Page 73 of The Tower

He turns back to the doorway and steps through, his head barely missing the plate of bacon I hurl in his direction.

It hits the doorframe and shatters, and I sit there, staring at the shards, wondering what happened last night, and how I’d gotten it all so horribly, incredibly wrong.

Twenty-Three

Sanctuary

“Here it is,” Grimm says as we enter a fifth-floor loft in the heart of Tribeca. “Sanctuary. For now, anyway.”

The place is stunning, yet not ostentatious. Walls of windows provide natural light, even with the blinds closed as they are now. “A courtesy for me?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Also, just for comfort,” he says. “The afternoon sun can be brutal.”

I glance toward him. “Thanks.”

He inclines his head like it’s no big deal. Except to me, it is.

The living area is decorated in shades of gray and deep blue, with comfortable furniture, baskets of blankets, and coffee table books that seem to exist only for that specific purpose.

I glance toward Grimm. “Whose place is this?” I ask. “A friend?”

“Not exactly,” he says.

“Sorry, I forgot. You’re not a person who has actual friends.”

He gives me a sharp look, which I return with my brightest cover model smile. A smile I hope conveys that while the sex was freaking amazing, I’m still pissed about the bullshit back at the hotel, and if he thinks I’m just going to be the complacent little pseudo-hostage, he has another think coming.

At the same time, he’s right. I made a deal. So I’m sticking to my end like glue. He says jump, I jump. He says jump his bones, I’ll do that, too. I’ll even like it. So there.

But that doesn’t mean I like him.

In fact, our little spat at the hotel was probably a good thing. I’d let myself forget that he’s a Grimm, and I shouldn’t have. I know better than most not to ever take a Grimm at face value.

“It’s mine,” he says, surprising me. “For now, at least.”

“Oh. Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, my father must have access to property records and⁠—”

“It’s not in my name. And with the tangle of paperwork, he won’t find it.” He meets my eyes, and for the first time since our earlier tiff, there’s warmth beneath the icy blue. “You’re safe with me, Princess. That much, I promise.”

“Oh.” My throat is suddenly too thick for any other words to get through. “Thanks.”

He nods, then waves for me to join him for the grand tour. Considering his resources and reputation for living a life of excess, it’s not very large. The open style living area is big enough to be comfortable, but small enough to be intimate. The kitchen is airy and well-lit, and when I check the fridge and cabinets, I see that they’re both already stocked.

“I have a service,” he says, leading me further into the apartment. “Two bedrooms. Technically, three, but one is my office.

He steers me into the master bedroom—all dark wood highlighted by a red and black theme. The room across the hall is the repurposed bedroom now used as his office. It’s leanly furnished, with the focal point being a desk, a chair, and a computer displaying a screensaver of the letters RSC in a decorative font floating and twirling on the screen. And, surprisingly, a VR headset.

One entire wall is cabinetry. Another is entirely windows, and the last supports bookshelves filled with a mixture of fiction and every coding and computer-related book imaginable.

“I never asked what exactly you do,” I say, with a nod to the computer books. “You don’t work for Grimm International, and you told me that day at the shoot that you deal in information. So what exactly does RSC stand for?”

“I’m in cybersecurity,” he says. “I catch hackers, consult with corporations and governments. That kind of thing. And it stands for Rebecca Strait Cyberwerx.”

“For your mom,” I say softly. “That’s a lovely idea.”

He shrugs. “I often wonder, if someone had hacked into Victor’s networks back then, would they have seen her murderer working on his plan?”

“That was a long time ago,” I say, my heart aching for him. “I don’t think the tech was there yet.”