Page 48 of Devil's Tulip

“You could say that,” he answers mysteriously—the asshole.

I groan. The most frustrating man alive. “It’s unfair that you probably know all there is to know about me, but getting to know you is like pulling teeth.”

“What do you mean? I’m an open book.” He flashes me a perfect, arrogant grin, all teeth, which earns him a dramatic eye roll.

“Yeah, sure.”

The plane touches down, and I go quiet as we taxi down the runway, my anxiety from earlier coming back in full force. I glance out the window, my brows knitting at the early lights of dawn. Wherever we are, it’s far from Seattle.

Once we come to a full stop, Michael pushes his desk-thingy away and stands, stretching his arms. Then, he looks down at me. “Ready?”

I gulp. Not really. “I guess.” I undo my seatbelt with trembling fingers and get to my feet.

Michael frowns at me, holding my hand. His frown deepens. “Your hands are as cold as ice. Are you nervous?”

I shrug. What am I supposed to say? I literally have no idea where we are, no safety net, no backup plan. Just him. And even though I trust him, right now, something deep in my gut prickles with unease.

He watches me for a second longer, then sighs. I half-expect some kind of reassurance, but instead, his face goes blank, and he lets go of my hand.

A strange, hollow feeling creeps into my chest, but I shove it down and try not to read into his actions as we get off the plane.

It’s not his job to try to comfort me. We’re not dating.

We’re in another private airstrip, where a sleek, beige Cullinan is parked a couple of feet away. The moment we approach, a tall, Italian man gets out from the passenger side and meets us halfway. “Michael, welcome back.” Then he glances at me, giving me a polite nod. “Miss Cabello.”

He knows who I am.

Panic slithers down my spine, and I stop walking. My eyes dart around the airstrip and catch sight of another car parked near what looks like the entrance. Instinct takes over, and I edge behind Michael, using him as a shield. But he seems oblivious to my fear—or worse, doesn’t care.

“Lorenzo. Did you put everything into place?” Michael asks cryptically, and the man nods.

Put what into place?

Michael finally turns to face me, waving towards the waiting car. “Come on.”

I inhale sharply, flinching back. His face is set into granite, eyes cold as ice. This is not the Michael I’ve come to know—the one who called melovejust a few hours ago.

This is the Michael who killed that man in cold blood, the one who looks like he has no heart.

My lips tremble, and I take a small step away from him. I should have stayed in Seattle.

His gaze thaws just the slightest bit when he finally registers my fear. “Come on, dove. The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we can get home.” He stretches a hand out to me, and despite every warning bell blaring in my head, I place mine in his. Like a sucker.

Lorenzo hops back into the passenger seat while Michael opens the back door for me. I hesitate for half a second before getting in, scooting towards the other side to make room. The man in the driver’s seat gives me a curt nod.

Michael joins me, sitting close—too close, considering all the space available—but the solid warmth of his thigh pressing against mine calms my anxiety a little.

We pull out of the airstrip, and I sigh, pressing my cheek against the cool window, gaze flying around for landmarks I can use to identify the city we’re in. The sooner I know where we are, the sooner I’d feel grounded.

I could just ask Michael, but I already tried—twice—and he gave me nothing but non–answers. That was when he was still somewhat open and a little warm towards me. Now that he’s closed off completely, with two extra sets of ears in the car, I don’t want to risk it.

I’ll wait. When we get to his home and we’re in the privacy of my room, I’ll rip into him and let him know—what the hell?

I jerk back from the window, my jaw dropping.

Isn’t that the Empire State Building? No.No way.

My head snaps around frantically, and as we drive deeper into the city, more and more familiar sites punch me in the gut. The Brooklyn Bridge, the East River. And far off in the distance, standing like a cruel joke against the horizon—the Statue of Liberty.

---