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He shifts in his seat. “Yes, Lucinda?”
“Lucy.”
He glances over at me.
“Or…” I bite back another ‘sorry’, swallowing past my nerves. “I-I’ve always gone by Lucy. Just Lucy.”
That curl comes back to his mouth, but he turns his face away. “Alright,” he says. “Yes, just Lucy?”
It occurs to me I’m still clutching this tiny fortune in my hands like a security blanket. Dammit, I crumpled the crisp bills in my panic. I straighten them over my leg, working out the wrinkles, before folding them neatly and…and…what do I do with this? I can’t keep this.
He’s watching me again, out of the corner of his eye. Probably thinks I’ve lost it. He’s most likely right. I swallow and tuck the cash in the cupholder, watching him for approval.
He opens his mouth and closes it again, refocusing on the road. His brow is all tight in confusion, and it’s…dare I say, kinda cute.
I hug my waist and pull my knees up, ducking my head to hide the grin that comes over my face. Even as fresh tears spill over my eyelashes, I can’t help but smile.
This is insane. I’m insane. But he feels so…safe.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Again.”
He doesn’t respond, but that’s okay.
I catch the smile this time.
2
GHOST
There couldn’t be a worse idea than bringing such a pure, glowing light—an angel—into the pitch black sinner’s paradise that is my life. It’s a complete tragedy, like cleaning grease off of a bumper with cashmere.
I will never hear the end of this from Murder. It’s exactly what he said I should do.
Where will she even sleep? I have a loft apartment, one bed, perfectly set up for the eternal bachelor that I am. Fuck my life, I’ll have to sleep under the basement, because the thought of her on my bed, in my space, skitters shock through my system, chased by disgust. Eighteen. She’s a child. I’m bringing a child into Vie De Mort, New York’s secret playground for the filthy and base of operations for The Saint Family. What the absolute fuck am I thinking?
I nearly slam on the brakes and shove her out with a blank check. That would be safer than what waits behind the code-secured vault door. But someone might hurt her, and that’s the only reason I don’t.
She screams innocence. The only thing worse than being with me is being on these streets.
A hug. Who hugs a man who just murdered someone? Who hugs me?No oneis the answer to that. Not since I was a child myself, many…many years ago. Not even my past subs have had that much contact with me.
Lucy is curled in on herself, far too much skin showing, blonde hair splayed around her shoulders like a river of gold. I rest my elbow on the door, holding my chin to keep from glancing at her again.
“Who dressed you?”
“Wh-what?”
I refuse. I refuse to look, to see that sparkle in her deep eyes, the glow around her. She can’t matter to me. I’m a death sentence, through and through.
“Your clothes, Lucy.”
There’s rustling, a creak of the passenger seat’s leather, and I dig my fingers into my skin.
“Oh. He did. I’m sor—uh. It was his thing. For pictures, mostly.”
She fades out, and I snap my attention to her, because if she’s crying again I may die.
But no. She’s tugging at the skirt, trying to make it grow, chewing that lip. Her poor wrists are raw from the tape, her thigh marred by the edge of a hand shaped bruise peeking out.
