backpack, I sling it over my shoulder and hurry back downstairs.

Straight to the kitchen.

I slip into the pantry, hoping there are no cameras, and start stuffing my bag with as many canned goods as it can hold. Just in case.

While I trust Michael—kind of—and maybe have the tiniest, most inconvenient crush on him, he’s still a stranger. A strangerwho proved he has no morals by killing a man right in front of me without even so much as a flinch. I mean, if he really did it to help me, he could have just knocked the guy out and called the cops. But no. He went straight for the kill.

And since he was sent by my uncle, I have no illusions about the kind of man he is. He found me because my uncle told him to, and even though he’s hesitating now for some reason, that could change in a heartbeat. What if he suddenly changes his mind again and decides to drag me to NYC after all?

Nope. Not happening.

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