Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

It’s obvious she can tell by the view that we didn’t land at
Reno-Tahoe International.
But she only takes a deep breath and stands, avoiding my
eyes.
She refuses to look at me on the drive into the city. She
doesn’t look at my driver, either, or show surprise at seeing the
Bentley waiting for us on the tarmac. She just stares out the
window, her gaze far away.
I have to keep my hands curled to fists at my sides so I
don’t pull her against my chest and bury my face into her hair.
When we get into Manhattan, she cranes her neck to look
at the skyscrapers we pass. She looks very young, gazing out
the window with wide eyes, her lips parted in awe.
I want to take her everywhere in the world so I can see that
look on her face over and over again.
As soon as I regain her trust, I will.
She keeps absent-mindedly toying with the ring I gave her,
twisting it around with her thumb. That she hasn’t taken it off
is a good omen.
I wish like hell she’d tell me what she’s thinking.
When we pull into the parking garage of my place on Park
Avenue, she sits back into her seat and grips the door handle,
looking straight ahead. Even in profile, I see her anxiety.
I feel it, coming off her in waves.
I say gently, “This is my home. One of them. We’ll be safe
here until it’s over.”
She swallows, but doesn’t ask what I mean by “it.”
I reach out and grasp her hand. It’s cold and clammy.
When I squeeze it, she withdraws, sliding both hands between
her thighs, out of reach.
We take the private elevator to the eighty-second floor. The
doors slide open, but she doesn’t move. She stays frozen in the
corner, blinking, looking out into the foyer of the penthouse.