I had expected chains. A locked door. A nonwindowed, dark room.
But James led me here instead.
The penthouse towered over me as if I hadn't been gone. When I stepped inside, his smell and fresh wood hit me, as if I hadn't been gone. The entire place was just as I had left it—plush leather sofa, floor-to-ceiling windows and cityscape, and the fireplace where we had found our sanctuary on icy winter evenings.
I swallowed involuntarily.
This was another form of imprisonment. One that played tricks on the head, with an illusion of comfort.
The door shut quietly behind us, and the soft snick sent a shiver of tension down the length of my spine. He didn't pounce, didn't engulf me. He just stepped around me, shed his coat, and draped it over a nearby chair, as if tonight was just another nig
