Page 30 of Ruling Scar
I open the door. “It’s fine.”
“Ms. Akatov.”
“Wait here.” I slam the door and walk toward the warehouse. There’s a row of them and I stay alert at how empty the area is.
There’s a camera above a gray, steel door, implying it’s a heavily secured building. I blink up at it while I buzz a discreet button to the right of the door.
I don’t let myself look away or check back on the car. I remain as calm as I can knowing it’s better to not give too much away.
The lock clicks.
The bottom of the warehouse is dark, empty, and creepy. I scurry up a metal stairwell, going up several stories. MeaningI’m out of breath when I come to the top of the landing and find Elijah leaning against the doorjamb.
CHAPTER 8
Elijah
There’s a mouse at my door.
How very interesting.
“What happened to your hair?” I ask.
Leonora pauses on the landing, trying to discreetly steady her breathing.
I’ve texted this woman all night and not received a single response. Her cheeks are red, her hair off her face, showing the scar on her left cheek. My scar.
I’m unsurprised to find her in a pair of sneakers. I am intrigued, though, to find her wearing a pair of opaque tights, her legs open to the elements of a harsh New York winter.
She must be wearing a dress.
I want to see it.
“Coat.” I hold out my hand, pushing off the doorframe.
Her brow knits together at my voice and I don’t know why. She’s the one who showed up on my doorstep.
I motion for the coat. She shakes it off, and while she hands it to me, I step backward, leading her in.
“This is your place?” She eyes the hanging light fixture in the foyer, which is only a long hallway, and the rich red hardwood flooring.
I don’t know why people are so surprised when they discover I don’t live in a dark lair.
“It’s empty downstairs,” she says of the old, gutted warehouse.
“Yes.” I hang the coat up, pretending I don’t notice her eyes on me. “Shoes off.”
“This looks very nice.” She trails after me into the large, square living room.
A record plays, a jazz artist. It’s tucked into a shelf full of books and a trailing vine plant Roma insists I keep watering.
Her gaze shifts from the large couch and the TV in front of an exposed brick wall. There’s a coffee table where my whiskey waits for me.
Albert, the Bernese mountain dog, sits up on the couch. He has his own bed in the corner, but refuses to use it so long as the sofa’s available. He cocks his head to the side, showing off the white, brown, and black fur along his face.
At her gasp, he decides it’s in his best interest to get up and pads over.
“Go.” I shoo him back. The furry beast pants, not giving my directions any thought.
