CHAPTER 7: THE HOTEL ROOM

The rain hit like bullets. Zara was soaked before she made it from the car to the hotel. Marcus had his jacket over her head. It didn’t help.

“Damian booked 2 rooms,” Marcus said. “One for you. One for me.”

“Where’s his?” Zara asked, teeth chattering.

“Penthouse floor,” Marcus said. “We’re on 12.”

The elevator dinged. The moment the doors opened, the lights died. Black.

“Generator should kick in,” Marcus said, hand on Zara’s back.

It didn’t.

“Stay here,” Marcus said. “I’ll check the hallway.”

Zara grabbed his sleeve. “No.”

“Zara—”

“I’m not staying alone,” Zara said.

Marcus sighed. “Fine. Room.”

Room 1204.

Marcus swiped the card. Nothing. “Power’s out,” he said, pushing the door open manually. Dark. It smelled like rain and hotel soap.

Zara fumbled for her phone. Flashlight on. One bed. King size. One tiny couch. One bathroom.

“Shit,” Zara said.

“What?” Marcus asked.

“There’s only one bed.”

Marcus looked around. Jaw tight. “Damian said 2 rooms.”

“Maybe his key works,” Zara said.

Marcus tried calling. No signal. Tried the landline. Dead.

“Storm took everything out,” Marcus said. “We’re stuck.”

Thunder boomed. Zara jumped. Marcus noticed.

“You cold?”

“I’m fine,” Zara lied. She wasn’t.

The red dress was wet. Her hair dripped on the carpet. And her stomach was cramping.

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Marcus took off his jacket and gave it to her. “Put this on.”

“It’s yours.”

“Put it on, Zara.”

She did. It was big. Smelled like him—gun oil and soap. Instantly warmer.

Marcus sat on the floor, back against the bed. “You take the bed.”

“What about you?”

“Couch.”

“That couch is tiny.”

“Then floor,” Marcus said.

Zara stared at him. “We’re not doing that.”

“We’re doing what we have to,” Marcus said. “Go to bed.”

“I can’t sleep with you on the floor.”

“Then don’t sleep,” Marcus said.

Thirty minutes later. Still no light. Still raining.

Zara’s stomach rolled. She ran to the bathroom and threw up. Nothing but water and bile. Morning sickness at midnight. Perfect.

There was a knock.

“Zara?” Marcus’s voice.

“I’m okay,” she called. Voice shaky.

The door opened. Marcus stood there with a bottle of water and a towel. He crouched.

“You’re not okay,” Marcus said. He handed her the water. “Rinse.”

Zara did. Marcus took the towel and wiped her mouth. Gentle. Like she was glass.

“Better?” he asked.

Zara nodded. Couldn’t talk.

Marcus picked her up—just like that—and carried her to the bed.

“Hey—”

“Shh,” Marcus said. “You’re sick.”

He sat her down and pulled the duvet over her. Then sat on the edge.

Zara looked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Marcus said.

Thunder again. Closer. Zara flinched. Before she could think, Marcus’s arm went around her shoulders and pulled her in.

“You’re shaking,” Marcus said.

“It’s cold,” Zara lied.

“It’s not cold,” Marcus said.

They sat like that. His chest to her back. His heartbeat steady. Zara’s eyes closed. Just for a second.

Knock. Loud.

Zara jolted awake. Marcus was already standing, gun in hand.

“Who is it?” Marcus called.

“Room service,” a voice said. “Sorry for the hour.”

Marcus looked through the peephole. Paused. Opened the door.

Damian. Soaked. Holding a keycard.

“What are you doing here?” Marcus said.

“Generator’s out in the whole tower,” Damian said. “Came to check on her.”

His eyes went to the bed. To Zara in Marcus’s jacket. To Marcus standing too close.

Damian’s face went blank. “Move.”

Marcus didn’t. “She’s sleeping.”

“She’s my PA,” Damian said. “My responsibility.”

“Not tonight,” Marcus said.

For a second Zara thought they’d fight right there. Damian stepped in anyway and closed the door.

“Fine,” Damian said. “One room. Three people.”

He looked at the bed. Then the couch. “Toss a coin?”

“No,” Zara said, sitting up. Hair a mess. “I’m not sleeping with either of you.”

Both men looked at her.

“I mean,” Zara corrected, face burning, “not like that. I’m sleeping. Alone.”

Damian smirked. “Sure.”

Marcus didn’t smile.

Compromise:

Zara in the bed.  

Marcus on the floor with a pillow.  

Damian on the couch.

But the couch was too small for Damian, so he ended up on the floor too. On the other side of the bed. Like bookends.

Zara lay in the middle. Couldn’t sleep.

“Are you okay?” Damian whispered from the left.

“Yes,” Zara whispered back.

“You threw up,” Marcus whispered from the right.

“How do you know that?” Zara whispered.

“I heard you,” Marcus said.

Silence. Then Damian: “The baby okay?”

Zara’s breath caught. “They didn’t say anything about twins yet,” she whispered.

“I know,” Damian said. “Just checking.”

Another pause. Marcus shifted. His hand found Zara’s under the duvet and squeezed once. Zara didn’t pull away.

Damian saw. He didn’t say anything. Just closed his eyes.

2am. Rain still falling.

Zara woke up to heat. She was in the middle. Damian on one side, arm over her waist. Marcus on the other, hand on her stomach. Both asleep. Both touching her.

Oh my God.

She tried to move. Damian mumbled and pulled her closer. Marcus’s hand tightened. Protective.

Zara froze. She could feel Damian’s breath on her neck. Could feel Marcus’s chest rising against her back. And her heart—her stupid heart—was racing.

This is wrong. This is so wrong.

But she didn’t move.

Because for the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

6am. Light came back.

Zara woke up alone. Damian was in the bathroom, showering. Marcus was at the window, looking out. He turned when she moved.

“Morning,” Marcus said. Rough voice.

“Morning,” Zara said, sitting up. Her eyes went to the dent in the bed where Damian had slept.

Marcus followed her gaze. His jaw tightened.

“Storm’s over,” Marcus said. “We can go home.”

“Okay,” Zara said.

Damian came out, towel around his waist, water on his chest. He saw them. Saw the space between them. And smiled. Not a nice smile.

“Breakfast?” Damian asked. “My treat.”

Neither of them answered.

In the elevator. All three. Silent. Zara between them.

The doors opened.

Obasi was standing there. With two men. And a photo—the photo from last night. Zara, Damian, Marcus. In the hotel room.

Obasi held it up.

“Tsk tsk,” Obasi said. “The heir, the guard, and the girl.”

He looked at Zara’s stomach.

“Which one is the father?”

And then he smiled.

“Because if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you all and find out myself.”