Page 3 of Gilded Shackles
I ignore her.
I don’t takethe elevator. Jeffrey will be waiting at the rooftop terrace doors, exactly where she told him to be.
Instead I cut toward the staff stairwell. It feeds into the service landing one floor below the terrace, and nobody bothers with it unless there’s a delivery or a fire. Mothertrusts cameras, locked doors, and men at choke points. She doesn’t waste bodies watching every concrete corner.
Tonight, I’m counting on that.
The stairs are cold under my bare feet and I'm glad. I want to feel something that isn't her voice still rattling around inside my skull.
Good girl.
I take the steps harder than I need to, slapping each one like it said something rude to me, shoes dangling from two fingers because putting them on would mean admitting I've lost. Again. My eyes are stinging and I will not cry. I will not give this building one more tear. I will not.
I round the landing and walk straight into a wall.
Not a wall. A chest.
Hard, warm, and wearing a suit that costs more than most people's rent. My shoulder connects with his chest and one of my shoes slips from my grip, bouncing off the concrete step with a sharp crack that echoes up the stairwell like a slap.
"Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry."
His hand is on my arm before I even register that he moved. Steadying me like it's instinct, like catching stumbling women in stairwells is just something his body knows how to do. His grip is firm without being tight. Warm through the thin fabric of my hoodie. And his hands, God, his hands. Ink-dark tattoos cover every knuckle, every joint, trailing past his wrist and vanishing beneath a white cuff.
I look up.
Silver hair swept back from a hard face. A beard, close-cropped, dark and silver-threaded, framing a jaw that doesn't apologize for itself. He's older. Forties. But not the kind that wore him down. The kind that burned away everything unnecessary and left only what works.
His eyes are blue. Not pretty blue. Just blue, the way a flame is just hot. Direct and absolutely disinterested in making me comfortable.
They look directly into mine, and my lungs forget their entire job.
He glances down at the shoe on the step. Then at my bare feet. Then back at my face. Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the place a smile would live if he allowed it.
And then he frowns. One large hand reaches out.
I flinch, pulling back. His eyes lock on mine.
The pad of his thumb brushes across my lower lip. I try not to wince.
He cocks his head to the side and stares at my cheek that I’m sure has a lovely red handprint like Wilson. Except Tom Hanks actually loves his Wilson. I am under no illusion my mother loves me as much as that man loved his ball.
Yes, I watch a lot of movies. I’m in a cage with a theater. There’s not much else to do.
"Going somewhere?" He asks and pulls his hand away.
Low voice. Quiet. A faint accent I can't place. The kind of voice that doesn't need volume to fill a room.
"Nowhere." It comes out more honest than I mean it to. "Apparently nowhere is where I'm headed most days."
He holds my gaze for one more second. Then he picks up the shoe. When he holds it out to me, his fingers brush mine as I take it, and the touch sends something electric through my hand and straight up into my chest where it has no business being.
"Pity," he says. Just that.
Then he steps past me and continues down the stairs, and I stand on that landing like my feet have fused to the concrete, clutching a heel to my chest, breathing air that still smells like him. Something warm and dark and deliberate, like cedar and smoke and a decision already made.
I don't know how long I stay there. Long enough for my pulse to settle into something resembling normal. Long enough to remind myself he's no one. A man in a stairwell. A voice I'll forget by morning. He must be a new security guard. Interesting. Maybe things won’t be so bad around here. What would Mother do if she caught me with one of my guards.
The idea is reckless. Dangerous. That doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about him. What I would give for just one night in a man’s arms. A man like that to be specific. A man that is the size of a mountain who has the soft touch of a butterfly.
