Water from the shower slaps the tiles as I peer through the half-cracked bathroom door, watching Arabella's stealth escape from my wardrobe. I knew it was her. From the second I walked into the suite, I felt the eerie air of an interloper, but it occurred to me it could've been the cleaning lady.

I was still cautious, playing it safe with my 9MM very close to my hip.

But the cocoa butter lotion and the fragrance of spring flowers perfume couldn't alleviate my memories. I could recognize her smell because it's still tattooed in my bedroom even today through the clothes she abandoned and a few shirts of mine she fancied wearing during her stay.

It's her, my little rebel, fleeing so cautiously that she barely makes a sound.

She shuts the exit door, and my long-held breath flies loose. I'm set to stillness, thinking of why she's here after everything I've done to break her heart so that she stays away from me. The raw ache in my chest returns, and I hate to admit that I'm moved to the entirety that she's here.

Frankly, I knew Arabella's stubbornness would flip. I knew we were bound to meet again somehow, and she'd hate me more than death. That is what's happening now. But if only she knew how dangerous being in New York could be for her, she'd have stayed in Las Vegas or any other place in the world that I'm not.

But it's Arabella. She's a mule. At times I wonder if she's ever afraid.

I dress up my flesh-cut wound soon after a shower. Arabella must have seen it, and questions must be zinging in her head. I hope she'll start considering that her being here is a risky venture, yet I wish she'd think of only me and not the danger. As selfish as it may be, I wish she was here because of me, at least for the most part.

I don't want her to forget me. There's never a single day passed that I didn't think of her. There's nothing I did, even the shadiest, like killing more people than I can count from the day Falcon pulled the trigger that endangered her life up to this moment, without imagining her smile that I miss so badly.

My conscience reminds me that she deserves a much better world than mine. Less dark. Less evil. My heart, on the other hand, doesn't seem to listen.

It's noon. I decide to rest before my business meeting with a buyer from Zurich later. The last few nights have been rough and sleepless. Having Falcon running loose somewhere all the while I'm searching for answers about my past is one thing, and now I have to worry about Arabella's arrival, too, which is more pressing for several reasons.

Even if she hates it, she can never change the fact that she's my responsibility. Since I became her Dom and short-lived boyfriend, I promised that I'd never leave her, and that shall remain no matter what name, shape, or form our relationship takes from this point onward, near or far.

She'll always be mine to protect.

I close my eyes and sigh heavily, laying shirtless on my back with one arm craned under my neck, my head pressed on the soft pillow. Her firecracker hazel eyes come to mind. I imagine her gorgeous body close to me in this very same bed, and it only drones my nerves.

It's pathetic, really, that I can't let her out of my mind no matter how many times I send her packing with excuses hardly understood by anyone but me.

But her being in my hotel room, how did she do it? Of course, it's Camila. I know they've been in touch since the God-awful birthday party. My P.A's impromptu trip to Las Vegas a few weeks ago affirmed it. I'm only forgiving her because it's Arabella and not someone else she's been allied with secretly.

I still don't appreciate the lies and secrets, regardless of how valid Camilla's reasons may be. One innocent deception could lead to a battalion of more, each probably bigger than the other, and the last thing I want is to mistrust her, even though I don't fully trust anyone.

Speaking of the devil, my phone buzzes from the nightstand and my P.A's name appears once I've drawn the screen to view it. She better come clean now. I accept her call.

"Speak," I snap into the phone, my breathing labored from fatigue and muscle tension as I latch my upper body to recline against the pillow in a half-sitting posture.

I sigh deeply, a frown line deep on my face.

"Judging from Ara's disposition right now and your infamous hello that I've known to indicate that you're pissed off, I suppose you two have met," she says, and it's a statement, not a question.

I sigh again and ask, "Why wasn't I informed?"

"Well..." She pauses, then a heavy breath echoes through her line. "She asked me not to tell you; the same way she didn't ask a single thing about you. As a friend, I had to respect that."

The same way she didn't ask a single thing about you. That stings me hard.

"Is she a friend or another retribution in the name of a life-owing event you feel obliged to obey?" I ask like the bastard I am, my voice stern.

I want to make sure she recalls our implied code of trust—the one I'm willing to overlook just this once. Because if it happens again, she'll be off my case. For good. I hate liars, and she knows the penalty for deception in our relationship.

I hear her breathe heavily, hesitant to speak her mind. But eventually, she does by saying, "Adrian, for the first time... I feel like I can actually have a friend with whom we can even talk about the silliest things in the world, and I don't want to lose it. I apologize for not telling you about it, but not to break our code, I did make her come to you. As a result, you saw her and now you know she's here," she goes on to prove her point.

I do understand the desire to connect.

Camilla has been through hell. She was sold by her aunt to an Italian mobster when she was thirteen years old. The only thing she's familiar with is the cruelty of the world and its comfortless luxuries. It's what makes us alike. We don't know life as a blinding light, so we're used to the dark.

"Where is she staying?" I ask her, laying no comment on her desire, wishes, or whatever the name is.

It's a task beyond me.

"At Roosevelt's," she replies. "I hope she'll move into my loft afterward if she accepts my offer. I'm renting out the second floor, and as we're speaking, she's checking it."

Warm breath emits through my nose. My lips are pressed into a tight line as I consider the idea. The loft is in a good place, not farther from my penthouse, perhaps a five-minute drive. It's spacious enough; I can see Arabella settling there without inconveniences if she chooses to stay.

"I thought you were selling it," I counter.

I wish I could buy it for Arabella.

Foolish thinking, I know. There's no way she would want anything from me.

"Plans for another time, I'm afraid," Camilla answers. "I mean...I may have a reason to be home from time to time now to at least see Isla, and her two best friends, Thor and Loki, so I've decided to keep it for now." She sounds exuberant, but a frown flits on my face in a confused fashion.

"Who's Thor and Loki?" I quiz her.

She laughs cheerily. "You'll meet them if you choose to swing by one of these days," she says. Getting no desirable response from me, she quickly switches to business. "Don't forget you have a meeting with the Zurich buyer at four o'clock. I've also cleared your evening schedule as you wanted. Is there anything I should know about the sudden change of plans regarding that?"

"There's nothing for you to know," I reply bluntly.

She doesn't press further because she knows when not to ask the questions I'm not paying her to ask. And besides, whatever I'm gonna do this evening is purely personal.

"One more thing," I utter before she hangs up. "Is she here to stay?"

After an eternity, Camilla softly replies, "It appears so. And I find it hard to believe that you didn't know this already."

I don't respond.

I can't deny that I've been stalking Arabella's every move in Las Vegas just to make sure no one from my black cycle has pinned her in search of some leverage against me. Luckily it's been clear, but I didn't know much about her plans.

I still don't, and it kills me.

"Let me know if she chooses to stay. And this should be the last time you keep important information from me," I state grimly.

"Oh, so you do admit that she's important to you?" she sasses; she enjoys my torments more than she lets on.

"I have an important matter to discuss with you tomorrow," I say, her question ignored. "Be here at ten."

I break the call and slide the phone back onto the nightstand. A groan lurches out of me as I prop back on my elbow, putting unintended pressure on the flesh cut from last night. As I lay down, I think of nothing but Arabella and this unexpected coexistence of us two in the same place.

I'm concerned about what will happen next, yet I'm looking forward to seeing her again and again, even if she'll resent me and probably make my life a living hell with her presence alone.

I know Arabella is a threat to me just as I am to her, and because of that, we're equally dangerous to each other. But why doesn't that scare me as it should? Why is the idea of having her close excite me as though it's everything I've been hoping for all this time we were apart?

________

A/N: I wonder if Arabella will let him meet Francesca on that "evening" without running the show? Oh, I'm eager about that!