Page 92 of He Knows When You're Awake

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But the slight quirk of his mouth tells me otherwise. “Three hours,” he says again, and kisses me in a way that makes me seriously consider making him late for his meeting.

The moment he’s gone, I race to the kitchen. I have precisely two hours and fifty-eight minutes to attempt something I’ve never done before—make Christmas Eve dinner. Well, attempt to make Christmas Eve dinner. I’ve got backup reservations at three different restaurants, but I’m determined to at least try the whole domestic goddess thing.

How hard can it be?

Two hours later, I’ve learned several important life lessons:

Cooking videos make everything look deceptively easy.

Setting off the smoke alarm once means Knox will appear in full tactical gear.

Setting it off twice means the entire security team will be hovering nervously in the hallway.

Setting it off three times means Knox will gently suggest ordering takeout while confiscating your oven privileges.

Knox clears his throat from the doorway.

“The cleaning service is here,” he says with admirable professionalism. “And may I suggest a cooking class for the new year?”

“That obvious?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen less destruction in active war zones.”

The cleaning crew works miracles. By four, there’s no evidence of my culinary disaster, and Gloria’s team has transformed the dining room into something straight out of a magazine. The whole penthouse smells like roasting turkey instead of burning... everything.

Knox does a final sweep of the floor before his shift ends. “You’re all set. New team’s coming up in five minutes for the night shift.” He pauses at the elevator. “I’m heading home. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Knox. I’m sorry for all the commotion today.”

He grins. “Maybe stick to jewelry design.”

I’m still laughing as the elevator doors close. I head to my room to change—I bought a new red dress for tonight, wanting to look festive for our first Christmas Eve.

That’s when I hear the elevator again. Too soon for the new security team.

Too soon for Cole.

When I step into the hallway, it’s not Cole’s security team waiting for me.

I freeze in the hallway, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone before I remember it’s still in the kitchen. The space suddenly feels too small, too confined, as I recognize the two broad-shouldered men flanking a third figure—the Russians from the Met gala, their expressions as cold and impassive as I remember.

But it’s the figure between them who holds my attention. He’s a slight man, dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit that seems to absorb the light around him. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his smile pleasant and practiced—like a politician’s, or a shark’s. Everything about him screams old money and influence, right down to the signet ring on his right hand.

“Hello, Sloane,” he says, his voice carrying a slight accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Julian Voss.”

My throat goes dry. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, played out countless scenarios of finally meeting the man who’s been haunting the edges of my life. But standing here now, I realize none of my imagined confrontations prepared me for the reality of him.

“I must say,” he continues as he bends down to scoop up Havoc, who had bounded over to investigate the newcomers, “what a delightful puppy.” His manicured fingers scratch behind Havoc’s ears, the gesture almost gentle. The sight of my dog in his arms makes my stomach turn.

Something in my expression must show, because his smile widens slightly. I glance toward the security panel near the elevator, its light blinking red instead of the usual green. Somehow, they’ve disabled it.

“The new security team won’t be joining us,” Voss says, reading my thoughts. “I hoped we could have a private conversation.

“You remind me of Claire, you know. She had the same... fire.” His gaze drops to my throat. “Your designs are so close. Not exact, but close.”

One of the Russians steps forward, grabbing my arm with bruising force. I struggle instinctively, managing to land one solid kick to his knee before the second man pushes me against the wall, hand at my throat.

“Careful,” Julian says sharply. “She needs to be intact.”