Page 4 of Brox Boar

Only now the blanket is empty.

I stop. Something small and cold skims down my spine.

Brox strides forward, looking around. “Lana!” he calls lightly. “Better not be hiding.”

No answer.

He walks around the sofa, peering behind it like she might be crouched there with a water gun. I move slower, my gaze tracking the room. The kitchen island is clean. No mug in the sink, no crumbs on the counter.

“Maybe she’s in the shower,” Brox says quickly, heading toward the corridor that leads to the bedrooms. “Or in her room. Or mine. Or–”

“Lana?” I call, my voice deeper now. It carries down the hallway. “Princess, you up?”

Silence.

I follow him, my footsteps heavier on the black marble floor. We pass the door to my room first. It’s ajar. I push it open. It’s empty.

I walk inside a few steps and look around—I see the chair, the wardrobe, the bathroom door open, and the lights off. No clothes on the chair. No panties on the floor.

My heartbeat picks up.

“Check her room,” I say over my shoulder.

I move back into the corridor. The next door is Lana’s. I knock once, then don’t wait for an answer, just push it open.

The bed is empty. The cover is half-off, the sheets twisted like she tumbled out of it. The pillow has a faint dip where her head lay.

Brox appears in the doorway opposite, in his own room. “She’s not in mine,” he says. His voice has lost the easy lilt. It’s clipped now. Harder. “The bathroom’s empty.”

We head back to the main area, our footsteps a fraction too quick.

“Maybe she went to work,” Brox says, but even he sounds unsure.

“She’d tell us if she was going there,” I snap. My pulse is thudding in my ears now. This is wrong. This whole scene is wrong. Her absence sits in the room like a stain.

“Lana!” I call again, louder. The sound echoes off the high ceiling and falls flat.

No answer.

Brox pulls his cell out, his thumbs moving fast. “I’m calling her.”

I prowl the space, checking places that don’t need checking. Behind the big plant in the corner. In the dining room. I even glance out onto the balcony, scanning the small table where she sat yesterday morning with coffee, legs tucked under her.

Empty.

Brox curses under his breath. “It goes straight to voicemail,” he says. “No rings. Her cell is off.”

My mind starts to flip through possibilities —too fast, too many. She got annoyed and left. She went to buy coffee. She panicked and ran.

No. Not after the weekend we just had. Not after the way she relaxed between us this morning, boneless with trust and satisfaction. Not after the way she murmured in her sleep and pressed herself between our bodies, seeking warmth.

“She wouldn’t just go,” I say.

“This is stupid,” Brox mutters. “We’re overreacting. She’s at work. She’s in scrubs, telling some old man to stop being a baby while she gives him antibiotics.”

“A text.” I grit my teeth. “She would send a text.”

After the last time, when Valentino took her from this very penthouse, we spruced up our security. So, no one could have taken her from here. Fuck.