Page 34 of Under His Command
I get up from my desk and decide to start cleaning: vacuuming, dusting, and mopping every square inch. Cleaning always keeps me centered in the present moment, which is exactly what I need right now. When I’m done, I return to my desk, determined to get a head start on work for next week. That’s when my doorbell rings, and I jolt upright like a spring.
I scurry down the hallway on my tiptoes, my pulse quickening.
“Hello?” I say through the closed door. “Who is it?”
“Just me, Zain.”
My heart drops a little, but the feeling is completely lost when I open the door and I’m met with the biggest, most beautiful bouquet of white and pink peonies. It’s so lush, I can’t even see Zain’s head behind it.
“Oh my God,” I say, inhaling their fresh, sweet aroma that already wafts all over me. “Thank you!” Instinctively, I bring my hand to my chest, huffing a breathy smile as the flowers are slowly pushed toward me.
“I’m merely the messenger, Miss Finnegan,” he smiles.
The flowers are heavy in my arms, their curly, soft petals smearing my skin with early summer mist. My phone rings on the table again, and I turn my head toward the sound. I glance over at Zain.
“I…”
“I’ll be around,” Zain says, nodding softly as he retreats into the shadows, where he and his team are watching over me. They’ve been here ever since Rowan left, and I kind of feel bad because there’s nothing for them to do. Which is also a good thing, I suppose, since that means no one’s trying to get to me.
I close the door and pick up the call, my heart desperate to get out of my chest as I see Rowan’s name across the screen. I bring it up to my ear, but his husky voice envelops me before I get to say hello.
“Look outside. Through your main window.”
Pushing my lower lip between my teeth, I rush toward it with the flowers still in my arms, expecting to see him out front. But I pull my transparent curtains to the side, and I’m met with the sight of another bouquet of peonies that one of Zain’s men is holding in front of a black car.
“Rowan…” I smile.
“Get in the car, angel,” he commands.
“Are you back from London?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“You have exactly ten minutes to go downstairs and get into the car. If you’re not there when I call again, I’m going to punish you when I get back—and I promise it is not the kind you’ll look forward to.”
I suck in a breath, nervousness creeping in. With Rowan, I never know what to expect. Sex is never gentle with him, and although I love it, it makes me actually concerned what his punishments would entail.
“Is that understood?”
“Y-Yes. Yes, sir.”
The call ends without another word, and I look around me for what to do next. The flowers. I have to put the flowers in a vase or something.
I run toward the kitchen, palms sweating and heat curling up on my skin. I get a vase out and put them in with a load of water. Then I change into a white skirt and flowery top, and lock up before hurrying downstairs.
The elevator isn’t working this week—the management has yet to fix it. So I huff and puff all the way to the first floor when it hits me. I forgot to pack the sexy lingerie I bought the other day to surprise him. I look at the time on my phone and see that I’ve still got four minutes left of the time Rowan allowed me. Cursing internally, I decide to make a run for it, back to the fifth floor.
I unlock my door and burst into the hallway, not bothering to take off my shoes. There. On the bedroom floor, in the pink-striped Victoria’s Secret shopping bag. I bend down to snatch it and when I head back out into the living room… I freeze.
There’s a half-peeled blood orange on my side table.
Its juice has splattered over the glass, staining it, as if whoever peeled it wasn’t gentle when holding it between their fingers. The thought of someone else being here is terrifying, but I don’t remember eating an orange today. Or buying one, even.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look toward the main door, my heart slamming against my ribcage. Fear, true unfiltered fear bolts through my body like lightning, my head feeling foggy from the rush of hormones.
“I have a gun,” I lie, forcing my voice to come out stronger than how I feel. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
