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PROLOGUE
LUXURY WHITSON
Twenty-eight days ago, hiseyescaptivated me. Tranquil blue pools transformed autumn in Manhattan into a warm, sunlit day.
I saw light in them.
Inhim.
Turns out, Dr. Victor Finch was nothing but a beguiling devil.
Now, steam emerges from my brick-and-chrome bathroom as I open the door, creeping across the darkened bedroom. My heart pitches into the pit of my stomach. I’d turned on every light after coming home from our disturbing date and scrubbed the blood off my skin.
Throat contracting, I stare at the monster Iranfrom. A dim glow from the dresser lamp spills over my beautiful nightmare’s marbled features while he dominates the reading chair by my bed.
Acrimony pours over my clammy, freckled skin. Mouth stiff, I enunciate, “Get out ofmyhome.”
An alpha on his throne, Victor scrutinizes me like a fat gazelle ambling through the Sahara. His intense stare sends an irrational drum to the pulse between my thighs.
“Bollocks, Luxury.” A tantalizing British accent holds a consolatory note while fingers fork through dark hair, creating the only disarray in the otherwise immaculate beast. “Everything wentballs up.It’s not what it seems.”
“What part of us screwing in Central Park, less than an hour ago, followed by you murdering random strangers isnot what it seems?I texted you—”
“Neverto call?” Reigning in his demons, Victor smooths the lapel of his suit, tailored over raw muscle. Oh, God. I’d thought his all-black attire was alluring, but realization hits. It hides the blood.
With aching tenderness, his eyes follow my curves. “You’re in shock. That’s to be expected—”
I widen my stance, gritting out, “Youknow my past.Youfriggen retraumatized me.The secondyousnapped; our relationship ended!”
Tone ignited in fury, Victor warns, “Allow me to remind you, Luxury, you and I are under a binding agreement—I own you.”
The claim plows into me. He didownme.
While flipping me
Left to right.
Up and down.
But he doesn’townme. “Dick was involved,” I gasp.
“Wrong answer. You gave your word. The rights to that luscious cunt aremine.”
In the company of a madman, I take a tentative step toward the door. A split second later, I’ve opened it and dashed down the stairs.
“Dad—Daddd!”
“Lux!” My father, who spends his downtime watching old sitcoms, pops up from his seat. One might think living at home with their father at age twenty-three is pathetic, but I also own a failing floral shop, so there’s that.
Standing before me, my father is a solid five-foot-five, and I’m an inch shy of five feet.What am I doing?Neither of us are a match for the madman in my room.
Descending the steps, Victor grits out, “Luxury, listen to every word I tell you.”
Disappointed, Dad removes his prescription glasses. “Luxury, we have an agreement. If you’re inviting company—”
Curly hair dashes in my face in a quick decline.
Victor gives a nonchalant chin jut. “I came through the front door. You were amused by the telly.”
