Joss took the fire escape. When he exited on the rooftop, he looked around for a penthouse level, but there was only a loose-standing unit that resembled an engine room, the type that held geysers and wiring. It couldn’t be this.
He carefully rounded the room. The only window faced away from the street. The curtain was drawn. Next to the door stood a camping chair and a pot with flowers. At the signs of habitation, Joss’s gut clenched in anticipation.
His pulse throbbed in his temples when he tried the knob. The door was locked. If this was indeed where Clelia lived, would she let him in? No chance in hell. After his performance in France, she was sure to have trust issues. Knowing he knew what she was, she’d believe he was here to hunt her, which, in a way, he was. He wasn’t taking any chances.
It took him three seconds to pick the cheap lock. He cursed for how easy it was, his chest constricting at the knowledge of how effortless it could’ve been for anyone else. He turned the knob, careful to be quiet. The door squeaked when he pushed it open. It needed oil.
He paused in the frame for a heartbeat to take in the scene. The squeaking had woken the woman who’d been asleep on the bed. She shot upright, her face alert like someone who never slept too deeply, someone on the run.
The vise around his ribcage gave marginally. He dragged a deep breath of the stale, humid air inside the room into his lungs. She was here. She was alive. He took her in with greedy eyes. Clelia was dressed in a short, black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was braided and tied with ribbons, making her look impossibly young and vulnerable. Perspiration shone on her forehead. The room was like an oven. He registered everything with a single glance—the dingy interior, the peeling paint, the two-plate stove on a table against the wall, the bathroom cubicle in the corner, and the fear in her eyes.
He closed the door with a soft click. She squirmed up the mattress, pressing her back against the wall.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“How did you find me?” she whispered.
Anger roiled through him, only buffered by his relief. “Does it matter?” Moving to the bed, he said, “I told you to never run from me.”
When she stared at him with those huge eyes, he wanted to strip her and fuck her just to be sure she was real. He controlled himself with much effort, doing no more than reaching out to touch her face, but she winced and flattened herself against the wall. Her reaction was expected, by all means normal, but it grated on him. This was going to take some patience.
He dropped his hand. “I told you I’m not here to hurt you.”
“What then?” Her voice shook. “To question me? To lock me up?”
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he shook his head with a disapproving smile. “Why didn’t you tell me about your art?” This time, when he brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, she didn’t pull away. “That was naughty of you, little witch.”
She lifted her chin, her dainty nostrils flaring. “Are you going to kill me?”
“All I could think about since the day you ran was sinking inside you and taking what I’ve missed the first time.” He gave her a level look. “So no, I’m not going to kill you.”
“Is that why you’re here then? To fuck me?”
Damn her. His cock stirred. “First, little girl,” he said, twisting her braid around his fist, “I’ll make love to you.” He let his smile stretch, the gesture calculated and cold while his body ran hot. “Then I’ll fuck you.”
She spat her words at him like poison. “In your dreams.”
“In my bed and where the hell ever I want.” He tightened his grip in her hair, pulling her face so close only a breath of air separated their lips. “Don’t look so put off. This is what you’ve always wanted.” He lowered his voice, letting the threat spill into his tone. “Isn’t that what you were after when you stalked me? Don’t you know girls who don’t want to get burned shouldn’t play with fire?”
She yanked sideways, her large eyes brimming with insult and hurt. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”
He had to let the silky braid go or risk tearing the hair from her scalp. “Does the version of me you constructed in your romantic little head not fit the reality? You thought I was tormented and wronged but a good man underneath? You thought you could save me?”
Her chest rose with a shaky breath, anger mixing with the hurt in her eyes.
“Sorry, little witch.” He uttered a wry chuckle. “I’m not here to lie to you. I’m here to take what’s mine.”
“You mean steal it,” she bit out.
“I’m not taking anything you haven’t given first.” He raised a brow, challenging her to contradict the statement.
“You’re a jerk,” she said with angry tears building in her eyes.
There was no point denying the truth. But enough of that. He wasn’t here to make her cry. Getting to his feet, he walked to the rail in the corner and flipped through the meagre wardrobe. “Why are you here, Cle?”
Accusation rang in her voice. “You know why I ran.”
“I’m not talking about that.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Is this where you live?”
“I had no
