Celeste;
Rays of sunlight bathe my face in a warm glow. My eyebrows furrow as I struggle with the comforter, drowsiness still clinging and making my eyes heavy with sleep.
It disappears when the texture of the cotton fiber feels different to my touch.
Mine is softer, warmer, and stuffed.
I run my fingers over it again, deep lines wrinkling my temple. I notice—this one's lighter.
An absurd image flashes behind my closed eyelids, and I throw them open to a white ceiling, stained windows, and darkly coloured furnishings.
Damn. I almost forgot.
Twisting to my left, I'm greeted with the sight of a shirtless, toned body by my side.
I drink the sight up, my eyes crawling along the planes and ripples of muscle his body is made of. Those inky black tattoos snake from his neck, curling all the way to his arm.
It feels like a rock is suspended in my throat, and pushing past it is a hassle. I manage nonetheless, gulping hard—it echoes in my ears.
His hair is thick and messy, spilling over his head and almost covering his eyes.
The rise and fall of his chest is steady, rhythmic.
Everything about the man seems calculated. Even in his sleep.
Palming the soft bed, I slowly sit up, leaning on the headboard.
Memories from last night find their way into the front of my mind.
Caruso had pulled away after—I reckon—he'd gotten what he wanted. After I'd sobbed wordlessly as though I was a five-year-old whose candy was stolen.
He'd taken deliberate steps away from me and over to the huge bed, sinking onto it and fishing out a rolled stick and a Zippo.
Yet with my teary eyes, I still couldn't help but watch his actions with a tickle inside my chest; the way his thin top lip and plump lower one closed around the stick, and the biceps in his hand when he lifted the Zippo to light the butt of the cigarette.
My breath had ceased when thick, dark smoke escaped his barely parted mouth, shrouding his face in mystery and secrets.
I knew it then. The man is really all smoke and sin.
I'd stood in the bathroom, watching him from the ajar door, still feeling my body tingling from where he'd had those calloused hands on me.
Awareness sends shivers down my spine as I recall it now.
I can't help but breathe out a heavy exhale. What have I actually gotten myself into?
My revenge plan will not and cannot succeed if I do not manage to pull myself out of his radar.
But it seems like a web…the harder I crawl out, the more entangled I end up.
I'll have to work smart.
My eyes fall on his somewhat peaceful features as he sleeps—hard jawline sharp enough to saw through glass, a cluster of long dark lashes touching just beneath his eyes, and that clusterfuck of dark hair.
'Snap out of it, Poppy. This is not what you're here for.' I chastise myself. 'Get your priorities straight.'
I hope to fuck that I really do get my shit together. Because whatever this fiery thing in the chambers of my chest is, I sure as fuck don't want to explore it.
Just as I attempt to gather my self-preservation, something by the corner steals my attention, and it hits me—Caruso's room. The Vault.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, carrying some sort of liquid courage and plunging into the depths of my stomach.
This is risky. If he as much as lifts an eyelid, I'm fucked.
Risk, remember? I take risks for a living.
So, cutting one rueful glance at his still figure, I snuggle myself out of the comforter, making my steps as light and noiseless as I can manage.
With his clothes still on me, the mild musky scent of him intoxicating me—or perhaps the residue of the weed he'd smoked last night?
Damn it, I don't want to know!
Creeping my feet against the cold tiles, scared that the drumming within my ribcage will give me away instead, I quicken.
The shelf of drawers sitting here is the one I wasn't given the opportunity to check that night of the infiltration.
Casting a careful glance at him, I approach it. The smooth floor feels like sinking sand, fear hot on my heels.
Arriving at it, my hand lifts to graze the surface, the handle just before me, but the clasp of terror tightening my muscles makes me want to reel over and dash for the door.
This can go two ways; I succeed and complete half of my mission.
Or I get caught and have my guts blown out.
Releasing feverish air from my lungs, I ignore the whispers clawing at my head and wrap my fingers around the gold-plated iron, and pull.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Everything in me goes cold. Danger signs flash behind my eyes, alarm bells ring in my ears, warping my senses in horror.
My back still to him, my arm slackens, drooping to my side. Sweat gathers at my spine as I veer to face him, masking my face with a smile that suggests I'm standing on pins and needles.
"Good morn—" I stop short, almost choking on my saliva.
Of course, he sleeps with a gun.
But he's not aiming at me this time. I don't even know when he moved.
Caruso's seated upright, long bare feet firm on the tiles. He sits with his legs spread, his huge form taking all the space like he owns it. Elbows resting on his thighs as he assesses his silver Glock like he just woke up and found it lying by his side.
Swallowing, I begin to stutter, "Well, I wa—"
"Curious?" He beats me to it, a deadly grin etched on his rough, messy look.
I figure I've used that excuse before. Shit.
"Yeah," I breathe.
"Was it your curiosity that gave you the courage to sneak out of the mansion last night?" he muses.
My heart pounds. "You can say that," I tell him, fidgeting with clammy fingers behind my back.
He's silent.
And it feels disturbing. Everything about this man is ominously disturbing.
"What then could your curiosity be looking for in a man's drawer?" Caruso raises the weapon to his eye level, eyebrows drawn, features dead set as he squints at the muzzle.
I don't respond. My tongue is tied, glued to the roof of my mouth.
He lifts his eyes from his inspection, slowly dragging them to me. "Huh?"
His voice penetrates my skin, and goosebumps break out.
"Boxer briefs," I spout.
"What?" The twist at the corner of his mouth suggests my response caught him off guard.
Repeating it, "Boxer briefs." I spin my back to him. "You didn't give me any last night. And I had to sleep bare-butt." Accusation heavy in my words.
Embers of embarrassment burns in my guts that I had to bring that up…but what better excuse could I have come up with?
Gathering courage, I turn back to a scowl on his face. My blood thrums with shame.
You know what—Fuck it. "Bye, and good morning." Without waiting for a word from him, I sprint to his door, twisting the key and falling outside immediately.
Out in the lobby, I ponder how close I was. And how dangerously close I was to lying in my own puddle of mushed brains and tissue.
Thinking of slipping off his radar, I'd foolishly gone and pushed myself further onto it.
My trail of thought skids to an abrupt end when I glance up and freeze. The figure in front of me freezes mid-step too.
The head maid looks at me wide-eyed, her gaze slowly roaming from my bare feet and exposed legs all the way to the oversized shirt that barely reaches my knees.
Her gaze flickers behind me—to the direction I'm coming from—and I see something flare in them, a mild gasp slipping free.
Then she regards me with a blinking glance, bends in a wordless greeting, and continues her walk away.
Feet planted to the ground, my nerves spike.
"Shit." Tension locks my jaw.
Shit. Indeed.