“Say it back,” he demands.
The monster within me stills, and I sigh, for the moment tame. “Love you, too.”
?
Clara is so timid, like a little bunny, with a tiny wiggling nose. Iloveit.
Checking the price on a dress, Clara’s eyes widen, and she oh-so-carefully removes her hand from the fabric. Hesitation—and the awareness that she’s being watched—controls her every frightened motion as she peruses the next article of clothing.
While she’s all but whimpering over the cost of the dresses in here, one of my songs comes on in the store, and a tiny gasp fills her as recognition sparks in her eyes.
Interesting.
This song isn’t even one of my more popular singles, and it barely took three notes for her to clock it.
Fan of mine, are you?
I’m sure that knowledge won’t do anything good for the beast inside me.
I fricken love her. More and more with each moment. She’s a dream. A fantasy. Something small and fragile andprecious. Both wanting what’s best for her and wanting this glimmering devotion she’s capable of to bemineclash within me. The war is painful and unending.
Smirking, I wait patiently for her to meander through most of the store, checking prices as though they matter. Then I wait patiently for her to gather her nerve and turn her big blue doe eyes on me. Twisting her fingers in front of her midsection, she murmurs, “Things here are really expensive, King.”
My smile stretches as her use of my stage name strokes my already raging ego. Yeah, I know. Viktor’srightabout me. In every way.
I need therapy, meds, to stop everything and assess what in the world is wrong with me. I’m addicted to attention and adulation—probably because I spent my formative years shoved in front of it. Our parents poured that stuff like a constant IV into my bloodstream, never stopping for a moment to think what it might do to a kid. To make matters worse, when the publicdidn’tlove me enough? When Ididn’tmilk people for attention and praise?
My parents would beat me.
So. Nowadays. If I’m not being worshipped, I get physically unwell, like my body is still waiting for the torture it expects to come in the absence of standing ovations.
“I’m sorry to ask…” She drops her pretty, pretty eyes toward her toes. “…is there somewhere else we can go? Somewhere…less…name brand?”
“Amare is among the few brands in all of Sunset with an adequate plus-size selection, E-clair-a. Don’t worry about the price. We’ve got fifty grand to play with, and you told me on the drive over that the only appliance you need for baking is a dough hook for our mixer.”
A tiny excited breath fills her at the mention of her impending dough hook.
I know she loves baking. It’s precious how boldly the love saturates her. The way she was handing out pastries at the party yesterday showed she had such immaculate care for each. Her frail, shy smile while she was handling something she loved called to me, and I couldn’t help myself.
I justhadto take a bite out of her.
“Fifty grand is an awful lot of money…” she whispers.
“Not really.”
“It’s half a hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’s an hour of work.”
Her eyes find me again, wide, lips parted and gaping. “Oh.”
Heh. Cutie pie.
“So…seventy dollars for a dress isn’t really…” Her attention skates across the store, toward a sheer blue off-shoulder number that will likely be my undoing. That pretty face of hers winces slightly before her eyes chart toward the undergarment selection.
I stop monitoring her gaze.
Behave, Lukas. This is nerve-racking enough for the poor girl, and you’re trying tohelpher, remember? If we pretendto be a good person—like weshould—that’s the goal.Help.Not seduce.Notown.
