Pretending nothing’s out of the ordinary, that I see pads like this one every other day, I wander through the huge open-plan living room and kitchen which opens to a terrace. There’s a lit-up pool I can see through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors. The furniture is black leather and metal, one wall taken by a huge bookcase filled with books, messily arranged in rows and piles. A charcoal rug covers the floor.

“It’s… nice,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Dammit. I clear my throat. “Cozy.”

Storm grins and shakes his head.

Okay, so it’s not exactly cozy, but it’s not cold, either. It’s very obviously a guy’s pad, and it has Storm’s touch. Probably. What with the leather and metal and all.

Not that I’d know what his style is. I barely know the guy, and the thought is almost enough to make me panic again.

Almost.

But I won’t. I was serious before. He helped me, saved my life, protected me when he had no obligation and no reason to do so. I owe him, and I trust him. He has no need of me. Doesn’t need to help me. And with his looks and money, he could get any girl he wanted, if it’s sex he’s after. God knows he’d get a better deal.

It’s enough. More than enough for now. I’m exhausted. I may sleep for a few days, if he lets me. He has security, right? Bodyguards, too, I’m guessing. Should be safe for a while.

Take what you can get today, Ray. You’re overthinking this. Stop it. It never helps.

I open the sliding door and step outside, onto the terrace. The pool reminds me of the mansion on the beach, and the scent of the sea is here, too, though it’s colder. I shiver as I cross the terrace, walking alongside the pool to reach the rail, and I tell myself it’s from the cool wind whipping back my hair.

Okay, so I’m still in shock, even if things make more sense now—like how at ease he seemed in that mansion. His mansion. Correction, one of his mansions. He probably has several scattered around the country. Hell, around the world.

Scratch staying calm. How am I supposed to wrap my head around this? My hands tighten over the rail. It’s steel and glass, like the building. Cold. Perfect. Expensive.

Storm says he trusts me. Says I saved him from himself. Whatever that means.

A millionaire who thinks someone’s after him and the daughter of an alcoholic conman wanted by the Chinese mafia. Sounds like a bad joke. I’d laugh out loud if I wasn’t pretty sure he told me the truth. He was right when he said he never lied to me. He didn’t.

But I’m also pretty sure he didn’t tell me everything. Still hasn’t.

Then again, neither have I. Trust is something you dole out in spoonfuls. It’s another face of respect. It comes to you bit by bit, little by little, until it’s wrung out of you despite your will. When you’re won over, worn down until you have to believe, have to open up.

Slowly.

Nothing slow about this wild ride so far. No wonder my head is spinning and I can’t decide what to do next.

I’m tired of running. But how can I stop?

Storm.

No, not Storm. Troy Jordan.

All right. There lies the heart of the problem. I’m in Troy Jordan’s penthouse, looking down at the harbor, the sunlight glinting on the water. White sailboats float in the blue. Tall buildings rise around us. Damn, this place must cost a fortune.

But he’s still Storm, I remind myself. Nothing has changed.

Oh really, Ray? Keep telling yourself that. Self-delusion is a great thing. Up until now you chose to ignore the clues and were comfortable believing he broke into that mansion, just like you, that he’s just like you in every way. But he’s not. In any way. He belongs in a completely different world, one you have no hope of ever entering, or even understanding.

You thought his life was similar to yours. That he’d get it when you told him every last secret you hide inside.

And now…

“A dollar for your thoughts.” He appears by my side and leans on the rail, dark hair falling in his eyes. He has unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. His tanned, corded forearms rest on the polished metal.

My thoughts are a tangle. I’d rather not share them. “Only a dollar? Thought you were a millionaire.”

He chuckles. God, I love that sound. I could drink it from his mouth, spread it on the floor and roll in it like a cat. “Still not convinced? You think I’m renting this place by the hour, just to show off?”

I wish it were that. So much simpler. “Maybe.”

He sighs. “Well, I haven’t got more than twenty dollars in cash on me right now. I didn’t dare use my cards because they could be tracked.”

“In case someone was looking for you.” To kill you.

Which I still am not sure I believe.

“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “So how about those twenty bucks for your thoughts?”

“My thoughts aren’t worth that much. Not even a dollar, in fact. I was shitting you. Storm…” I swallow hard. “I’m not worth that much.”

“That’s where we disagree, baby. Told you.”

Yeah, he did, didn’t he? And nope, I can’t trust he’d do that for me—pay millions to set me free, even less if it means putting himself in danger. I trust it even less than I believe his story about some mysterious guys after him.

“You matter to me.”

I want to believe that so bad. So I do what I do best: I ignore it as best I can. Just like I ignore every hope and wish I have for the future.

He straightens, rubbing at his side that’s tangled up in the vines and roses inked on his skin. “It’s going to rain.”

I glance up at the fluffy clouds, then back at him. “Does it hurt?”

His hand stills. “Sometimes.”

“I meant the tattoo.”

“Sometimes, yeah. Because of the thorns, ya know.” He winks, and I snort softly.

“Why the roses? What do they mean?”

“Why the fuck do they have to mean something? It’s just ink.” He turns away, but not before I see his hands twitch. “I’m starving. I’ll order some food.”

Secrets.

I thought I saw a pain in his eyes that matches my own. A desperation that mirrors mine. A dark shadow that I could feel in my own chest, like a second heartbeat.

But what do I know? I know nothing.

So I shrug and follow him inside. I follow his lead, until I figure out how things will play out, and what role will be assigned to me in this new game.

Chapter Thirteen

STORM

Raylin shrugs when I ask her what she would like to eat. She shrugs when I ask her if salmon is acceptable. She shrugs when I tell her she can shop for clothes from the online catalogues on my laptop, so she can wear something she likes.

I’m this close to banging my head on the wall. Her face is blank, her voice flat, her defenses are all up and in my face.

Why is she acting this way? I get that she didn’t expect any of this, but hell, a week ago I hadn’t, either. I hadn’t expected to find her, or bring her here. Much less hurry to sign in for my inheritance, so I can pay off the Chinese mafia.

I’m doing this to help her. I didn’t want to come back here, goddammit. Not yet anyway. Not until I’d figured out a plan, and I’m not only talking about making sure I survive to see my twenty-second year.

No, I’m talking about the secret I’m keeping, the one that’s been eating me alive all these years, the one I couldn’t do anything about—until now. Maybe. If I can work it out.

I didn’t need any mafia on my back, too, but if that’s what it takes to keep her safe, to keep her alive… I’ll be damned if I let her parents fuck up her life any more, like my parents did with mine. She doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does, but least of all her. She’s sweet, she’d kind, she’s fearless, and she makes me feel…

Like what, Storm? Come on, let us have it. Make you feel like what?