“Bathroom’s through there,” Rafe says, gesturing. “Help yourselves to anything in the minibar.”
They leave us to settle in, which has me feeling a little dizzy. We're in some strangers' house now. People who are extremely dangerous. What the hell happened to me?
Jude.Jude is what happened to me. The jerk.
Heather immediately flops onto the bed, bouncing once. “Emma,” she whispers. “We're sleeping in abillionaire’sbed.”
I manage a laugh. “Yeah, this is something else.”
"Hey, you're sleeping with a millionaire," Micah says, gesturing to himself as he sets his bag down.
She giggles.
Micah sighs, putting his hands on his hips. “They seem nice enough.”
I meet his gaze.
“It’s weird, though, considering Rook said he was scary.”
Heather scoffs at him. “Sure, they’re welcoming. But all three of them look like they could kill us in two seconds with their bare hands if we pissed them off. The driver, too.” She shrugs. “So I think we’ll be okay as long as we don’t do that.”
I snort, checking my phone to see a sweet text from Mrs. Kent with a Nova update. I miss my girl. I miss my little cottage. I miss my job.
I miss my life. But I miss Jude more.
Chapter fifteen
JUDE GRAVES
I wake to the sound of music. It takes me a second to register the soft and melodic sound drifting in from the kitchen. For a split second, my body doesn’t know where I am. There’s no shouting. No boots. No commands barked in Russian.
Just...music.
I push myself upright, my head heavy, my veins already aching with that annoying, low-level panic that comes with being sober for too long. The hotel suite is dim, curtains still drawn. I drag myself out of bed and stop in the doorway.
Adriana is at the kitchen island, back to me, moving easily to the rhythm. She’s wearing gray silk sleep shorts and a matchingbaggy top, her hair in a ponytail down her back. A pan sizzles softly on the stove. Eggs, maybe. Butter. Coffee. It smells…good.
She looks relaxed. Happy, even. And it makes my chest feel weird.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her without announcing myself. She hums along with some song under her breath, hips swaying slightly as she reaches for a plate. There’s no tension in her shoulders, sadness, or fear.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and check it. When I see that, unsurprisingly, I have no messages, I drop onto the couch. With a heavy sigh, I reach for my kit. The ritual is muscle memory—tie off, tap, breathe, inject. The relief blooms quickly, my shoulders loosening, and my jaw unclenching.
I exhale. “Want some?” I ask, my voice rough but casual, like I’m offering her coffee.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling faintly. “I’m good,” she says. “Already smoked this morning.” She turns back to the stove, entirely unbothered. Adriana uses drugs the way people use wine or cigarettes—an indulgence or a vice. For me, it’s survival. The needle isn’t simply optional. It’s a fucking contract. I’ve always envied that about her.
I sink deeper into the couch, watching her again. All of this feels so casual, like the woman hasn’t watched me get beaten half to fucking death. The thought makes my stomach twist. This place feels safe, at least. I can always come back here to breathe and rest whenever I’m not at Alexei’s nightmare of a house. Well,prison.
Adriana sets a plate in front of me with a smile. Eggs, toast, fruit arranged neatly. She slides a mug of coffee toward me, too. I glare at it, feeling entirely too lazy to add creamer to it.
“Eat,” she says lightly, leaning against the counter across from me. “You look tired.”
I snort softly and pick up the fork, my hands feeling steadier than they probably should. The heroin is doing its job. “Surprising, considering I slept really hard last night.”
She smirks. “So did I.”
I chew without tasting anything. The food is good. I know that intellectually. But my body is still buzzing, floating just a few inches above itself. I swallow and glance up at her. “You’re in a good mood,” I say.