Chapter 1 - The Cost of a Clean Slate
His hand on my waist felt like an iron band wrapped in custom Italian wool.
Adrian Voss did not move. He didn’t adjust his stance. He didn’t drop me onto the wet floor, and he certainly didn’t look amused. The heavy mahogany doors had clicked shut barely three seconds ago, leaving behind the suffocating scent of expensive cologne, ozone from the storm raging outside, and pure, unfiltered adrenaline.
“I’m waiting,” he said. His voice was lower now, stripped of the commanding edge he had used on his lieutenants, replaced with something darker. Slower.
“For what?” I squeaked, my fingers still dug into the fabric of his lapel. Beneath my palms, his chest was solid as granite. “An apology? Or a demonstration of my floor-drying technique?”
One dark eyebrow ticked upward. “For you to realize whose shirt you’re ruining with dirty Lake Forest tap water.”
I looked down. A distinct, soaking-wet handprint was darkening the pristine white weave of what was undoubtedly an eight-hundred-dollar dress shirt. Water was actively dripping from my curls onto his silk tie.
“I’ve had worse Thursdays,” I lied, trying to push myself upright.
My left foot—the one missing a shoe—slid instantly on the slick tile. My knee buckled. Before I could crash, Adrian’s other hand shot out, catching me by the nape of my neck and pulling me firmly against him. Our bodies collided with a muffled thud. He was hot; I was freezing. The contrast sent a shiver straight down my spine that had nothing to do with burst pipes.
“Stand still,” he commanded.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder, Bennett.”
I froze. “You know my name?”
“I know the names of everyone who sleeps under my roof, cleans my floors, or handles my food,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning my face with unnerving precision. “Maya Bennett. Twenty-four. Hired eleven days ago through an agency that promised me discreet, experienced professionals.”
“I am professional!” I protested, gesturing vaguely with the mop handle I was still inexplicably clutching. “Except for the pipe. The pipe went rogue.”
Adrian’s gaze dropped to the mop, then back to my eyes. For a fraction of a second, the hard line of his mouth softened. Not into a smile—men like Adrian Voss didn't smile—but into something dangerously close to fascination.
“Do you know what was on that table before you slid into my lap, Bennett?”
“Maps?” I guessed weakly. “Corporate mergers? A very aggressive fantasy football draft?”
“The eastern dock manifests,” he said, not blinking. “And the assassination contract on Mikhail Petrov.”
My breath hitched. The air evaporated from my lungs. The whispers among the kitchen staff hadn’t been exaggerations. The rumors weren’t ghost stories meant to keep maids from stealing silver. Adrian Voss wasn’t just a wealthy logistics mogul; he was the undisputed king of Chicago’s underworld.
“I didn't see anything,” I said instantly. “I can’t even read without my glasses. I have terrible astigmatism. Everything looked like blurry triangles.”
Adrian’s grip on my waist tightened just enough to make me gasp. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a fantastic cleaner!”
“Clearly,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the curve of my jaw, wiping away a stray droplet of water. The touch was startlingly gentle, completely at odds with the predator lurking behind his dark eyes. “Which makes it unfortunate that you’re going to spend the rest of the night answering for this.”
“Are you firing me?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. If I lost this job, Leo wouldn't get his treatments. The thought turned my blood colder than the flood upstairs.
Adrian looked down at me, holding my gaze until the silence in the room became a living thing.
May you like
“No, Maya,” he said softly. “If I fired you, you’d leave. And right now, you know entirely too much to walk out those gates.”
***