Page 115

It’s in French. I can’t read French, but I stare at the pages anyway, turning them at regular intervals like a lunatic while my mind wanders.

I’d fuck your throat until black tears ran down your cheeks.

Turn page.

I’d make you tell Mr. Fucking Lazarev exactly who this pussy belongs to.

Turn page.

But you deserve better than a monster’s hands on you.

I slam the book shut.

This is ridiculous. Why am I doing this? He’s made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with me—at least, not in any way that matters.

Except that’s not true, is it?

Hewantsme. That much was obvious from the way he kissed me. From the way his body pressed against mine, hot and hard and hungry. What was that filthy, devastating monologue he delivered with his lips against my ear, if not proof that he’s feeling as crazed and horny as I am?

He wants me.

He’s just convinced himself he can’t have me.

For all I know, he’s right. Maybe he truly is a monster, like he says. If he’s even halfway correct, I should be running screaming in the opposite direction, booking the first flight back to New York, and going straight to a police station to file a restraining order. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

But I don’t want to run, and the only “restraining” I want is for him to restrain me to the nearest headboard and have his way with me.

So I hatch a plan.

Is it unwise? Almost certainly.

Will it get me any closer to Lukas making good on his threats-slash-promises? Hell if I know.

But is it better than pacing around the halls of this lifeless chateau like a Victorian ghost, going more insane with every passing minute?

I mean, I hope so.

Guess we’ll find out.

The dress I find is an absolute weapon.

It’s buried in the back of the closet in my bedroom, shoved behind sensible linen shifts and tasteful cotton sundresses. The moment I pull it out, I know it’s the one.

For starters, it’sred.Not the subtle wine-colored red of the gala dress Lukas chose for me, but a brazen, saucy,arrest-me-officer-for-I-have-sinnedred.

And for secondsies, it’s not what anyone in their right mind would callmodest.The gala dress had some elegance to it, but this one is basically begging for sex. The neckline swoops down to somewhere around my navel, held together by nothing more than hope and what appears to be a single decorative clasp. The hem stops mid-thigh—generouslymid-thigh, if I’m being honest. Even on a shrimp like me, coverage is lacking, to say the least.

It’s perfect for what I have in mind.

I shower, shave everything that can be shaved, and spend a lengthy amount of time on my hair and makeup, using products I find stocked around the bathroom.

The result is not bad, actually. My dirty blonde hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders. My eyes look bigger, darker, sultrier. My lips are painted the same shade of red as the dress.

The illusion that I know what I’m doing holds—right up until I have to walk down the stairs, at which point my knees start shaking so badly I have to grip the banister for support.

Oh, be so for real, Everett. It’s just dinner. With your terrifying silver-fox boss who threatened to fuck you into oblivion last night, yes—but still, just dinner. A meal you’ve had many times before. No big deal.

I find Lukas on the veranda.