HOURS LATER, I huddle in the shower, cuddling my knees to my chest, staring blankly at the large marble tiles opposite me. The entire bathroom is royal. A gilded space for the dumb pregnant girl who willingly stepped into a household of corruption. Willing and thankful.
This is it, Benji.
Politicians don’t carry guns, don’t draw them on gardeners, don’t—I squeeze my knees, feeling wet from the perfectly warm spray of the shower faucet, and between my legs as the possessive grasp of his fingers lingers on my cheeks. I think about his searing blue eyes tunnelling deep into my cells, making my body his home.
I want desperately to ease the pressure rolling through me, but I’ve never been able to do it. Not once.
“Am I afraid?” I whisper to myself, the echo of my voice bouncing off the walls. “This is what you’re looking for.”
I’m not afraid of him. I want my dad to help me with the baby, but I also want a dangerous man and all that entails. A man who may feel he owes me something for his absence, for his part in putting me on this Earth to barely get by. Owes me a small favour.
I squeeze my eyes shut under the warm sensual spray… Mine. Many misguided feelings spar inside me, making me question my reality. “Mine.” He said that loud and clear, but for what purpose?
The word is an elixir, dousing me with a burning neediness. Dropping my legs to the tiles, the water pooling around my body, creating a rippling, fluid outline, I spread my thighs and feel a blush hit my cheek. I press my palm between my legs to ebb the ache. Rolling my hips off the floor, I grind myself against my palm, hearing that word.
Mine.
Mine.
God, it sounds so good. A moan vibrates in my throat. Rocking wantonly onto my hand, I whimper again, louder this time. It just isn’t enough pressure, not right, not deep enough. I need so much more.
With a soft growl, I crawl to my feet, angry this primitive sensation is controlling me, making the world hazy at the edges. I pull a towel from the rail, wrap the soft white material around me, and pout my way into the bedroom.
Fuck.
My eyes hit Clay.
I fist the towel at my chest, holding it high, feeling my heart a frantic tattoo vibrating on the other side. I stare wide-eyed at him sitting on the edge of the mattress, intensity consuming his gaze.
Dressed in a black suit and smooth black silk tie, he continues to stare at me as though his gaze was drilling holes through the door moments before I entered.
“You didn’t finish,” he says, his tone strained and rough.
I gasp.
He can’t mean… Did he hear me?
Blood pumps into my cheeks, the heat radiating like fire directly beneath my thin layers of skin.
He rises, and I sidestep from the blazing trail his eyes have me marked in. What is he doing in here? I will my mouth to tell him to get out. Fuck, what am I thinking? It’s his house… I can’t just tell him to leave.
Walking slowly to my backpack on the floor, I hold my breath along with any protests. My mind a siren of white noise while my sanity hides in the drone of it all. Ignoring the thick clouds of indecency closing in on me, I frantically search for clothes inside the blue canvas. Clothes. I need clothes.
I feel him come up behind me, and I immediately straighten, before the expensive material of his suit touches my shoulder, and a big warm hand feeds up through my hair.
It wasn’t in my head.
I’m not just an obligation.
Not just his responsibility.
I gasp at the sensation of his touch. Flutters rush from my toes to my scalp, as he fists the strands tightly.
God, air.
I need it.
His shoes hit my heels as he walks me to the seating area in the corner of the room.
My bare feet slide across the floor. His shoes rap menacingly. When my shins touch the cushion, he stops me from falling forward with his hold on my hair.
His breath blankets the nape of my neck. “I want to touch you, but I won’t,” he states while his grasp tightens and tugs on my hair, pulling my chin to the ceiling. A warning sting of sensation rushes along my crown. ‘You’re a very naughty girl for showing me your body by the poolside. For letting me hear your sweet moans.’
“Why can’t you touch me? Why?” I breathe the last word, a panting sound that is now my chorus.
Remember those red flags, Fawn?
He has a wife.
He’s twice your age.
He’s dangerous…
God, I could write an extensive list, and yet, I don’t give a shit. ‘Because of your wife?’
He chuckles, the rumble deep and delicious, and God, I love that sound more than any other. ‘No, Fawn. Aurora doesn’t care who I touch. We don’t have a physical relationship.’
I squeeze the towel, holding it in place, as though it is ready to drop to the floor of its own accord in response to his statement. Even inanimate objects obey him. Yep, enchanted house. I knew it. The enchanted towel believes his word to be infallible… But do I believe him? ‘Do I’ and ‘should I’ seem to be duelling concepts here.
The memory of his wife’s soft, unaffected smile as he cradled my unborn baby, flashes behind my eyes. How can that be? Is that just a line? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who endures or offers lies.
He’s making the decision for you.
For us both.
Find comfort in that.
He sees you. Knows what you desire.
Unravelling his fingers from my hair, he leaves it a mussed mess around my shoulders and back, the ends dancing below my waist. He reaches around me and grips my hands, still clutching the towel for dear life, pulling them away from the soft cotton towel. The material glides down my body and puddles at my bare feet.
He hisses, and I tremble.
I try to stifle my humming and whimpering, but my nipples harden to aching beads, forcing the insolent little sounds from me.
“I came here to gift you a dress to wear tonight. To check you were… feeling better. But now I need you to finish what you started in the shower.”
Is this really happening?
Fear and arousal compete for dominance inside me. We stand a few inches apart, and he doesn’t lay a finger on my skin, but I can feel his presence, potent and dangerous, rich in this room. “Do you want me to help you come?”
Panting fiercely, I nod my head.
“Do I accept a nod as an answer?”
“No. Sorry, Sir.”
“Kneel,” he orders, and I hear him sit down on the opposite couch, feel his eyes all over me. “Do as I tell you, or I won’t be able to control what I’ll do to you.”
I swallow hard. A sick, sadistic part of me wants to explore what ‘I won’t be able to control what I’ll do to you’ really means, but I drop to my knees for him as nerves gather inside me, preventing my defiance.
“Bend over. Press your pretty tits to the cushion.’
My stomach swarms with my friendly eagle-sized butterflies as I lean forward, bending at the hips to lay my torso on the cushion.
I fist the soft material by my head. My hair makes a blonde wing beside my face as I turn it to stare at the armrest, waiting for his voice to carry me away, to direct me.
I can’t think of anything.
Braced and hanging on for his voice.
Heat mars my body bright crimson, a physical coat of embarrassment I can feel sizzling as he stares at my exposed body bent over, his eyes on my bare arse, on the wetness sliding down my inner thighs as my pussy grasps around nothing. I’m not sure whether to fight it? To enjoy it? If it’s normal to be this wet?
I just want the swelling to stop, want the distraction that is him, the late nights, and restless sleep, to culminate in something. Anything.
“Pretty.‘ He hums his approval from behind me. ‘You’re dripping down your legs, little deer. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so desperate. Let me fix this for you,’ he says, restraint deepening his words to a near growl. “Now, be a good girl and reach between your thighs. Stroke the length of your pussy lips… slowly. I want to see your flesh quiver as you do.’
‘I’m scared,’ I find myself whispering, before squeezing my eyes shut and hoping he didn’t hear that confession.
‘Don’t be. Do as you’re told.’
His gravelly voice soars around the room, his demand an undeniable entity. I decide that I like the way he says, little deer. I found it patronising before, but now, I want him to say it again and again in that dark, husky, authoritarian voice.
As I remember the way his eyes held me as I walked through the bathroom door, like he was on the brink of detonating, I know this isn’t just about me.
He wants me too.
Like I want him.
With that realisation encouraging confidence in me, I reach between my thighs and find my soaking lips, doing as he asks. The plump skin feels soft and supple. The touch of my finger like the beginning of a tickle.
‘Tell me how that feels?’
I suck a sharp breath in. ‘Good. Strange.’
‘Back and forth, sweet girl. Don’t be embarrassed by what you’re doing. You have no idea how pretty it is to watch.’
I arch involuntarily when a buzz of sensation flares through me. I almost stop to allow my mind time to comprehend it, but don’t. Instead, I glide my fingers through the slick valley, wrestling the embarrassing hum that vibrates in my chest.
“Relax… And now that your fingers are beautifully wet, be my good girl, and slide them inside so I can see your pussy open and swallow them.”
I moan at his words, now leaping off the edge of respectable decorum without reservation, with little reprieve, not caring how wrong it is to be doing this in front of him. He makes it feel okay.
He makes it feel safe.
And I’m fuelled by the need to feel the simmer turn to a boil. Sliding a finger inside, I feel the clasping of muscles inside me. I didn’t know they did that. It’s as though I don’t have any control. As though I’m fighting with my own body.
‘Twist against your pussy, sweet girl. That is where you’ll find your pleasure.’
I turn my fingers and mewl and wriggle my backside, not caring that he’s behind me, watching. A shiver of thrill prickles up my spine, up my neck. My nipples chaff on the cushion, the friction like little electric shocks, the sensation rushing down my inner thighs to my clit.
“Swallow two fingers.’
As I slide a second finger inside, rocking back and forth, my mouth opens, expelling the strained moans I am fighting to suppress.
‘Fuck. Sit back on them. You’ll like that.’
I sit backwards on my hand, taking both digits inside, circling them as the sensation grows. Then I lift my hips, pulling them out but as soon as they are, I’m desperate for the feel of them filling me again.
I start to ride my fingers for him. It feels primal—innate—to do this. Like my body knows what I don’t. And in my mind, I imagine they are his fingers pushing into me, taking me, bringing me pleasure.
“God, oh God,” I whimper the words aloud, but inside my head I moan his name. Clay. My fingers lose precision as my body shudders, pleasure building.
‘Don’t you dare stop. You’ll feel like you want to, but don’t… That’s a good girl. You’re doing so good. Twist your fingers. Curl them. Explore. When you find a little tongue inside you, rub it until you feel it beating back. That is where you will find your release.”
I do as he tells me, seeking the place that’ll finish this extraordinary growing sensation. I find the muscle, thrusting deeper on a groan and stroking it hard.
‘Good girl. You’re such a good girl for listening. Do you enjoy fucking yourself in front of me, my pretty deer?’
“Yes,’ I whisper, wishing he would take me from behind, steal the control from me so I can relent and collapse and just feel.
‘Yes, what?’
I moan, my sex rippling. “Yes, Sir,’ I say, filling the room with my panting, my whimpering, the sound of my fingers sliding in and out.
Somewhere inside my hazy edged mind, I hear him shuffle. “Look at you. I have never seen such a pretty little thing. And here you are under my roof.’ His tone drops. ‘While you’re in my house, you are to touch no one, and you best not let anyone touch you, or you’ll be mourning them from the banks of Stormy River. Have I made myself clear?’
I cry out as wave upon wave of pleasure moves up my body in response to his possessive utterance. Pleasure blooms in my toes, my thighs. I want to stop because it’s in my ears, too, everywhere. ‘I’m so hot.’ Is this normal? ‘Is this normal?’
‘Completely natural, little deer. Don’t stop.’
“Yes, Sir.”
“Come for me. Now.”
At his command, a pulse of sensation explodes around my fingers. A torrid surge crashing together as I rub and rub and mewl and shamelessly grind.
It’s scary.
It’s incredible.
Then it dies down, and I immediately mourn it.
I still on the cushion, panting.
Fuck me.
Emotion and gratitude and affection fill me. I float through a few minutes of silence, and then feather down as slithers of embarrassment weight me, riding the tails of my returning sanity.
Bit late to be embarrassed, Fawn.
Whimpering, I pull my fingers from inside me. I sit back on my heels, listening as he stands, as he takes meaningful steps, circling the couch until he is a formidable tower hovering above me.
He stops, and I crane my flushed face to see him, but I feel so weak, so tired, so completely overwhelmed. Inundated with feelings, some forcing tears to my eyes and some provoking a smile to dance on my lips.
Utter confusion.
I struggle within the clutches of muscular fatigue. He must notice, dropping to his haunches, so I don’t need to arch so far. His piercing blue gaze drops to my wet hand before reaching for it and pulling it to his face. Sinking both my forefinger and middle finger into his mouth, he closes his eyes, sucking my wetness from my skin.
God, this man is walking sin.
His mouth is hot, his tongue aggressive against my fingers, forcing more moans to vibrate within my throat.
His eyes open. He drags my fingers slowly from his lips and smiles—a charming, dangerous curve that could cause nuns to simultaneously clutch their rosaries and drench their panties.
“I am very proud of you for listening,” he says, and his words carry warmth into my heart.
The tears lying in wait now force themselves to the surface of my eyes. I don’t know how to handle all the praise, don’t know how to react.
It. Is. Everything.
He continues, “For not being ashamed to show me how beautiful you look and sound when you come.’ He reaches up and smooths my messy blonde mane down my crown, causing me to move into his touch, to chase it. A pet eager for his tenderness. His little deer. “There is a dress on the bed for you. Put it on.’
When he stands, I shiver, mourning his closeness, needing it in this time of vulnerability. My body trembles as the comfort I felt having him attentive, disappears.
I want someone to hold me—want him to hold me—but he’s standing over me, indifference a circling phantom. Misplaced disappointment seeps through me—such a familiar feeling, I’m surprised that it still stings.
I stare blankly ahead at his pristine black pants. The outline of his erection is a thick, menacing bulge that pulses, battling for room in his pant. He’s big. He rubs his palm over the material covering his thick shaft, hissing slightly as he does. “And Fawn, remember,” he says through a deep groan, still palming his length up and down. “Stormy River.’
Then he strides from the room.
Leaving me on my knees.
Wrecked from my very first orgasm.
‘YOU LOOK SO BEAUTIFUL,’ Jasmine says longingly, gazing at the slim-line gold floor-length garment. The sleeveless bodice has an oriental inspired collar with a little satin button at the divot in my neck. The gold silk, adorned with shimmering clusters of tiny beads, clings to my every curve, shaping me down to my toes.
Turning on my side, I roll my hands from the start of the small swell at my navel to the end at my pubic line. The presence of the baby is a small lump that could be mistaken for food or beer but unlikely.
Squaring my shoulders, I stare at the pretty girl in the mirror; her body doesn’t suit her unsettled mind. She is physically perfect, with lush blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, a plait around the dome, glowing skin, and a slim but softly curved physique. She’s comfortable in her skin. Inside though, she is riddled with self-doubt.
Did he enjoy watching me?
Will we do that again?
Warmth spreads beneath my skin as the scene half an hour ago plays back in my mind. He desires me, of that I am absolutely certain. That, though, is possibly where his affections start and end.
My stomach twists.
I should have never relented to the fantasy that he may want to hold me… just for a moment.
I wish I understood him.
But I doubt a girl like me has any business understanding a man like him.
‘Mine?’
Fuck me.
I gave him something today.
Invincible. My mother was wrong. Falling for someone does not make you feel invincible; it makes you feel the opposite: fragile, transparent, cut open.
Quite frankly, the feeling sucks.
‘Why am I in this?’ I shake my head to see if the girl in the mirror can be controlled by my mind. She can.
‘They have guests over tonight. I won’t be here for it. It’s closed house, so only certain staff are invited.’ Her voice is a little tight, as though her words are being forced out when they don’t want to be uttered at all. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she chirps quickly. ‘It’ll be boring anyway. I went to a function with my dad once when he won a medal, and the President of Australia was there, so these things don’t really impress me much,’ she says, turning to grab the matching shoes from the dresser. Her high-pitched tone, tight smile, and quick evasive movements betray her entire nonchalance.
‘You mean the prime minister, right? We don’t have a president,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t because she freezes like I just pulled a loose string, and she’s about to tumble into a heap of messy yarn on the floor.
She shrugs. ‘Yeah, the prime minister. Not very impressive at all.’
I decide not to pull any more string. ‘Well, the whole thing, him, the house… everything impresses me,’ I say. ‘I’ve never even been in a store that sells clothes like this.’
Dropping to the floor to help me put the small shimmery ballet flats on, she mutters, ‘You’ll have only the most beautiful clothes, the best food, the whole royal service while you’re here. Your dad is loaded, too.’ She stands, smiling that tight, almost false smile that I dislike so very much. Now it’s all I can see. ‘You’re like Cinderella.’
She’s jealous, I think.
Great, another one.
I haven’t really had many female friends, having moved often. That, at least, is my excuse for other females not being drawn to me. Truth is, something about me evokes scowls and sneers instead of greetings. I may have had more conversations with her than any other girl… ever. And, well, she’s being paid to hang out with me, so I’m not sure this relationship can be considered a kind of friendship.
I doubt it.
Still, it’s what I’d like.
I grip her hand, and her brows draw in. ‘I’m not Cinderella. She becomes a princess. I’m the pumpkin. At the stroke of midnight’—I touch my lower stomach—’It’ll all be over.’
My own words sadden me, knowing them to be true, contradictory to the feelings I have. Hopeful. For me, not just for the kid inside me. It’s silly. The last time I thought someone cared, that someone might want me as their own.
Well, that person is dead.
I’m the pumpkin.
She squeezes my fingers, her eyes softening on mine, her smile relaxing. Honest. A little sheepish. I like that smile. I feel like it matches mine. ‘Well, you better make the most of it then, Pumpkin. I’m probably wrong. Clay Butcher is way richer than the president anyway. I bet it will be impressive.’
I don’t know why I’m invited, why I am wearing this pretty dress, or what to expect. A familiar sensation—Paranoia—creeps into my mind.
I’m on show again.
The monkey, right?
What does he get out of having me here? I want to trust his intensions—a rich man extending the hand of hospitality for a friend’s daughter… I snort inwardly, because even if it started out like that, I doubt part of that generous offer was to help her experience her first-ever orgasm.
The betrayals I’ve endured at the ignorant hands of my mother, the bitter hands of my foster mother, the police… my foster brothers, have culminated in a kind of thick fog that sits forever in my mind. So, trust from me is as rare as the loyalty I have endured from the people in my world.
‘Time to go,’ Jasmine says, cutting into my thoughts.
Nodding stiffly, I stroll slowly from the bedroom with my paranoia biting at my heels.
I immediately bump into Henchman Jeeves. He grins at me. A dapper tuxedo has replaced his usual henchman attire, transforming him into Bond Jeeves.
He holds his arm out for me to take, and I stare at it for a moment, its presence confounding. ‘Ahh?’
‘You put your hand over it,’ he states seriously.
I arch an eyebrow at him. ‘I know what to do with it. I just don’t know why it’s in front of me.’
‘It is there to hold on to.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Seriously, Henchman Jeeves? I know it’s there to hold on—’
‘Wait,’ he splutters the word out on a single short chuckle, and I blush like a drag queen with an unskilled makeup artist. ‘What did you just call me?’
My cheeks prickle. ‘Ah… I’ve been calling you Henchman Jeeves in my head.’ I cringe a little, an apology all over my face. ‘Sorry. I should sto—’
‘It’s perfect. I might make it official. Now, take my arm, Miss Harlow,’ he orders softly, straightening, a quirked grin etched on his mouth.
Ignoring the shadow of mistrust behind me, I circle his forearm with my hand, holding tightly as we stroll down the hallway, my dress confining my legs, making my steps shorter than usual.
Music sails up the grand staircase, a flute and drums, flirty and oriental. The sound matches my dress and I wonder whether tonight is themed. My heart starts to skip along with the flirty notes as waiters in all white, balancing canapés set with shiny crystal glasses filled with sparkling gold fluid, careen around below us.
We descend the staircase carefully.
Entering a ruby-hued room that overlooks the glowing pool from the east side, I slow my steps a little, not eager to join the fifty or so powerful looking strangers.
Swooping in to capture my breath, my butterflies make an appearance in my stomach where I am sure they plan on staying for the entirety of the party—event? Gathering? Whatever, they’re here to stay and make me uncomfortable.
Immediately, I understand the garment, the music, as the guests are nearly all men from Indonesia. The rest are beautiful girls filtering through the congregation.
Aurora stands out, looking tall and elegant in a silver dress similar to mine, and that makes me feel strange. Did she choose one for me? Or did he pick one for each of us? She is shaking a man’s hand, offering him a practised smile that they all seemed to have nailed. They must have gone to the same School of Sophistication and Etiquette, majoring in confusing the hell out of people. I wish I had gone to that school so I could understand him better. Wish I was skilled at shaking hands without my palms sweating, smiling politely, not having my filter-less mouth open and dropping some ridiculous comment.
That would be nice.
Clouds fill the room. Hanging above lit cigars, the sailing smoke illuminates the glow of the side table lamps. As Henchman Jeeves nudges me forward, the smoke creates ribbons of white as we part the mass. A game table is set up in the left and right corners. Men crowd around to watch the silent play while across the table, chips pile up.
What am I meant to do?
I dig my nails into Henchman Jeeves’s arm.
‘Fawn,’ he murmurs, stopping to unclamp my tight clutch. I stare ahead at the guests, my eyes wide, my muscles frozen. ‘Mr Butcher said for you to eat. And then for me to take you back to your room in an hour.’
Suddenly, I feel him; my breathing slows as sensation crawls up my spine and circles my throat. I swallow within the phantom grip.
Searching the space, I’m stilled by the sight of him in all black, standing beside a tall red-headed lady, the same lady from the day on the lawn with the news crew. Confidence and charisma exude from her as she flaunts a long red dress, the sleek material hugging her frame, the tail falling from her curvaceous thighs to the marble floor beneath. The skirting looks weighted. She exchanges words with him and another man while he displays that easy grin.
For a moment, I only watch the way others interact with him. Lowered gazes. Bowing heads. They fear him. He nods at the waiter; he is offered a drink. He glances at his watch, so another man tells him the time. He peers at the redhead, and her breasts swell as a quick breath fills her lungs.
The fact he is physically breathtaking bears no significance in this control he possesses over everyone. The power is like electricity sparking in every inch of space around him. My mum once said, ‘We are all just atoms, no more superior than the dirt.’ Well, she never met Clay Butcher. Some things can’t be explained in words. They need to be felt. And what I feel is that his atoms are far more superior than anyone else’s.
The Devil’s prototype.
His eyes shift through the air, locking on me. I part my lips beneath his gaze, and his eyes drag along my body as he bites down on a cigar, hollowing his cheeks around the column, the ember radiating as it crackles under pressure.
Fuck me.
This man is a whole world of intense.
Blunting out his cigar in an ashtray on the high table beside him, he utters something to the man next to him before leaving his companions, taking easy, unhurried strides towards me. I worry my bottom lip to stop my mouth’s predisposition to smile at him as if we are lovers.
Which we aren’t and yet… there is intimacy now.
Far more intimacy than I’ve ever felt with anyone, and it’s not just that hours ago he watched me come—made me come. It’s the small conversations while the rest of the world sleeps.
The looks.
Touches.
The butterflies go berserk. My heart feels as if it doubles in size and my petite body cannot cope with everything taking up real estate inside it.
A man steps in front of him to get his attention, and I gape as Clay swipes him out of the way; the man merely a web hanging in his path.
My line of sight leaves the now shocked face of the man, focusing on Clay as he stops an arm’s length away. His eyes dart to my hand on Henchman Jeeves’s forearm, his brows weaving in.
‘I think that is unnecessary now,’ he states smoothly. I drop my hand to my side while Henchman Jeeves nods and steps backwards, offering us some space. His curt words throw me, hurt me a little as I expected more gentleness. I needed a bit of gentleness after… that happened, right?
As hurt flares, I ask, ‘When is my dad coming?’ The question tumbles from my mouth, suddenly feeling as though that is the only conversation we should be having right now, or at all, really. The words put a barrier between us, a good solid construction made with reality.
I reach up to find the ends of my hair, only to realise they are bunched on my head. Dammit. So, instead, I fidget with the material of my dress.
The oriental music sweeps around us, mingling with the chatter. I peer across the room, and see side-eyes from guests, but I doubt anyone can hear us over the conversation and music.
‘In a few weeks,’ he answers smoothly, lifting his thumb to his lower lip and dragging it along the swell, his eyes licking me in a way that screams he has seen me bent, bare, and exposed. The action, riddled with indecency, forces my thighs together to fend off the pressure—the discomfort. And I only just quelled it. Is this a never-ending desire? Goddamn it, how do sexually active people get anything done with this perpetual urge?
‘So—’ I clear my throat. ‘You have spoken to him?’
‘Eat something, then go back to your room.’
‘Is that a yes?’
His lips twitch and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing his blue irises like dark mist rolling over a still ocean. ‘I don’t need to.’
I blink at him, needing a moment of reprieve from the conflicting messages barrelling from him in hot waves. ‘You shouldn’t look at me like that.’
His jaw clenches, and my heart stops beating as he leans down, his lips a whisper away from my ear. ‘I like looking at you. I’ll look at you however I please, and you will like it, too. If you ever tell me what I shouldn’t do again, I’ll spank that perfect arse of yours until it’s raw.’
I exhale in a rush, unable to stop myself from turning into his mouth, causing his lips to skate along my hair. ‘Is part of your hospitality to also help me come because that is definitely something you should put on the brochure.’
Oh. Fuck.
Kill me.
The breath from a small chuckle hits my ear, his lips skating my flesh as he says, ‘You need to stop that pretty head from overthinking. I don’t offer such an itinerary for all my guests, but your perfect little body is hard to ignore.’
There it is. He acknowledges it. I don’t know why I needed that so much, but I did. My fingers tingle. ‘What would my dad say?’ I mutter, a slither of volume.
He steps back, putting space between us. ‘Are you besotted by him? By a man you don’t know.’
‘I am. He’s the only person in my life who impresses me,’ I lie, but the person who actually impresses me is regarding me, my words displeasing him, and it feels all wrong… and right. I can’t think straight. ‘Even if he is a bad man,’ I bite out, observing his reaction to my words, ‘he’s better than my mother, than my foster mother. I bet he’s never been the victim.’
He smiles, but it’s unfriendly. ‘Your father doesn’t know your dress size. Or that the only time you clean your plate is when you’re given sweets. That you use humour to deflect. That you have nightmares about the television.’
Air catches in my throat.
How did he know that?
‘Hello there,’ a man with a thick Indonesian accent says, approaching and appearing like a little boy next to the towering broad physique of Clay Butcher. ‘So many pretty, young girls. Who might this be?’
‘Dustin Nerrock’s beautiful young daughter,’ he says, deadpan.
‘Ah.’ He nods, eyeing me with the skilled intensity a seamstress might when measuring me for a fitting. ‘Are you expecting? Mr Nerrock must be excited.’
He knows my dad. I want to ask questions, but I’m still reeling from the insight about my nightmares. Waves of dizziness flood my mind, breaking my balance.
I stumble.
‘Woah,’ the Indonesian man says, leaning in to help me, but Clay steps forward, grabbing my elbow, holding me to my feet and away from the man.
‘Sorry,’ I say to no one in particular, instigating a light squeeze to my arm, a warning not to use that word.
Smoke from the man’s cigar drifts around between us, the dance hypnotic, but the fumes twist nerves in my forehead, inducing a dull ache behind my eyes.
Clay drops his gaze to my stomach with a possessiveness that causes my heart to shudder in my throat. I like it. It terrifies me. It also confuses me. He rips the cigar from the pinched fingers of the other man, tosses it to the marble floor and walks me from the room.
‘Madonna Mia,’ he mutters to himself.
As he drags me outside by my elbow, guilt and frustration over the entire scene spar inside me. I groan to myself. ‘I’m sorry if I disappointed you by falling over in front of that man, but I didn’t ask to be invited to the party, or dressed, or anything. I just want to find my dad. But I’m here, and I don’t know what to do or say from one moment to the next, and you are confusing me.’
We stop by the poolside, Clay dropping my elbow immediately. The glow emitting from the cool rippling water lights him up as he stands in silence looking at it. Across the yard, the trees are darkened by shadows.
He puts his hands in his pockets with his back to me, and I shuffle nervously, waiting to be schooled.
I continue, ‘I’m not a clumsy person at all. The smoke was really—’
‘That was poor judgement on my part. I apologise for that,’ he states, and my eyes widen as he says sorry without saying sorry, despite his dislike for the convention. ‘I didn’t consider the tobacco… and your condition. I’m very rarely careless with my property. It won’t happen again.’
His property.
Tears form behind my eyes, and they sting. I don’t like their presence or what they imply. Why is he like this? I feel as if he’s playing games with me. Playing at the caring, overprotective authority figure while confusing me with his words. Dangling affection like a carrot, and I’m the stupid bunny—no, deer, that trots after it.
What is he to me?
A kind of uncle?
No, just another temporary carer.
God, what is this feeling inside me? Does he know what he’s doing to me? Making me vulnerable and needy when I need to be anything but to survive. The indecision over what to do or how to react to him is taking up so much space in my mind—there is very little room for anything else.
I close my eyes, safe with them in blissful darkness. I don’t want his sorry, but I definitely don’t want to disregard his sense of right and wrong, so I say nothing more about it.
Opening my eyes again, I step a little closer to him. ‘How did you know about my nightmares?’
‘You talk in your sleep. Jasmine was concerned.’
Oh. I nod slowly, absorbing his words. Hating them, too. So, she’s not my friend. Well, that’s fucking fine. And he doesn’t trust me? Well, I don’t trust him, either.
I feign indifference, but the words come out in an irritated cadence. ‘I don’t know why you invited me today, but whatever. It was hospitable of you. So, thanks, I guess. Your home is beautiful, by the way. I’ve never really had a home.’
‘You have,’ he says while staring ahead, ignoring my tone, which only makes the mild tantrum dwindle when I kinda wanted to have it out with him. He continues, ‘But I understand you are being contextual with the word home, so in that light, neither have I.’
I blink in confusion, feeling interest replace my irritation. Dammit. ‘You have a home now.’
He laughs but it’s sad, and I dislike that sound even more than the cold cadence his words are often uttered in. Even more than the condescension, more than the pity. ‘This is not my home.’
‘What about your family home?’ I ask, taking another step towards him and rolling my eyes at my feet’s preference to be close to him. I sigh, saying, ‘Your brother seems like great company—’
‘My family home is where my brothers grew up, Fawn. I didn’t grow up with them.’ He turns to face me, and my heart grows so big I feel it may burst. He’s so handsome, so… royal.
It irritates me how breathtaking he is, how perfect his face is. How badly I want to stroke his jaw and feel the short hairs that create a perfect shadow. I want to touch him—so badly my fingers flex—but then he talks again.
‘Don’t mistake me for that man,’ he says. ‘I’m not the family man you imagine me to be or the man the District paints. I didn’t grow up in a family. I went to boarding school. I was only around them summers, the occasional weekend. So, like you, I had to make the place I set my head down a home.’
This doesn’t surprise me at all. He seems… institutionalised, in a way. ‘Why not make this home?’ I ask. ‘Why aren’t there pictures on the walls? Why aren’t there books left on couches and towels draped over sofas, comfortable seating outside?’ I glance quickly at the wrought-iron table that now symbolises so much about this man; I hate it more than I did a week ago when I first saw it. ‘Why do you have this horrible wrought-iron table?’
‘You have a problem with my table?’
‘It’s horrible.’
He almost smiles. ‘I don’t want to get comfortable.’
That’s crazy. My brows pinch as I ask, ‘Why not?’
He steps closer to me. Now, I can smell him—cigars and whiskey, earthy and sweet. ‘It’s what I’m used to.’
I laugh once. ‘Discomfort?’
‘We operate best under a level of duress.’
‘If that’s the case, then I’ve been operating at my best my entire life,’ I say with a cynical laugh.
His eyes soften on my face, and as his hand reaches up to stroke my jaw, I close the gap by leaning into him. His fingers are warm and dominant on the sides of my cheeks. His gaze, narrowing in contemplation, follows their movement. ‘You’re so young. So very pretty.’ He sighs with an easy smile. ‘We are such different and yet such similar creatures, my little deer.’
He finally gives me the gentleness I needed, and it somehow manages to dowse the irritation. His caress forces weight into my eyelids. I flutter them shut, feeling his sincerity in his touch defy the contradictory ways he treats me. The balmy air sweeps around us, tussling the rogue strands of my hair. In this moment, everything inside me races. My heart. My lungs.
I swallow, content with my eyes closed, solely focused on the feel of him. There was never a moment in my life when I felt quite so seen, so special. I wish that wasn’t the case. Wish I had more stories of great loves, warm cuddles with a parent… I have none. Not one single moment compares to this.
‘You told me to make myself comfortable here. Can I really do that?’
‘Yes.’
Suddenly, his hand slips from my face as the sound of heels approaching grows. I open my eyes, taking a moment to adjust to reality, to settle my ballooning hopeful heart, and steady my silly lavish breaths.
‘You’re needed back inside,’ the red-headed woman says, a wide unauthentic smile curved across her stunning face. ‘Who is this? I haven’t had the pleasure.’
‘A colleague’s daughter,’ he states simply, turning his back on me, turning the warmth he showered down on me into icicles in the air.
He walks towards her. Placing his hand on her lower back, he says over his shoulder, ‘Go to your room, Fawn.’
