Owned By the Prince by Tristan Rivers

Chapter 3

Blair

Ireturn to the run-down industrial suburb of Leyton where I share a tiny apartment with a Chinese year-abroad student who never speaks, and I stay up late working on my economic theory paper. I manage to get it finished just after three a.m., then sleep for five hours before dragging myself to my morning lectures. I’ll be done by early afternoon, which will give me much-needed time to shop for a new shirt to wear under my suit. I’m being paid a hell of a lot of money for this gig, and I caught the look in Genevieve’s eye when she saw my $20 cheapie yesterday. I don’t know why I bothered coming to lectures today anyway. Usually I love my Economic History class, but my thoughts are all over the place. Tonight I’m going to a sex party. I’m actually going to see people having sex, in real life.

“What are you doing tonight, Blair?” Sabine whispers, midway through the lecture.

I roll my eyes. “Working.” After she returns to her notes, I look at her sideways. I want to tell her about the gig I’m doing for Apotheosis, as much for safety as anything. But I can’t. She’s fun and laid back, and she thinks toilet humor is the funniest thing ever, but I’ve only known her for four months, and I’ve got no idea how she’d react to something like this.

It’s raining when I skip down the front stairs of the lecture hall. Nothing new in Londis-town. As I tug the hood of my college sweatshirt over my hair, I notice a black car pulling up at the curbside. A driver in a black cap—an actual black cap—gets out and squints at the stream of students pouring out of the building. I know immediately that he’s come for me.

“I’ll catch you later. I’ve got to buy a new pillow from Argos,” I tell Sabine, and I pretend to walk off in the opposite direction. But as soon as she’s out of sight, I double back and approach the driver casually enough that I can keep walking if I turn out to be woefully mistaken.

As soon as his gaze falls on me, his eyes flicker in recognition.

“Miss Kirkham.” He opens the door and, as if I’m in the middle of a very trippy dream, I get in.

The seats are black leather and heated. “Where we headed?” I say as casually as I can, and I cringe when I hear a hint of the hillbilly accent that I thought I’d buried for good.

“Armani, madam.”

My cheeks warm. My chain-store shirt must be worse than I thought. “Oh” I say in a small voice.

The congested Londisstreets pass by in a whirl of red buses, black taxis, death-defying cyclists, and beeping horns. Before long we’re in the affluent section of the city, pulling up outside a gigantic Armani store. The driver climbs out and opens my door for me. As I shuffle out of my seat, he slips a credit card into my hand.

“Genevieve has requested you purchase a skirt-suit, shirt, and shoes, madam,” he says.

My cheeks get even hotter. “Okay. Thanks.”

He tips his cap, and I stumble over to the entrance of the store where two more men are holding doors open for me.

A pair of ridiculously beautiful sales assistants pounce on me immediately, and I spend the next half hour slithering in and out of different outfits. They know what they’re doing, and I’m soon ready. I barely recognize myself in a black lace, sleeveless top with a V-neck finishing an inch above my cleavage, black patent, mid-height heels, and a suit, which is a revelation. It fits my body like a glove, the pencil skirt finishing two inches above my knees but still projects pure sophistication. I look sexy, sleek, and grown-up. I hand over the credit card with a flicker of anxiety, wondering for a moment if this has all been a big joke at my expense. The card is going to decline, and those two shiny-ponytailed thoroughbreds are going to look at me pityingly.

The card machine makes a little whirring sound, and I almost jump. £15,289-worth of clothes has been approved. I reach out for the receipt automatically.

“Don’t worry, madam, we forward all receipts to the card owner,” one of the girls tells me.”

“Oh—sure thing,” I mumble. Three Armani bags are thrust into my hands, and I’m guided to the door.

* * *

Three hours later,I’m standing in front of the mirror attached to my cheap, chipped closet, dressed in the shoes, the suit, and the shirt. I’ve applied mascara, a couple of dots of concealer and a translucent, off-red lipstick, and after half an hour of styling, my hair hangs in perfect, mahogany-brown waves. I consider my hair to be my best feature. My mama used to sit me on her lap and comb it for hours, fascinated by how different it was from the dry, red-brown frizz that she’d passed on to my six older brothers and sisters. Cuckoo child, she used to call me. Don't know how something as perfect as you came out of me. They must’ve changed you at the hospital.

She thought I was too young to understand, but I did. It made me uncomfortable, aware that huge things would be expected of me. You’re a princess and don’t ever let nobody tell you any different, she’d say when the kids at school were mean to me because I was poorer than them. And when she got sick, she said, Do me proud. She died in her bed, looking at all seven of us. But as the light faded from her eyes, it was me she was watching. After that, I made it my mission to do exactly that.

But little things got to me. Like being called trailer trash. So I made myself perfect. I got a scholarship to attend a high school an hour and a half’s bus ride away because it was better than the local one. When the kids at that school mocked my accent, I changed it. Learned to speak like the news readers on CNN. I studied like crazy. I also ran track like crazy, determined to get a scholarship to a good school one way or another. There was no time for boys and friends, but I didn’t care. I thought about my mama looking down on me and how much I wanted her to be proud of me.

When I got a full academic scholarship to Chicago, I knew I’d made it. But I was sick of fighting. I wanted things to come easy for once. As much as it hurt me to cut ties with the name my mama had given me, I changed it legally. I invented a pretty childhood for myself in a Boston suburb. I spent a weekend there, taking photos, making notes, making sure I had my story straight. Then I found a tech-geek and did a pretty good job of erasing my history. You’d have to be looking hard to find out the truth about me.

So, I’ve done what I’ve needed to do for my mama and myself, but now my little nephew is sick, and I’ve got to provide for him as best I can.

My phone rings, showing an unknown number, and my stomach fills with jumping beans. This is it. I’m about to witness my very first orgy. Sweet fucking Jesus. I answer the phone.

“The car’s downstairs for you, madam.” It sounds like the driver from earlier.

I take a last look at my reflection and head out of my apartment and down the stairs. It’s a different driver. My mistake. All these clipped Anglian accents sound the same to me. And this time it’s not a regular car but a limo. When he opens the door, I slide in as fast as I can. I live in one of the city’s edgier neighborhoods, and it’s pretty awkward to be seen getting into a limousine.

There’s a dark partition separating me from the driver, so I can’t see him or the windshield. Maybe that’s normal in a limo. I don’t have anything to compare it to. As the car pulls off, I notice that the side and rear windows are heavily tinted. On the inside. I literally can’t see through them at all. That’s not normal. Even I know that.

“Is everything okay, madam?” I jump when the the driver’s voice comes through a microphone somewhere.

“Uh, yeah. I was just wondering what the deal is with the windows,” I blurt out, too freaked to be polite.

“Madam?”

“I mean, I’m not used to windows this thoroughly tinted.”

“It’s for privacy, madam. It’s essential that the location of the party is kept secret.”

Okay. That makes sense. I guess. I settle back on the plush leather seats and try to relax as the car moves smoothly and rapidly. After a while I take my phone out to catch up on a few messages. But when I try to send the first, there’s no signal, and it doesn’t return during the rest of the journey.

Forty-five minutes later, the car slows and makes a turn before crunching over a long strip of gravel. The partition separating me from the driver slides down. “Would you mind passing your phone to me, madam? It’ll be returned to you at the end of the evening.”

Stunned, I hand it over without comment. He smiles at me kindly. Then he steps out and opens the door for me. I’m standing in a driveway in front of a huge, grand house, at least two times the size of the Apotheosis building. High walls surround the entire complex.

“Go inside, someone will meet you,” the driver tells me with a respectful nod. I cross the driveway, stepping cautiously on the gravel, and climb the steps up to the front door, which I now see is slightly open. The door swings wide, revealing a very tall, slender girl with long, white-blond hair. She has a hard, flawless beauty with extremely pale blue eyes, immediately reminding me of glaciers and frozen lakes.

“You must be Blair,” she says in an Anglian accent, and as she smiles, the hard perfection breaks and she looks like she might be a lot of fun. “I’m Carmel. You need to go to the security room first, and then I’ll show you around.”

The security room is staffed by two women in uniform, who look like extras from a prison TV series. One of them takes my purse from me, while the other one pats me down thoroughly. Seriously, I’ve had relationships that have been less intimate. They put me through a body scanner, and I’m good to go.

Carmel is waiting for me as I emerge, and she takes my hand and drags me through the entrance hall of the building and along a corridor. The interior is similar to Apotheosis, but on an even grander scale.

“So our first job is to greet guests at the front door and show them into the party. Then we’ll be patrolling around, checking that everything’s okay,” she tells me.

“How will I know if things aren’t okay?” I ask. She stops dead and stares at me with wide eyes, as if she’s never thought about it before. “It’ll be obvious. If someone’s having a heart attack, or a woman is being bothered by a guy she’s obviously not interested in, then I think you’ll know. But that hardly ever happens.” She waves her hand dismissively and starts walking again.

We enter a high-ceilinged room about the size of a basketball court. It is very luxurious with a soft, white shag carpet, a big fireplace at one end, and a gleaming bar at the other. The lighting is very dim, mostly created by hundreds of candles set along the walls. Big cozy sofas and ottomans are scattered around, and in each corner is a huge, low bed with red sheets, the size of four king mattresses tacked together. Two of them are screened with a canopy made of purple chiffon, while the other two are open. On side tables around the room, there are bowls of condoms, lube, and small vibrators.

Carmel points out everything to me. “You’ll often see, like, twenty people at a time fucking on those beds,” she explains in a nonchalant tone, but from the excitement in her eyes, I sense that she enjoys this job a lot. She shows me six private rooms with lockable doors “where couples and small groups can go if they want a little more intimacy.” They each contain a huge bed, but they’re decorated differently. One is like a boudoir, all red velvet with a circular bed, another is all black and very functional looking. Another is like a fantasy circus with a trapeze swing, a ball pit, and a mini trampoline, and the last, which has hooks on the walls, Carmel explains is a bondage room.

Finally, she shows me two changing rooms filled with lockers that recall the ones lining my high school corridors, except these are gold-colored and very spacious. Each room contains luxurious showers, fluffy towels, and individual cubicles to change in.

“What do you think?” she says when we’re done and heading back to the entrance of the building.

“It looks—exciting,” I say, not sure what the right adjective is.

“Absolutely. I can’t wait for everyone to arrive, I can tell you!” She fans herself.

I shoot her a sideways glance, fascinated by how worked up she’s getting. “Have you ever taken part in one of these parties?”

“I wish.” She sighs dramatically. “No, never. We’re not allowed to. My boyfriend and I play at other parties in Londis, though.”

“Oh.” My mouth opens and closes. Carmel’s working here because she loves orgies, but I got selected because I look elegant? Could I feel any more clueless and out of place right now?

“Oh, my god!” Carmel’s squeal interrupts my thoughts. “They’re coming.” I follow her line of vision to where a man and three women are climbing out of a champagne-colored limousine in front of the building. They’re expensively dressed in evening wear, and each one of them is wearing a mask that covers their eyes and nose. The women’s are very intricate, encrusted with sparkles or edged in feathers, while the man’s is plain black with a long, curved beak. It’s sinister and gives me a little shiver, as I’m sure it was intended to. At Carmel’s direction, I welcome them, Sir and Madam sounding very weird on my tongue. I take their coats and ask them politely for their phones, handing each over to the security room. Then I lead them through to the main room and point out the location of the locker rooms. They stop at the bar and order drinks, chatting to each other excitably in upper-class Anglian accents.

At first the guests come in dribs and drabs, but it soon gets busy, and it’s when I’m showing the sixth set of guests through that I see my first naked couple. It’s the first guy who arrived, the one in the bird mask. He’s completely naked, his body big and powerful, and he’s standing behind one of the women who’s bent over the back of a sofa, wearing just her bra. He’s holding her hips, pushing himself into her, while her lips are parted in ecstasy. I cut my eyes away, as if it’s something I’m not supposed to see. At the same time, a heat floods my body and a sharp ache hits me right between the thighs. I keep walking back to the entranceway. When I reach the desk, I discover that I’m breathing fast. Wow. That was a hundred times more intense than looking at the photos Genevieve showed me. Carmel throws me a glance and a mischievous smirk as she walks past with two women in fur coats. She’s seen the fucking couple already. I lay my hands on the desk where the guest register sits and take a few deep breaths.

“Good evening,” says a deep, powerful voice, heavy with impatience. My head snaps up, and I find myself looking up at a tall man in a plain white mask that covers most of his face. All I can see is a broad, square jaw and a pair of well-shaped lips, which are full, but somehow set in a hard line that gives them a cruel aspect. The color of the mask contrasts sharply with his deeply tanned skin. He has thick, golden-brown hair, and he’s dressed in formal black tie, which fails to conceal a pair of very broad shoulders. A frisson runs through me. He has the body of a football player—or a rugby player, I guess. I’ve always been drawn to big, powerful guys. In my fantasies, at least.

“Is there a problem?” The patch of broad forehead above the mask furrows.

“No, of course not, sir. Good evening and welcome to The Gathering,” I reply, forcing my voice to sound bright and professional. “Can I take your name please?”

“It’s Tig.” His voice is very sexy, that posh Anglian accent, so confident and assured. I search through the list for his name, miss it the first time because I’m flustered, then tick it off. “Would you like me to show you around?”

His lips part then close again, as if he changed his mind about what he was going to say. “Yes, I would,” he says.

I show him into the corridor, but instead of walking beside me like most guests, he follows behind. I’m very aware of his presence, and my skin prickles at his proximity. As we pass the other guests, I see faces turning in his direction, jaws tilting in recognition. We enter the main room, and in my peripheral vision, there’s more bare flesh, naked coupling. My cheeks warm, and I look straight ahead. We reach the bar, and although it’s busy, people move immediately to accommodate him. Who is this guy? I sense that people regard him with awe and a deep respect.

“Shall I show you the changing room?” I ask.

“No, but please order me a drink.”

“Sure thing.” My accent slips and I glance back toward the entrance involuntarily.

“Don’t worry, they won’t mind if you spend a couple of minutes with me.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. What would you like?”

“Two glasses of Bollinger.”

I lean over the bar and order. When the tall, slender glasses of champagne arrive, he hands one to me.

“I—”

“Take it.”

His tone is very hard, commanding. And somehow it connects directly with my clit like an electrical charge. I take the glass.

“I have something to celebrate tonight.” He clinks his glass against mine with more force than necessary, as if he’s not at all happy to be celebrating.

“What’s that?” I venture.

Instead of answering, his lips quirk at one corner. I can’t see his eyes at all behind his mask, but I feel them running over me, examining me. He drains his glass in a single gulp. I sense that people are eager to speak to him, but they hold back, as if waiting for his permission. And right now his attention seems to be trained on me. “What’s your name?” he demands.

“Blair.”

“A nice American name,” he comments.

I swallow down a burst of embarrassment. So this accent of mine is fooling exactly no one.

“And what brings you to Londis?”

“I’m studying abroad for a year. At LSE.”

“Have you been working here long?”

I hesitate, not sure of the right answer. “It’s my first night,” I admit at last.

He nods, the edge of his lips curling, not quite into a smile. “What do you think of all this?” He gestures at the room. Reluctantly, I look where he’s indicating. There are now lots of couples and groups naked and having sex on the sofas, the floor, and the low corner beds.

I gulp and say the first thing that comes to mind, “It’s hot.” I regret my words immediately, but there’s a little twitch to his lips. Instead of looking at the dark ovals where his eyes should be, I find myself watching his mouth. It’s very expressive, and the emotion I’m picking up most is amusement.

“It certainly is,” he says. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

“Not in real life.”

He nods, reflectively. “Finish your champagne and you can go.”

I raise it to my lips and swallow it all, as he did a minute earlier, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. It’s delicious, by far the best champagne I’ve ever tasted which, admittedly, isn’t much. Then I obediently turn to walk back toward the entrance. Before I get very far, a grip of iron encircles my wrist, and I jolt in surprise. “I’ll see you later, Blair,” he says.

I’m too surprised to say anything more than “okay.” He releases me and turns back to the crowd that has been eagerly awaiting his attentions. I stumble back to the reception, champagne bubbles and something much more raw running through my veins.

“You’re back,”Carmel says with a hint of snappiness.

“Sorry, one of the guests asked me to have a drink with him.”

“Which one?”

I described the man in the white mask. “He seems to be an important person,” I add.

There’s something new in her eyes—envy? “Okay, fine,” she says at last.

Scores of beautiful people keep arriving, but after another half hour or so, Carmel says, “Okay, we’re full.” She calls to the security staff, and they close the two big front doors and fasten them with a long metal bolt. She clasps her hands together. “Now the fun really starts!” She takes my hand again and pulls me along the corridor. “Our job is to stay unobtrusive, but watch everything that’s happening,” she explains. “You can wander around the main room and go into any of the private rooms that aren’t locked. Don’t worry about intruding on anyone’s privacy—lots of guests enjoy being watched.”

It’s weird watching people having sex. Beautiful bodies fucking in every possible position, in every possible combination. But the more I see of it, the less weird it gets, and I realize that I’m enjoying it. This night is going to stay with me for a long time.

There are no big issues. I clear up a bunch of champagne glasses before they get broken. I help a very dazed, naked woman find her way back to the changing room. But apart from that, I watch people do things I’ve never done before. From time to time, I catch a glimpse of the man in the white mask. He’s always fully-dressed, either standing at the bar, chatting, or gazing around the room. Part of me is dying to see what he looks like naked, if his body is as musclebound as I imagine. But another part of me hates the thought of seeing him having sex, possessing another woman. Because I want him. I don’t know if it’s because I’m already turned on by everything I’m seeing, but every time I look at him, I get an ache between my thighs.

I feltlike he wanted me, too. I stifle a laugh at my own ridiculousness. He was obviously just teasing me. I’m sure he dates women who look like models and movie stars.

At one point, I spot him standing on the balcony that leads off the main room, smoking a cigar. He’s removed his jacket and bow tie, and his white shirt is open to the waist. And, oh god, his torso is incredible. It’s deeply tanned and rippling with big, hard muscles. The kind of muscles the farmers in my hometown get from hard labor. I’m confused. Why would this incredibly rich, probably famous guy, be working outdoors?

He sees me too, and waves me over. There’s a little flutter in my stomach as I walk over to him.

“Enjoying the night?” he asks.

I shrug, smile. “Yes. Are you?”

He draws deep on his cigar. “I guess so.”

“You’re not getting involved in the festivities?” I ask, cursing myself the instant the words are out of my mouth. “Sorry. None of my business,” I mutter.

He laughs carelessly. “It’s a reasonable question. There’s no other reason to come to a party like this, I suppose. Let’s just say that no one’s captured my interest tonight. Until—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but those dark ovals in his mask bore into me.

Time seems to hang in the air. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to waylay you,” he says abruptly.

“No problem.” I take the cue and walk away, wishing I didn’t have to work.

Back in the main room,Carmel catches sight of me and asks me to go check on the fresh towels in the changing room.

They’re all good. The maid service is doing an amazing job of keeping everything stocked and clean. On my way back, a woman wrapped in a bed sheet bursts out of one of the private rooms and looks around wildly before she catches sight of me.

“We need some help in here!” She rushes up to me and grabs my arm.

“Okay.” I run after her into the room. There’s a naked man lying on the circular bed. His eyes are closed and there’s a bunch of blood and white stuff crusted around his nose. “Shit! What happened?”

“Do you know CPR?” Her face is very pale, pupils dilated.

“No. I—I’ll get somebody.” I turn and sprint out of the room. I run down the hallway and hurtle right into Tig.

He catches me by the shoulders with big, strong hands. “Blair? What’s wrong?”

“In there. A man—” I point to the door. He doesn’t ask anything else. He turns and runs toward it. I keep going, sprinting to the security room as fast as I can. Breathlessly, I explain what’s happened. The security guards nod calmly, and one of them picks up her phone. I’m about to run back to the private room when the other guard grabs me by the arm.

“Calm down,” she says in a hard voice. “An emergency team is on its way. We don’t want the other guests upset, and you need to manage this. Walk back slowly, go into the room, and lock the door. Don’t answer it until you hear six knocks. Okay?” Her grip is getting tighter.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Take a deep breath. And another one.” Finally, she releases me, and I walk back to the room, forcing myself to go slow, even though every nerve in my body wants to run.

I open the door, slip through, and lock it behind me. The man is still on the bed, but he’s now lying on his side, his jaw tilted up and a sheet thrown over him. Tig is standing beside him, his hand resting on his shoulder, muttering something to him. He’s alive. Thank god.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“He is now. I had to revive him, but he’ll be fine.”

I jump at the sound of several knocks on the door. I think there were six, but I’m so stressed that it’s hard to tell. I glance at Tig. When he nods, I go to the door. Three men in plain black pants and shirts enter quickly. Two of them lay out briefcases on the bed and open them, revealing a bunch of medical equipment, while the third goes to the window and unfastens the locks.

“Let’s go,” Tig says to me quietly. “We’ve done our bit.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the room.

We’re in the hallway before I discover that he’s still holding it. He has the hand of a laborer, too, hard, callused, and very large, but his touch is strangely calming. He squeezes my fingers before letting go.

“Who are those men?” I ask. The mask turns in my direction, then makes a little sideways jerk.

“Come here,” he says. He tries the door on the next private room, but it’s locked. The same with the next two. He sighs. Then he leads me in a different direction, around a corner I hadn’t seen before, and into another room. It’s like a regular bedroom. He eases me onto the edge of the bed and sits down beside me. Even seated, he towers over me. His jaw is set, as if he’s clenching his teeth, but his tone is kind.

“Everything is okay, I promise. The guy you saw is a friend of mine. He overdoes it sometimes, and it’s not the first time I’ve had to come to his aid. Those men are doctors, and they’re taking him to the hospital. It’s important to be discreet here, as I’m sure you know already, which is why you don’t hear sirens wailing. But rest assured, he’s getting the best care possible.”

I nod numbly. “How did you revive him?”

“I’m a qualified first aider. I used the standard techniques to restart his heart.”

I swallow hard. “You did CPR and saved his life?”

He gives a single nod, as if it’s no big deal. “As I’ve been trained to.”

I clamp my hand over my mouth. It’s all too much. This crazy, lavish party. A guy almost dying, then being hauled off in secret. I’m scared and aware that I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into. I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from bursting into tears.

“Hey.” Suddenly, two big, powerful arms wrap around me, and Tig pulls me against his body. My face is pressed against his bare chest and he strokes the back of my head. At first I tense up. I can’t remember the last time I was held like this. But then I relax. His skin is soft against my cheek, and I can hear the slow, steady beat of his heart.

“Everything’s okay. I know it’s all new to you, but you’ll get used to it,” he murmurs.

I pull away, thinking this isn’t something I want to get used to, and lift my head to say something to that effect. But the moment I open my mouth, he dips his head and his lips meet mine. Wow. They’re soft, lusher than I would have imagined, and I return his kiss, meeting the tip of his tongue with my own.

He draws back and looks into my eyes. Now that he’s close I can see a flicker of dark irises, thick lashes. And then he’s kissing me again, harder, more urgently, his teeth grazing my lip and his hands wrapping around my body, pulling me into his embrace, until my ass is barely on the bed. He seems so hungry, so desperate, as if he wants to eat me alive. When his tongue flickers, probes into my mouth, velvety yet insistent, a bolt of desire shoots to my core. I want him. I want him to take me, to possess me. I’m dimly aware that I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t fraternize with the clients if I want to keep my job. But I can’t stop. I snatch at his biceps, feeling the bulky muscles beneath his shirt, before running my hands up to his broad shoulders.

In a fast movement, he lifts me and flips me right onto the bed so I’m lying on my back, looking up at him. He arches over me, eyes glittering darkly. I want him closer, want to feel his weight on top of me, crushing me. Impatiently, I reach for him, grasping the back of his neck, entwining my fingers in his thick hair. I forget about the elastic band holding the mask in place until my hand catches in it and it twangs. Suddenly, the mask slips, right up onto his forehead.

For a long time, neither of us moves. His face is a picture of horror, while I stare at his features, my brain trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s a face I know very well—from magazines and gossip columns. I spent my teens gazing at it longingly, but in the flesh, it’s even more handsome, the green eyes even more piercing.

“Prince Maximillion,” I say, stupidly.

In the space of seconds, his expression shifts from shock, to anger, to something like pity. I’ve just been kissed by one of the princes of Anglia! my brain screams.

At last, he comes alive, tearing the mask off and hurling it on the bed. “Goddamnit,” he mutters. His shoulders are rigid. He’s so big and powerful that his anger is kind of terrifying. But I’m too paralyzed by shock to move away.

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone about you,” I mumble. “I’ve signed plenty of forms…”

His eyes narrow. They’re much greener than in the photos, and my heart clutches. “The damage has been done.” His frigid tone sends chills through me. “It hasn’t. I’ll never mention this to anyone, I promise.”

“No one can know,” he says. “If you ever expose me, at any point in the future, I won’t be able to protect you.”

My head spins. There’s a clear threat in his words, and yet…what does he mean he’d like to protect me?

My chest heaves as I gasp,“I promise you, on my nephew’s life—and if you knew my nephew, you’d know that I’d never say this without meaning it—that I’ll never breathe a word about you to another living person.”

He regards me for a long time, then gives a slow nod. “You’d better go.” He moves aside to let me stand, but before I can get to my feet, he takes hold of me again and crushes his mouth on mine, so hard that it makes me dizzy.

“Goodbye, Blair.” He releases me at last, and I go, stumbling, hardly able to tear my eyes away from him.