Page 22 of Heritage of Fire

“My father took it away when I was seventeen, after?—”

She stops and doesn’t finish.

Her hands still grip her wedding dress. The image of Luna standing here in my bachelor pad in her wedding dress, as my—I can’t finish that sentence. It’s the most screwed-up picture.

“Okay, I will get you a phone to use. Oh, and uh …” I pause, reaching into my back pocket to pull out my wallet. “Here, you can use this until I get you a card with your name on it.” I slide my black credit card across the counter toward her, but she only stares at it.

The loud clunk of something hitting the floor startles her, and we both turn our attention to one of the men pushing her suitcase through the door.

She offers him a shy smile before he leaves. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to hit the gym for a little if you want to shower while I’m away,” I say. She visibly stiffens and her gaze snaps to the bedroom.

“Sh-should I take the couch?” She stutters her words, and her button nose scrunches up again. The wordcuteflashes across my brain, and I want to shoot myself in the foot.

“I can take the couch if you’re more comfortable, but this isn’t a weekend stay, Luna. I have a king-sized bed. We would probably sleep better there.”

Red creeps into her cheeks.

There is no agenda with Luna. She’ll be the first woman in my bedroom—like I said, I don’t bring dates home—but sharing a bed doesn’t mean anything. It’s a necessity; to make sure we’re both functioning adults in the morning.

“Okay, thanks, Nikolai.”

“It’s Nik.”

“Okay, thanks, Nik.”

She grabs her bright red suitcase and rolls it through the bedroom doors. I’m left standing in the kitchen, mouth open. The sound of my name on her lips, silky and smooth. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

I’ll grab clothes from the gym’s shower room—I need to get out of here.

Two hours later, after working off all my bottled-up energy and four helpings of risotto, I head back up to the apartment, freshly showered. It’s 3 a.m. All the lights are off, except for the floor lamp in the living room. I creep to the bedroom, trying to stay quiet?—

Damn it.

I just crashed into Luna’s suitcase, and now my pinky toe is on fire. I growl at the red thing and shove it against the wall. Looking over to the bed, I notice Luna asleep on her back, unbothered by the noise.

Her hair is spilling over my cream silk pillowcase, and a sliver of moonlight highlights her long lashes ticking in tiny movements. Her plump lips are pursed ever so slightly. I pad over and pull back the covers, glancing down at my basketball shorts as I do. Normally, I would take these off, but I guess it’s time to start wearing them.

I strip off my shirt and settle into bed, determined to try to get at least four hours before I need to be at Warehouse Nine in the morning. A small sigh exhales next to me, and that jasmine-citrus aroma wafts into my nose.

I snatch the second pillow on my side and shove it over my face, cutting off Luna’s alluring scent. It’s going to be a long night.

Chapter 11

Luna

The bed is empty when I wake the next morning, a small dip the only proof he was here last night. I don’t know why, but I thought one of us would have ended up on the couch. He was right, though—this bed is comfortable and big enough that we don’t even need to be close to each other.

I push up out of bed, my silk pajama shorts twisted around my waist. Pulling my shirt down, I pad into the living area.

No Nikolai—er, Nik.

I drag my finger over the couch, the buttery leather soft against my fingertip. On the wall, between two large windows, is a big-screen TV. A leather chair sits facing out into the apartment beneath it.

Walking over, I stare down at the warehouse. Twenty-plus men are working; forklifts lift and move crates, and guns are being inspected. The constant movement doesn’t jive with the silence in the apartment.

I dart away from the windows and shuffle to the kitchen to pull open the fridge. A snort escapes me and I shake my head. Beer, energy drinks, and steak are the few things in here. It’s clear Nik isn’t around too often. Or, at least, he isn’t cooking gourmet meals.

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