Page 181 of The Stranger

Yet Primrose is different. She no longer looks like Little Red Riding Hood. Her eyes are bright, and her head is held high. She doesn’t shrink into herself, no longer the girl who wandered into the woods, afraid of wolves.

Maybe because she trusts me.

She shouldn’t, not as I lead her deeper inside.

Eyes follow her immediately. Eyes with the exact degree of interest I’d anticipated.

Immediately, I hate them. Almost as much as I hate myself as I tell her the reason she’s here. The lie I’ve concocted, knowing she’ll recoil.

I expect anger. A slap. Her voice raised high enough to turn heads. My worst fear is that she’ll fall quiet. Become tearful. That she’ll gather the remains of her pride before walking away without looking back.

Though I have a preference, I’m prepared for either reaction. I’ve hardened myself—repeated again and again in my head that I do this for her own good. That she’ll survive. That she will, ultimately, thrive.

“Fine.” The soft fricative comes with a carelessness that ripples across her expression. The word is spoken so calmly that I initially take it for the second reaction. Until she gives a haughty lift of her chin. “Who?”

What the fuck?

She turns her gaze to the room behind her and, if I’m not mistaken, slides a coquettish look at the fucker who’s been staring at her ass the whole time we’ve talked. Her attention returns. Eyes a little bright, a flush on her cheeks. “Him.”

Something inside me stops.

“Him?”

She glances back before adding, “He looks fit. He’ll do.”

She was supposed to run. She was supposed to hate me for bringing her here. She was not supposed to call my fucking bluff.

The man—around my height and conventionally good looking—gives a quirk of a brow: a silent communication that seeks permission.

An instinct so violent surges through me that I’m surprised my champagne flute doesn’t shatter. I reach out and touch her arm, moving her attention back. Hey, remember me? I want to put myself between the pair. Shout across the space that he needs to fuck off. I suddenly long to bring him to the understanding that should he even breathe in her direction, I will beat his bones to paste with his own fibula.

And… it would seem that Primrose is reading exactly that in my expression. Like she knows what this is costing me. Merde. I force my face into indifference and give the smallest inclination of my head. I want to poke out his eyes for daring to even look at her. Instead, I invite him to join us.

“D’accord.” I angle my attention back her way. Her smile doesn’t falter, but something in her eyes seems to dim.

“So. How do we do this?” She takes a mouthful of her champagne. “Last time there were ribbons,” she adds absently. And this time when she turns her head, I see the ghost of a flirty smile.

The man begins to move in our direction. And my stomach turns to stone.

PRIMROSE

I think I must be stunned as the man joins us a moment later because I don’t bounce. Haul ass. Yeet myself out of here.

They shake hands and even exchange first names. Politeness is apparently a reflex, despite your intent to dismantle someone’s heart. The man says something pleasant about the villa, the evening, the view—I don’t fucking know. I hear the words, but I don’t understand them. I might as well be listening to Charlie Brown’s mum.

Luc answers when he must, each response pared down to its most basic components. Yes. No. Perhaps. And his expression grows darker with every look the man—Tyson? Tristan?—slides my way.

“And you, Rose?”

Shit. What was the question?

What the hell is happening?

How the hell is it happening?

And obviously, I’m not talking mechanics.

“Have you travelled far?”