Where are you taking me?” I giggle.

I’m not on Damon’s bike anymore. But judging by the wind blowing in my hair, I might as well be. If it weren’t for Damon standing right behind me, I’d be worried about being blown away, literally.

As Damon holds his hands over my eyes, I notice the skin on his palms is thick and coarse. No doubt this is a man who has put his hands to good use. I wonder if Damon has scars on his body.

I’ve seen bullet wounds and knife wounds on my dad’s men—healed, of course. Still, I can’t help but wince every time I see them by accident.

“Shh . . . Just keep walking,” Damon says.” Walk straight ahead, okay?”

“There’s no more stairs?” I feel like we’ve been climbing up forever. My calves are going to be sore tomorrow. Depending on what we’ll be doing the rest of the day, maybe my other body parts will be sore too.

“Nope,” Damon says. “We’re almost there. For this last stretch, though, you should keep your eyes open.”

I squint as sunlight hits me right in the eyes.

Damon has taken me downtown, to the beaches, and to the hills. I’ve been to all those places, of course, but they felt different when I was on his bike. More exciting.

My heart races as I let my eyes adjust to the brightness around me. Obviously, we’re outdoors. But where?

I see the tops of familiar skyscrapers. But they’re too close for us to be on one of the hills just outside the city.

“Wow.” All the breath in my lungs leaves my body. “This is . . .”

“Nice. Yeah. I know,” Damon says from behind me.

“Damon, this is more than nice. This is better than the view from the best hotel in the city.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” I look over my shoulder and give him a smile.

From up here, we have a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the city. I can see the areas where urban concrete gives way to vegetation.

We’re on the rooftop of a building . . . but where? I didn’t feel myself walk into an indoor space.

“This was meant to be the tallest building in the city,” Damon explains—again, as if he can read my mind.

“‘Meant to be’?”

“Yeah. During the financial crisis, they ran out of funds, and the project was never completed,” he says.

“Oh. That’s . . . too bad.”

Damon shrugs. “Yeah, well, if the project weren’t abandoned, we probably wouldn’t have this place to ourselves right now.”

I nod but remain silent.

It’s funny how differently Damon and I see the world.

As a tax consultant and the daughter of a wealthy man, I see a big loss for the investors who put their money in this sad, deserted building.

I think about all the corporate employees who will never work here, about all the weddings that will never take place in these halls, and about all the hotel guests who will never spend the night here. I think about all the families who have lost their savings—possibly meant to fund their retirements and college degrees.

But Damon obviously sees opportunity where I see loss and defeat. Someone else’s loss is his gain.

“Want to keep going?” he asks.

“Sure.”

This time, Damon takes my hands and leads me to the edge where a few wide, wooden planks have been arranged side by side, bridging this side of the building to the other side.

“Are you serious?” I ask when I realize Damon wants me to walk on the planks. “That looks dangerous.”

Damon chuckles. “We can stay here if you want. But the view’s better over there, and I’ve crossed this thing more times than I can count.”

He’s not trying to kill me, is he?

I mean, I’m sure he’s not. My dad will kill whoever kills me.

But that . . . thing . . .

“It’s wider than it looks,” Damon says. “Sturdier too. Look at all those big bolts keeping it in place. The construction workers must’ve put it there to move building materials back and forth. It can withstand a pretty heavy load.”

I gingerly take two steps closer and feel my knees go weak. Damon’s right—there is something more sturdy under the planks. But it’s still, like, dozens of floors above the ground, probably, and there are no handrails.

“Okay, my knees are shaking, and I don’t know if it’s because we climbed so many steps or because we’re so high up,” I say.

Damon chuckles. “It’ll be fine. If you want to leave, that’s okay too. But you wanted me to show you someplace you’ve never been to before, and this is it.”

I eye the bridge. It’s not that narrow. Probably about five feet across? If I don’t get blown away by the wind, I’ll be fine. Maybe, if I . . .

I drop down to my hands and knees, aware that Damon’s watching me, and he’s probably laughing at me again with that amused look on his handsome face.

But I do want to cross over to the other side; I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to get away from my dad like this. I’ll regret it later if I don’t do this.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Damon says, making me wonder if we have the same definition of the word. He casually saunters toward the bridge and stands in the middle, the wind blowing in his dark hair, messing it up. “Look. It’s fine. I’ll be here, watching you.”

I gulp down my nerves. Okay. I can do this.

Small, sharp particles stab my palms as I move forward. The wooden planks don’t feel better under my skin either. I’m glad at least the leather of my thigh-high boots is shielding my knees from the hard concrete.

My heart hammers with fear but I focus on Damon’s black boots and before I know it, they’re only inches away.

When I look up, I resist the urge to raise my hand and shield my eyes from the sun. I need all my limbs on the floor.

My gaze meets Damon’s. He doesn’t say anything, but his dark eyes say everything I need to know.

He towers over me with the sun behind him, staring down at me with arrogance written all over his face. Arrogance and desire.

I realize what this looks like. I’m crawling at his feet with my dress flying all over the place, the hem pulling up my thighs, exposing my skin. Maybe this isn’t the best dress to wear to a place like this—but then again, maybe it’s the perfect dress.

Damon’s looking at me like he’s an alpha predator, and I’m a feeble deer he wants to devour. And I like it.

Damon clears his throat, breaking the tension building up between us. “We’re halfway there,” he says.

As Damon walks backward, I inch forward, keeping my gaze on his shoes. Something about this feels wrong. But again . . . I like it.

Something within me wants to shed the burden of power that has been placed on my shoulders since my birth. Give that up to someone powerful—someone like Damon—and let him control me, have his way with me, do whatever he wants me with. Even if it hurts.

Oh, God. What is wrong with me?

It feels like a second and an eternity at the same time, but finally we reach the other side.

Damon crouches down and gallantly holds out his hand.

“Stand up, princess,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Is that a hard bulge in the front of his pants, or am I imagining it? Is he just as sick as I am?

I put my hand in Damon’s and get up to my feet. There are bits of gravel sticking to my palms and boots, but I don’t care. All that matters is Damon.

He leads me to a big, rectangular chunk of concrete a few feet away from the edge of the building. The wind is so strong that normally I would’ve worried about it somehow blowing the concrete off the building and us along with it.

But Damon looks calm and in control, and his attitude is contagious.

“Do you come here often?” I ask, not realizing it sounds like a lame pick-up line until the words are out of my mouth.

“Yeah.” Damon looks straight into the horizon. It’s strange. He’s right next to me but he feels far away. At the same time, he seems comfortable enough to let his guard down. “I used to come here a lot when my parents died. And lately, I’ve been coming more often too.”

Damon’s parents. His dad used to work for my dad, and as far as I know, they died years and years ago—not at the same time, but not too far apart either. It could’ve been ten years, which means Damon would’ve been a teenager.

I wonder if he comes here when he’s upset, and whether that means something has been bothering him lately.

“Have you been missing your parents?” I ask.

Damon takes a big, deep breath, his chest puffing up. “I guess,” he says. “My mom was always high and my dad was always working, so they were never around anyway. It’s more like . . . I realize I’m missing out on something most people have.”

I nod in silence. Both my parents are still alive, and we’re even supposed to be living in the same big house. But to my surprise, I can relate to what Damon’s saying.

It would probably seem dismissive to say I feel like my mom is addicted to shopping and social climbing while my dad is a workaholic like his used to be. His concern only goes as far as keeping us fed and safe, but other than that, he keeps us at arm’s length.

Obviously, my life isn’t nearly as tragic as Damon’s has been. He’s had to fight for his survival while I’ve had every single one of my needs met for as long as I can remember.

I don’t know how long we just sit there in silence, watching the sun move over the horizon, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts.

The clouds make pretty patterns as the sun casts their shadows on the ground, far below us. They’re reflected on the glass panels of the tall skyscrapers. Every once in a while, a whole flock of birds or a solitary predator flies past.

“You should call your mom,” Damon says, breaking the silence.

I check the time on my phone and realize it’s time. Obviously, Damon doesn’t want my dad to find out I’m not on a business trip. Is he trying to protect me from my dad’s wrath, or is he keeping himself out of trouble?

I make a quick call to my mom, letting her know the flight was pleasant, I’ve gone through immigration, and I’ve picked up my bag.

“Okay, Mom. I need to find a cab to take me to the hotel now. Bye.” I hang up.

I turn to look at Damon and find him watching me with a look I can’t decode. Strange. I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but I don’t understand what’s going on in his beautiful mind.

There’s a deep sadness in his eyes that makes me want to pull him into a hug and tell him everything’s going to be okay.

But something tells me he’s not sad about anything that has happened in his life, even if he has just told me about his parents’ deaths. He seems to be sad . . . for me.