I got home past midnight to find my apartment had been broken into.
Not broken into carefully searched. Drawers open, papers scattered, but nothing obviously missing. Professional. Thorough.
My hands shook as I called Cain.
He answered on the first ring. "What's wrong?"
"Someone was in my apartment."
"Don't touch anything. I'm sending security."
His voice went hard. "Lock yourself in the bathroom. Don't open the door until I get there."
"You're coming here?"
"I'm already in the car."
He was there in fifteen minutes him and two men who looked like they ate nails for breakfast. They swept the apartment with a practiced efficiency that told me this wasn't their first time dealing with break-ins.
"Nothing taken," one of them reported to Cain. "Just searched. They were looking for something specific."
"Or sending a message," Cain said darkly.
He turned to me. "Pack a bag. You're not staying here."
"I can't just leave"
"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Someone knows you're working for me. They wanted to scare you or find out what we're planning." His jaw clenched. "Either way, this apartment isn't safe."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"My place. Guest room. Security. No arguments."
I should've fought him. Should've insisted I was fine, that I could handle it.
But my hands were still shaking, and someone had been in my home, touching my things, violating my space.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Just for tonight."
Cain's expression said he knew it wouldn't be just for tonight.
"Pack," he said softly. "I'll wait."
As I threw clothes into a bag with trembling hands, I couldn't shake one thought: someone was watching us. Someone knew about the plan.
And I'd just agreed to move in with a man I barely knew, into a world I didn't understand, for a job that was getting more dangerous by the second.
But I was in too deep to turn back now.
Cain's guest room was bigger than my entire apartment.
King-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub, a walk-in closet that currently held nothing but the garment bags from our shopping trip. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, glittering with a thousand lights that made everything feel surreal.
I stood at those windows at 2 AM, unable to sleep, watching the city that never slept right back.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Cain entered in pajama pants and nothing else, carrying two glasses of whiskey. His chest was bare, revealing lean muscle and a few scars that told stories he'd probably never share. My mouth went dry.
"Couldn't sleep either?" He handed me a glass.
"Someone broke into my apartment. I'm living with a stranger who's paying me to destroy people's lives. Sleep seems ambitious."
"Fair point." He leaned against the window beside me. "For what it's worth, my security team is monitoring your building. If they come back, we'll know."
"Who do you think it was?"
"Could be Whitmore. Could be someone else who doesn't want me acquiring his company." His jaw tightened. "Could be people from my past who see an opportunity to send a message."
"What kind of past involves people breaking into apartments?"
His smile was humorless. "The kind I don't talk about at 2 AM with beautiful women in my guest room."
Heat flooded my face. "I'm not"
"You are." He said it matter-of-factly, like commenting on the weather. "And lying about it insults both of us."
I took a long drink, letting the whiskey burn away my ability to form coherent thoughts. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I've built an empire on being sure of myself."
He turned to face me fully. "But you? You're the most uncertain person I've ever met. Every decision is a war. Every choice is agony."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? You wanted to crash Damien's wedding but agonized over it. You want to help me but feel guilty about it. You're attracted to me but fighting it every second."
He stepped closer. "When are you going to stop apologizing for wanting things?"
"When those things stop being terrible ideas."
"Terrible ideas are usually the most interesting ones." His hand came up, fingers trailing along my jaw. "Tell me to leave, Raven. Tell me you want me to go."
I should have. Should have sent him away, maintained boundaries, kept this professional.
"I can't."
"Can't?" His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Or won't?"
"Both."
His smile was devastating. "Good answer."
The kiss, when it came, wasn't gentle. It was hungry, desperate, three days of tension exploding into something that felt inevitable. His hands slid into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it. I grabbed his bare shoulders, feeling muscle shift under my palms.
He tasted like whiskey and danger and every bad decision I'd ever made.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
"This is a mistake," I whispered.
"Probably." His hands were still in my hair, his body pressed against mine. "But I've made worse."
"Have you?"
"No." His laugh was rough. "This might actually be the worst one yet."
I should've pushed him away. Should've remembered I was his employee, that mixing business with pleasure never ended well, that I barely knew him.
Instead, I kissed him again.
This time he groaned, deep and low, and suddenly I was being lifted, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the bed.
We fell onto Egyptian cotton in a tangle of limbs and desire and terrible, wonderful choices.
His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, everywhere he could reach. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Raven"
"I said no." I pulled his face back to mine. "For once in my life, I'm not going to overthink this. I'm not going to agonize or second-guess or worry about consequences." I met his dark eyes. "I want this. I want you. Even if it's a mistake."
Something shifted in his expression hunger mixing with something almost like reverence.
"You have no idea what you're starting," he said roughly.
"Then show me."
He did.