I twisted the bag strap in my lap, anger coiling tight beneath my ribs. “My boss,” I said, letting the word sour. “Or what passes for one for the next six weeks.”
The wheel creaked under his grip. The streetlights strobed over the dash, casting his face in flickers of blue and gold.
“He’s not your type,” he said at last. The accent was harsh—vowels crisp, consonants clipped.
“And what exactly is ‘my type’?” I shot back.
“A man who’d protect you from the cold,” he said, voice low and barely contained. “Not drag you out into it and parade you for his amusement.”
I chambered a retort, but he cut me off before the words left my tongue.
“There’s a bag in the footwell. Open it.”
I bent, confused, and pulled a heavy paper shopping bag up from the floor. Inside was a puffer coat—deep navy, quilted, and thick. A knit beanie followed, then matching gloves with the tags still attached, the fleece inside cloud-soft.
I barked a laugh. “You bought me a coat?”
His eyes caught mine in the rearview. “I told you—you don’t know how to dress for the weather. London is cold and wet. You will freeze without it.” The faintest curve touched his mouth. “I prefer you whole.”
I stroked the sleeve, warm from the heating vent, and something in my chest loosened. “Thank you,” I said—and meant it.
We drove in silence for a few blocks, the car’s warmth and Luka’s presence taking the edge off the day—like a drink I didn’t know I’d needed. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the mirror.
I couldn’t stand the quiet. “Did you have a busy day?” I asked, instantly hating how trite the question sounded.
“I slept,” he said. “Mostly.”
I picked at the edge of the shopping bag. “Slept?”
He shrugged, a slight twitch of his shoulder. “I do most of my work at night.”
I tried to picture him in a bed—relaxed, vulnerable. Impossible. “Are you…working again tonight?”
He glanced at me in the mirror, eyes narrowed, a restrained smile at the corners. “Only for you,mila.”
It started with a left that didn’t feel right—a slow drive away from the city’s glassy towers and polished storefronts into streets I didn’t recognize. The buildings dropped to staggered terraces, newsagents with metal grilles, the warm orange glow of kebab shops flickering in the deepening dusk.
I glanced at the dash. The navigation screen was dark. Luka must have been driving from memory, one hand draped loose on the wheel. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know London that well, but…isn’t my hotel the other direction?” I tried to make it sound like a joke. “Or am I already lost?”
He didn’t answer for a second, just slid into the next lane. “At this time of day,” he said, “getting you back to Bloomsbury would take ages.” His eyes flicked up, catching me in the rearview again. “Unless you want to sit in a car with me all night.”
He slowed to a stop at a red light.
I tried to get my bearings, but it was no use.
“Personally,” he added, reaching back to rest his hand on my knee, “I can think of a better use of our time.”
A vivid clarity cut through me. Stranger. Alone. No navigation. Every warning sign I’d been trained to run from.
And I should have run.
But then he pressed my knees apart and walked his fingers slowly up my thigh. “I’ve been imagining that delicious cunt since I dropped you off this morning.”
Heat flooded through my core.
“Of you spreading those legs for me. Begging for me. Screaming my name.”
My mouth went dry. “Where…are you taking me?”