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As I think that, I turn to look at him and freeze. He’s observing me again, acutely and severely, and making no attempt at hiding every emotion. Hate. Lust. Desire. Disgust.
But it’s what he asks me next that answers at least one of my questions. It tells me exactly what’s on his mind right now.
“Are you a virgin, Skye?
5
ARRAN
Imogen Skye Cameron. Skye.
I’ve never seen anything like her. I use the wordthingbecause she cannot be a person to me. Not when the blood of Thomas Cameron flows through her veins.
Monstrous as she might be, I cannot deny she is utterly perfect and utterly beautiful. Utterly surreal with large gray doe eyes and a pouty mouth that instantly brings sex to mind. The exact blend that makes me hard and desperate to have her. And it makes me hate her all the more for it.
She’s been sitting on the silk Persian rug I acquired two years ago at Maxton House. The stolen piece that was once kept in a museum in England came in, and I knew it had to be mine, no matter the cost.
Just like her.
I set Skye on it because in the same way I shouldn’t touch her, I shouldn’t touch the rug. Shouldn’t even have it on display. But I have it laid out it in my most used room because I want to see it always, want to enjoy its beauty. I love knowing that something so priceless is at my feet.
And fuck me, butshe’sso much more enticing to look at than an old rug. As much as I’ve attempted to concentrate on emails and approvals, my gaze inevitably goes back to her, and it lingers.
Everything about Skye screams for me to touch. To enjoy and feel her writhe beneath me. Her mouth, plump and pink, and that body the silver dress clings to, displaying lush breasts, a tiny waist, and legs for days.
She’s staring hard at something on the shelves, fully displaying the length and grace of her ivory neck adorned with the diamond collar. I imagine what it would feel like between my hands as I squeezed with determination. Would she plead for her life with every last breath? Would her heartbeat increase as she fought, or would she go down easy, like a lamb?
Then my mind wanders again, and I imagine what her skin feels like there. What it would taste like. What she’d do if I squeezed only a little as I fucked her. Would that turn her on? Would it make her wet to know that her life is in my hands like that?
My dick twitches as blood rushes to it, and I damn myself for wanting to fuck her more than I want to kill her. It makes me question my reasons for buying her ludicrous contract in the first place, not that I have a solid answer for that.
After Wes left my office, I thought about what he’d said. The daughter of Thomas Cameron would be at Asta.
He’d believed I’d be interested. He’d been right.
Most of the underworld in Philadelphia has heard of the tension between the judge and the Maxtons. That he was vying for our support in his bid for Senator. But Wes knew more than that. He knew I suspected Thomas’s involvement in Kate’s death, and he dangled the carrot in front of my face.
After leaving the Maxton corporate office, I went to see my father. For hours, I sat by his side as he went about his daily routine—sleeping, eating, watching television. Although he’s no longer abusing drugs—because he’s not allowed to—he’s still not all there. Because it wasn’t the drugs that took him away. It was Kate’s death.
Which means Thomas didn’t only kill my sister. In a way, he also killed my father.
By the time I left him, I was consumed with thoughts of the past. Kate, Thomas.
Skye.
Though I was intrigued by the idea of her being sold, of Thomas’s sins being so great that his daughter inherited the debt after his death, in the end I determined I’d do nothing about it. Leave her to her fate. However, I still found myself driving not home, but to Asta. I had to see for myself that it was true. Ineededto see.
I paced the empty corridors of what I call the “meat market” until night came and brought people with it. I crept to the shadowed doorway between the reception and auction halls, watching with a sort of curiosity more than anything, wondering who would take her home.
Then she was brought on stage and her huge gray eyes lifted, and though she couldn’t see me, I could see her, and the world came to a complete stop.
I’d glimpsed Skye on a few occasions. Events where she paraded next to her father, dressed in expensive designer clothes and appearing conceited like all the other rich brats. I noticed her beauty in a dispassionate sort of way. Registering her presence, but not focusing on it.
But now…
Now I realize it’s not that I hadn’t focused on her, but that she hadn’t turned those eyes on me. Hadn’t captivated me. Assaulted me. Because that’s what it felt like when she looked my way, like a fucking assault on my senses. A wrench thrown into a powerful well-oiled machine, now rendered useless.
I was mind-fucked and gut-punched, and for several long moments, I was left with nothing but the ability to stare at her. To take in her messy dark waves with her disheveled bangs that let me know she’d been tugging on her hair, running her fingers through it, and I wanted to dig my fingers through it too. I watched as her pink tongue flicked over her plump lower lip, then she nervously bit it, and I wanted it to be my teeth that sunk into that flesh.
