Текст книги "Even Better"

Автор книги: Skye Warren

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Chapter Fourteen

I pull up at the Grand in late afternoon, cobblestone basking in deep yellow light.

Sometimes I miss working here. Is that crazy?

It had seemed crazy at the time. Or maybe I’d only hoped it was.

After last night, I’m not so sure.

Maybe one day you’ll come back. That’s what Candy told me.

Even that doesn’t seem so crazy anymore. I feel more solid than ever about my relationship—and more uncertain about my future. I didn’t want to rely on Blue forever, even though he’d let me. And anyway, it’s too quiet in our gorgeous, expensive condo, especially after the overflowing foster homes and then working at the Grand. I’d grown accustomed to people. Having West around reminded me of that.

Hell, I even liked people. Liked dancing with them, liked flirting with them. Except for the worst of the clients, the kind Blue and his security team would throw out of the club, I had liked stripping.

I don’t really want to start stripping again. It will only stress Blue out, and God, it would stress me out too. It was a desperate job, a desperate club. It seems even more desperate now, everything out of place, doors spread wide.

Something is wrong.

Those front doors open, a gaping hole into the club. I can see dust motes glittering in the air. And nothing else. No bouncers, no deliverymen carrying things in.

No reason the doors would be open that way.

My heart pounds.

Blue rounds the corner. His face is set in hard, stern lines, but he stops short when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”

I wave to my car uselessly. “I came to visit Candy.”

Something flickers in his eyes—worry? “Go home.”

Panic filters through my chest. Candy always liked playing with danger, drinking and shooting up. And most of all, toying with the club’s dangerous owner, Ivan. He has way too many ties to the criminal undercurrent in Tanglewood, and for all Candy’s polished perversity, I worry that he’d end up hurting her.

“What happened?”

Blue’s lips press together, and I think he might not tell me. Whatever’s happened at the club, I’ll find out eventually. I’m too deep in it, too invested not to know. I can’t wait to find out from someone else, and I sure as hell can’t go home now. “Tell me, please.”

“Someone got into the dressing room,” he says, finally.

Oh shit. The dressing room? The back room where the girls changed is the inner sanctum. No customers are allowed back there. Hell, even most of the bouncers aren’t allowed.

I swallow around a knot in my throat. “And did what?”

It’s the question I ask instead of the real one. Did he hurt anyone?

Blue understands, shaking his head. No. “He left a message. The cleaning staff almost wiped it away, but West—he was letting them in when he did his morning rounds. He noticed it and thought to send me a picture, just to check.”

A message for who? What did it say?

But I can no longer stand here and wait, tossing out questions. I need answers. And most of all, I need to be sure that Candy is okay. There was that flicker in Blue’s eyes…

Tears already stinging my eyes, I push past him. He lets me.

It seems like every one of Blue’s guys is in the club, studying schematics or pointing up at the ceiling. Oscar is there, and West. Some kind of security upgrade is happening, but I can’t think about that.

Candy is sitting at her padded bench in the dressing room. Her face is white as a sheet, and completely clear of makeup. She stares straight ahead at her mirror—which is scrawled across with a powder pink lipstick I recognize as hers.

John 10:16

Ivan stands behind her, looming, a dark thundercloud over a mysterious, smooth-surfaced sea. His eyes are bloodshot, his suit rumpled. I’ve only ever seen him crisp and in control. He seems wilder now, almost feral.

“Who the fuck is John?” he asks, and I know this isn’t the first time he’s said it.

He isn’t even asking anyone in particular. He’s asking Candy, or me, or Blue who’s followed me inside. He’s asking the very walls, as if pissed that the Grand itself didn’t defend us.

He turns on Blue. “This is your fucking fault.”

Blue’s eyes narrow. “Maybe if you would have taken my advice and installed cameras in the back rooms, like I told you to.”

Ivan glares but doesn’t reply. He’d been too worried about what they might catch on tape, I suppose. And now we won’t know who broke in. The Grand is heavily guarded while it’s open, when it’s dark outside. There are only a few hours, just after dawn, when no one is here.

“Install them,” Ivan says, voice low and growling. “And I want this place guarded around the clock.”

I’m shaking, shivering. Afraid because Candy hasn’t said a word, hasn’t even blinked.

“Candy?” I ask softly.

No answer. She’s like a statue. A doll.

“Who the fuck is John?” Ivan says again, snarling.

Blue studies the pink scrawl. “Maybe the numbers are a time of day. We can check the tapes from the floor, find out who came in. Especially anyone who interacted with…”

He trails off, and all of our attention goes to Candy.

Maybe the numbers are a time of day. Or hell, maybe they’re the ramblings of a crazy person, meaningless to anyone outside its vortex. The bouncers have always been strict here, but assholes still get in.

After all, they have to get caught to get thrown out.

I’m thinking the note means something else, though. Mrs. Owens would read every evening, silently, before bed. There was only one book in her house. And when she couldn’t see anymore, I read to her aloud. “The bible,” I murmur.

“What?” Ivan snaps.

“Oh fuck,” Blue breathes, staring at the note with new eyes. “It could be a passage from the bible. John 10:16. We can look it up.”

Candy jolts, as if someone slapped her. She scrambles back, off the stool, away from the offending mirror. It’s littered with her makeup, her glitter. Her space, violated. Defiled.

“Don’t bother,” she whispers.

My heart is breaking to see her this way, my strong, irreverent friend turned into a trembling little girl. That’s how she looks right now. Little. The lace and glitter that had made her look pretend-innocent now just look real.

“Never mind,” Ivan says, so low and tender I don’t even recognize him. He takes her into his arms, almost cradling her. There are two strangers in front of me—one giving comfort, one receiving it. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see this again. We’ll burn it. And whoever left this, he’ll never touch you.”

Candy’s wide eyes flash to mine, and I know the truth she cannot say. Whoever left this, she knows him. Whoever left this, he’s already touched her.

“And I have other sheep that are not of this fold,” she says, reciting. “I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.”

One shepherd. I shiver.

Ivan lets out a low curse. He’s determined to wipe this away, and any other time, I’d believe he could. He’s the puppet master around here. All the girls dance while he pulls the strings.

Except for Candy.

There are other strings holding her. And other masters.

Thank you for reading the Stripped series. I’m pleased to present an extended, exclusive excerpt from Pretty When You Cry, the next novel in the series—the story of Ivan and Candy…

I feel every crack in the pavement, every jagged rock. Every rounded hump as the sidewalk turns to cobblestone and then back again. My shoes are made of white canvas and a thin bamboo sole, already fraying and black from the grime of the city.

This morning I woke up on my floor mat in Harmony Hills. Everything was white and clean and pure. A long hike and bus ride later, I made it to the outside. To Tanglewood, a random stop in a long line of them. So far it’s exactly how Leader Allen said it would be. Gutted buildings. Dark alleys. A nest of sin.

That’s not the worst part.

There’s someone following me. Maybe more than one person. I try to listen for the footsteps, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding in my ears, the thud of my heart against my chest. Panic is a tangible force in my head, a vortex that threatens to bring me down. I could end up on my knees before this night is over. But I don’t think I’ll be doing my evening prayers.

Men are standing outside a gate that hangs open on its hinges. They fall silent as I walk close. I tighten my arms where they are folded over my chest and look down. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. It wasn’t true when I was little, and it’s not true now.

One of them steps in front of me.

My breath catches, and I stop walking. My whole body is trembling by the time I meet his eyes, bloodshot white in a shadowed face. “What’s your name?” he asks in a gravelly voice.

I jerk my head. No.

“Now that’s not very polite, is it?” Another one steps closer, and then I smell him. They couldn’t have showered in the past day or even week. Cleanliness is a virtue.

Being quiet and obedient and small is a virtue. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just want to—”

I don’t know what comes next. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to pretend the past seventeen years as a disciple of Harmony Hills never happened. None of that is possible when I’m surrounded by men. I take a step back and bump into another man. Hands close around my arms.

A sound escapes me—fear and protest. It’s more than I would have done this morning, that sound.

I’m turned to face the man behind me. He smiles a broken-toothed smile. “Doesn’t matter what you want, darling.”

My mouth opens, but I can’t scream. I can’t scream because I’ve been taught not to. Because I know no one will come. Because the consequences of crying are worse than what will happen next.

Then the man’s eyes widen in something like fear. It’s a foreign expression on his face. It doesn’t belong. I wouldn’t even believe it, except he takes a step back.

My chest squeezes tight. What’s behind me? Who is behind me that could have inspired that kind of fear? The men surrounding me are monsters, but they’re backing off now, stepping away—hands up in surrender. No harm done, that’s what they’re saying without words.

I whirl and almost slip on a loose cobblestone.

The man standing in front of me is completely still. That’s the first thing I notice about him—before I see the fine cut of his black suit or the glint of a silver watch under his cuff. Before I see the expression on his face, devoid of compassion or emotion. Devoid of humanity.

“We didn’t know she worked for you,” one of the men mumbles.

They’re still backing up, forming a circle around us, growing wider. I’m in the middle. I’m the drop that made this ripple. Then the men fade into the shadows and are gone.

It’s just me and the man in the suit.

He hasn’t spoken. I’m not sure he’s going to. I half expect him to pull out a gun from somewhere underneath that smooth black fabric and shoot me. That’s what happens in the city, isn’t it? That’s what everyone told me about the outside world, how dangerous it was. And even while some part of me had nodded along, had believed them, another part of me had refused.

There had to be beauty outside the white stucco walls. Beauty that wasn’t contained and controlled. Beauty with color. Only apparently I was wrong. I haven’t seen anything beautiful—except him.

He’s beautiful in a strange and sinful way, one that makes me more afraid.

He steps closer, the light from a marquee illuminating his face, making him look even more sinister. “What’s your name?”

I couldn’t answer those other men, but I find something inside for him. I find truth. “I’m not allowed to say my name to someone else.”

He studies me a long moment, taking in my tangled hair and my white dress. “Why not?”

Because God will punish me. “Because I’m running away.”

He nods like this is what he expected. “Do you have money?”

I have fifteen dollars left after bus fare. “Some.”

His lips twist, and I wonder if that’s what a smile looks like on him. It’s terrifying. “No, you don’t,” he says. “The question is, what would you do to earn some?”

Anything.

My voice is just a whisper. “I’m a good girl.”

He laughs, and I see that I was wrong before. That wasn’t a smile. It was a taunt. A tease. This is a real smile, one with teeth. The sound rolls through me like a coming storm, deep and foreboding.

“I know,” he says gently. “What’s your name?”

“Candace.”

He studies me. “Pretty name.”

His voice is deep with promise, and something else I can’t decipher. All I know is he isn’t really talking about my name. And I know it isn’t quite a compliment. “Thank you.”

“Now come inside, Candace.”

He turns and walks away before I can answer. I can feel the night closing in on me, the sharks in the water waiting to strike. It’s not really a choice. I think the man knows that. He’s counting on it. Whatever is going to happen inside will be bad, and the only thing worse will be what happens outside.

It’s the same thing that kept me in Harmony Hills for so long—fear and twisted gratitude.

I hurry to catch up with him, almost running across the crumbled driveway, under the marquee for the Grand, desperate for the dubious safety of the man who could hold the darkness at bay.

*     *     *

Harmony Hills is a place of purity, of paleness, and the city is black. Inside the building is something else entirely, an explosion of light and color. The women are beautiful, skin flushed and painted and glistening with glitter. Their bodies are strong—and almost naked.

No man is telling them to cover their bodies.

No man is making them sit down and shut up. Instead the men are looking up to them, practically panting in their eagerness, desperate for a glance or a touch, holding up money for the possibility.

I’m so enraptured by the sight of the stage that I almost lose sight of the man.

He stops in the crowd, and I see the way other men look at him—with apprehension. I see the way they move aside to let him pass. Fear shivers over my skin. The other men are panting after the girls, but not this one. He’s too cold for that, too sure he can have any one of them with a snap of his fingers.

That’s what he does—snaps his fingers, like I’m a stray puppy who’s lost her way.

Maybe that’s what I am to him.

I hurry to catch up. I get curious looks from the other patrons, but I ignore them. I’m not sexy and beautiful like the women onstage. I’m still wearing my white shift from Harmony Hills, my hair long and uneven at the bottom. We’re not allowed to cut it.

There’s a stairway to the side of the stage, and I follow him down. A guard of some kind waits at the bottom. His gaze flicks over me, dispassionate, as if evaluating me as a threat. I guess we both know I don’t pose any, because just as quick his gaze returns straight ahead.

The room below is more basement than office, the ornate wooden desk out of place on a concrete floor. He shuts the door.

His footsteps echo as he crosses and sits behind the desk.

“Sit down,” he tells me without even looking at me.

Sixteen years of training, of scripture ensure that I do what I’m told. I perch on the old wobbly chair in front of the desk. This room scares me. It’s suited to interrogation…or torture. If that door can keep the noise out, it can hold my screams inside. No one would hear me over the thud of music anyway. And that guard waiting outside… I know without asking that he wouldn’t let me leave.

I’ve traded one prison for another.

The man pulls out a cell phone and dials. Alarm spikes through me. “Who are you calling?” I demand, my heart beating fast.

“The police,” he says, his eyes meeting mine.

Panic claws at my chest. “No,” I burst out. “Don’t.”

One eyebrow rises. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll give you a lollipop before they send you home.”

“You can’t send me back there.” When I was five years old, I colored on the walls of the chapel. I had to write I am a sinner on my arm twenty times with a steel-tipped feather. You can still see the scar of the last r if I’m in the sunlight. The punishment for running away, for getting dragged back, would be severe.

That earns me a low laugh. “I can do anything I want with you. You seem like a smart girl. I know you already know that.”

“Then let me dance,” I whisper.

Pale eyes narrow. “What?”

“Like those girls out there.” My heart is beating out of my chest. I don’t even know what I’m saying, whether I really want this or not. Whether I can even do it. “Let me work here.”

Frustration flashes across his stern face, so slight I would have missed it if I wasn’t staring at him—studying him. Learning him just like I learned Leader Allen for years. “Those girls,” he says, his voice like ice, “are grown women. Adults. Every one of them is at least eighteen years old, because my club doesn’t break the rules.”

He doesn’t seem like a man who follows rules, but I know what he means. He breaks the rules he wants to and follows the ones that will keep the cops off his back. He picks which rules to follow—and he has no reason to choose me.

I swallow hard. I know what’s coming. I just don’t know how I’m going to get out of it.

He scans me from my loose hair to my ragged dress down to my fraying cloth slippers. “And you…well, you look all of twelve years old.”

Do I really look that young? Do I really seem that innocent? “I’m eighteen.”

He smiles like we share a secret. “Of course you are. And I’m only calling the cops to protect your pretty little cunt.”

I blink, the word a slap. I don’t even know what it means, but I know it’s bad. I know because of the harshness of the word, the hard c and abrupt ending. I know because of the appreciation in his eyes when he says it—a man like this wouldn’t like anything sweet.

He stands, and it seems like he’s ten feet tall. I shrink against the wooden chair, but there’s nowhere to go. “The truth is,” he says, his voice smooth as water, “I’m calling the cops to get you out of my hair. And the only reason I follow the rules? Is to keep the cops from sniffing around, disrupting business. My real business. Understand?”

“Not really,” I whisper.

The corner of his lip turns up. “You wouldn’t. All you need to understand is that you can’t stay here. This isn’t a boarding school or a sweatshop. There’s no place for you here.”

The words hit me harder than they should. I’ve only been in this building a few minutes. It should mean nothing to me. He should mean nothing to me. But it’s more than this building—more than him. It’s like he’s speaking for the whole city. Like he’s speaking for everything outside of Harmony Hills. That was the only place I’ve ever had, the only place I’ve belonged. And it was killing me.

All the air sucks out of the basement, and I can’t breathe. This is worse than torture. I’d rather he hit me than tell me I don’t belong. Tears fill my eyes, making everything seem murky, underwater.

Through the haze, I see him come to stand in front of me. If he was my mother, he would hug me. If he was Leader Allen, he’d slap me.

Instead he just watches me.

He leans back against the edge of the high desk and crosses his arms. When I was a kid, there was a boy who would drop water onto an ant and watch it drown. That’s how the man is looking at me—faintly curious, as if he wants to see what will happen next.

I clench my fists, squeezing my finger nails into my skin until the physical pain is worse than the pain inside. “What’s your name?” I demand, my voice shaky.

“Ivan,” he says softly, still watching. Still waiting.

“Let me work here, Ivan,” I say, hands clenched, body ready to fight. It’s not fighting he wants from me, though. Not exactly. I may not know the word he used, but I know how he thinks. It’s not that far off from the men outside who surrounded me.

It’s not that far off from Leader Allen either.

I stand up and meet his gaze. “I’ll do anything.”

*     *     *

I know what will happen to me if I let him touch me. I know because every sermon I ever heard, every scripture I’ve ever seen promises the same thing. Eternal damnation.

That’s what I’m offering him—my soul on a spit.

He doesn’t look impressed. Instead he leans close, close enough that I’m forced to sit. He braces his hands on both arms of my chair. It occurs to me then how he’s advanced on me since the conversation started. He was behind his desk at the beginning. He stood and circled it. Now he’s inches from my face, his breath warm and soft against my forehead when he speaks.

“What could you possibly give me that I couldn’t get from any one of those girls out on the floor tonight?”

My eyes shut tight. I can still see her clearly, the woman onstage. Her power in the form of bared breasts and a bold smile. She could pleasure Ivan so much better than me, and without even asking, I know she would do it if he wanted.

“My virginity,” I whisper.

It’s not something special, something to be proud of. It’s just another way men have controlled me. I’m supposed to guard my virtue, that’s what the sermons say. But it’s never really been up to me when I would lose my innocence. It’s never been something I could give away. Until now.

He cocks his head. “Why would you give me that?”

He doesn’t ask, Why would I want that? Because he does want it.

Lying didn’t help me before. He saw right through the lie about my age. So I fall back on the truth. “It will be taken from me if I go back. I may as well give it to you. And that way, I get what I want too.”

“A job?”

I nod. A job means freedom. Dancing and nakedness and music mean freedom too.

He crouches down in front of me, and something about our positions now makes me feel young. He’s still holding the arms of the chair, and my hands are clenched in my lap. His eyes meet mine, but he’s down low. I feel small and helpless. Trapped.

“You could ask for money,” he says, a strange note in his voice. It’s like he’s coaxing me. Like he’s testing me. “If I paid you well, you’d be able to get a nice hotel room. Maybe you could keep me coming back for more.”

There are too many shadows here, too many vines ready to grab me. “I want to work here.”

He puts his hand on my knee. Just his hand. Not very high. It’s an innocent touch. Any one of the elders might have touched me this way. Leader Allen definitely has.

It doesn’t feel innocent. It feels dangerous, a snaking vine.

His expression is severe, but his voice is soft. It’s a contradiction, just like him. “I could set you up with pretty jewelry and pretty clothes. My very own doll to dress up.”

My breathing’s coming faster. His words don’t sound like an offer. They sound like a warning. “No.”

“You’d rather fuck a hundred men than just one?”

I’d rather keep running so that nothing can ever tie me down, no one can hold me down, ever again. “If that’s what it takes to work here.”

Surprise flicks through his pale blue eyes. He draws back, considering me. He has me trapped, but he’s no longer in my face. I sit very still under his regard. I have sat for hours during prayer, unable to move, unwilling. If I even stretch or look up for a second, it would prove my unworthiness. I would have to start over and face my punishment after. I can wait forever for him to decide.

“No,” he says softly.

My hopes fall. If he doesn’t let me stay, I’ll have to go back into the streets. Fear is a cold band around my chest. You’d rather fuck a hundred men than just one? I may just live to find out.

“Wait,” I say, desperate, crying.

“No,” he says more sharply. “You won’t be fucking anyone.”

I blink fast, forcing back tears. “What?”

“Those are my conditions. You’ll practice dancing until you’re ready to go onstage, and when I decide, that’s when you’ll start—not a second earlier. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, excitement a hot current in my veins.

“And you’re not going to fuck anyone, not as long as you work for me.”

His words make me cold, and I shiver. This is just like Harmony Hills, isn’t it? I left there because I didn’t want to live like cattle anymore, because I didn’t want to be caged and bred and then shot when I was no longer useful.

Does it really matter if I’m pure?

Will I really burn in hell for my sins?

Those are the questions that churn inside me, fighting to get out, but I don’t ask them. Instead I ask, “How will I know how to please the men out there if I’ve never…done that?”

He shakes his head, dismissing my concerns. “You won’t please them by knowing, pretty girl. You’ll please them by not knowing.”

“I don’t understand.”

A flicker, almost a smile. “Men like to teach you things. That’s what gets them off.”

And I know he isn’t talking about the men out there. He’s talking about himself.

He wants to teach me things.

The knowledge sinks inside me, imprints itself on my bones where I can’t ever forget. “Okay,” I whisper.

“You’ll wait here for me,” he says. Not a question.

I take in the dimly lit basement a little more slowly this time, from the stark light bulb to the dark stains on the concrete floor. It’s like a jail cell, and without even scripture to justify it.

It’s a word I’ve said so many times it’s almost lost meaning. It’s a word of threat and survival. It’s a word of peace, however short-lived. “Yes.”

When he leaves, the door closes behind him with a clash of metal.

A beat passes, and then something scrapes quietly. I’m locked inside.

*     *     *

There is no clock inside the basement. Time passes in breaths, one after the other. A breath to sit and stare at the closed door. A breath to stand up. A breath to approach the desk. Ivan is terrifying, and I’m completely at his mercy. It seems risky to look through his stuff.

It also seems risky not to.

I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. Why does he want me? The stories Leader Allen would tell still ring in my ears. The outside world is full of heathens, of sinners. It’s full of violent men who want to drag me into an alley and rape me. Is that what Ivan wants?

Men like to teach you things. That’s what gets them off.

Most of the papers are printed from a computer. I can’t understand what it says any better than if it were written by hand. There are some words I recognize, words that are in prayer books. Thanks. And help. And girls. Buried in one paragraph I find the word hell. The words I know are sprinkled like morning dew on grass, tiny windows that don’t help me understand the whole.

In a beige folder, I find a stack of images. There are women posing, most of them without shirts or bras.

Some of them without panties.

I know it’s wrong to look at them—wrong to have them—but I linger anyway. I look at their eyes made dark with blue and purple and black glitter. I look at their lips painted every shade of red. I look at the hair between their legs, trimmed into a neat shape or missing completely. I’ve never even cut the hair on my head, much less the hair there. I didn’t know that was possible.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Would it hurt? It seems like it must hurt. Then my hand is gently pressing against myself, right there, over my shift, protective and terrified and curious.

The scrape comes from the door again, and my hand snaps to my side. My face heats with shame that he would come back and catch me this way. I slam the folder shut, but some images slide out anyway.

The door swings open.

It isn’t him. Disappointment rises in me, unwelcome and grim. Why would I look forward to seeing him? He might end up hurting me. I remember the cold glint in his eye, the promise. He’ll definitely end up hurting me.

Instead it’s the guard who had been standing outside the basement door when we came in. I’d barely gotten a glance at him, enough to know he was big and tall and strong. He’s dressed in all black, which only adds to my impression of him as some kind of warrior. The only break in the image is the steaming tray of food he’s carrying.

He sets it on the desk and eyes the photographs peeking out from the folder.

The folder that I’m holding down with my palm flat, as if I can keep the strange feelings it inspires locked up tight, far away from me.

He raises his eyebrows. “I won’t tell you were snooping.”

“If?” I may be new here, but I already know everything comes with a price. This isn’t so different from Harmony Hills, under all the lights.

He grins, looking boyish despite the fact that he’s obviously armed and dangerous. “If you eat your vegetables.”

I glance at the tray he’s holding. and see a feast. All that is meant for one person? I’ve never even seen a plate that large, and it’s piled high with food. There’s a steak with the juices still sizzling and mashed potatoes, the butter almost completely melted, and emerald-green broccoli. I haven’t eaten since dinner in the Great Hall last night, and my stomach grumbles loudly.

He sets down the tray. “Come on, eat. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

He’s right, so I round the desk and head back for the plain wooden chair. No way I’m sitting in the big leather swivel chair. I’d probably get struck by lightning or something.

Except I can’t exactly sit down yet. “Are you…going to stay and watch?”

He gets a funny look on his face, almost embarrassed. “Just until you finish. Then I’ll take the tray back upstairs.”

I cock my head. I’m still curious about him, but he sets me at ease. Completely unlike Ivan. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t question orders.”

Unease twists my empty stomach. That’s how it was in Harmony Hills, even if we called them counsels instead of orders. And he was ordered to watch me eat. To make sure I did. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Luca. And don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” His brown eyes soften. “Or touch you.”

I believe him, and that is the only reason I can sit down and take a bite. And oh, that bite. The juices are still warm on my tongue, the steak more tender and wonderful than anything I’ve ever tasted. I catch Luca looking at me—looking at my lips—and my eyes widen.

His cheeks tinge red, and he turns away. “Where did you come from anyway?” he asks quietly.

“Far away.” Maybe not that far in miles. Sixty dollars for bus tickets didn’t last long. But I might as well be on the other side of the world for how different all this looks—and how lonely I feel. “Your boss,” I say softly.

“What about him?” Reserved. Wary.

Afraid?

“He’s kind of…” I stammer, because I barely have the words for what I need to ask. “Can I trust him?”