Chapter Seven
‡
Year One
Yet another knock at my door. Why does dorm life consist of people constantly knocking at your door? At least it’s a respectable hour. I needed my sleep after the royal clusterfuck that was last night. I cringe just thinking about it.
“Come in.”
But nobody does.
“Come in!”
Goddammit. I’m comfortable in my bed with my book. I don’t want to get up, but it looks like I have no choice. It’s with considerable annoyance that I fling off my blanket and haul myself over to the door. When I open it, I’m greeted by the biggest bunch of yellow roses I’ve ever seen. There must be three dozen of them.
“What the hell is this?”
“Good morning to you, too.” Rey pushes by me to set the enormous bouquet on my desk. They take up my entire room.
“Seriously, Rey. What the fuck?”
“I don’t know, little one. You’ll have to read the card to find out.” He sprawls across my rumpled covers, bunching a pillow under his head. I scowl but reach for the card attached to the vase nonetheless. It’s not your typical thin, cheap envelope with a florist’s logo, but a luxuriously thick, off-white one. When I open it, I find a forest green liner and a flat card of a similarly heavy weight with an engraved monogram: HLV. Hunter green then.
With my most sincere apologies. I’d like to see you again.
Yours,
Hunter
What? I read it through over and over. He wants to see me again?
“And?” Rey prods. “Who are they from?”
“You know who they’re from.”
“Unless Hunter’s hiring Ben out as an errand boy, yes, I do.”
“Ben brought these?” The idea of Ben just down the hall, like Hunter by proxy, sends my heart skipping in a way I want to ignore.
“He did.”
Whoa. I hand Rey the card, and he whistles through his teeth. “Damn, girl.”
“Yeah. I guess Hunter Vaughn likes his girls with a big ol’ side of crazy.” I’d like to pretend that insulted and wary are the only things I’m feeling, but there’s also a low-burning glow of hopeful pleasure in my chest. He wants to see me again.
“Don’t be like that. Some guys love high-drama girls, but I’ve never known Hunter to be one of them. He likes you and he feels bad about how things ended, that’s all.”
I lie on my bed with Rey, and he spoons me, slinging a heavy arm over my ribcage as we stare at Hunter’s enormous and beautiful apology. The guy doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He had no way of knowing. I wonder what I’d get if he actually screwed up.
“Fine,” I allow, trying to smother the excitement under a scowl.
“I’ll give him a call in a few hours. He doesn’t need to know you live down the hall from me. And besides, it’s good to make him wait. Not to mention I’m hungry. Brunch?”
*
“Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry about last night.”
Hunter’s sitting across the table, looking heavenly in a navy suit, light blue button-down, and red tie. I take a sip of water. “It wasn’t your fault.”
We’re sitting in a small private dining room in a very swank restaurant in midtown Manhattan. Alone. Rey had called Hunter after brunch, and Hunter had invited me for dinner at his home. A home I’ve since been informed by Rey was purchased with family money—the same way I’m likely to purchase my first property—though Hunter’s job on Wall Street would probably be lucrative enough to afford it regardless.
“No!” I’d mouthed at Rey.
“Perhaps drinks. And someplace more…public would be more appropriate?”
Hunter had acquiesced, said he’d text with the details, and here we are five hours later.
He’s staring at me, waiting for an explanation, although he doesn’t seem impatient. I take another sip of my water and clutch the glass while my anxiety pings around my head. I don’t like talking about this, and I start to curl in on myself, make myself smaller. It would be embarrassing to have to excuse myself and I’ll probably regret letting my fear of something so ridiculous keep me from Hunter, but I don’t think I can do this.
“Look at me.”
I tear my eyes away from where they’d been fixed on the fine white linens on the table.
“Sit up, take a breath, and then you’ll talk to me.”
Though my parents have been scolding me for ages about my terrible posture and I generally slump more to spite them, Hunter’s demands don’t have the same effect. I want him to want me so badly, to feel that I am worth having. And when I do as he’s asked—straighten my spine, settle my behind into the chair, and fill my lungs with air that he’s breathed—I feel better. Willing to be persuaded by his coaxing, no matter how difficult it may be.
“I have a sister. An older sister.”
He must be confused by my spluttered non sequitur, but all he offers is a sip of his martini, a dip of his head, and a softly commanding “Go on.”
I swallow and take another deep breath, finding comfort in following his instructions. “She doesn’t like me. Never has. She wanted my parents to take me back to the hospital when I was born. She used to blame things on me all the time and try to get me in trouble.”
That probably sounds like standard sibling stuff, and maybe it would have been except that, as with most things, Ivy took her dislike of me to extremes. Destroying my school projects, ruining my clothes, dismembering my favorite dolls. She took a knife to the down pillows on my parents’ bed, threw the feathers all over, and told them I did it. Hunter seems neutral on the point. He must not have siblings.
“She also used to tell me that I was a witch. Because of my eyes.”
In a compulsion I can’t fight, I close them. I can’t say how much time I spent as a child with my eyes tightly shut, hoping to hide my freakishness from the world. My eyes made me different in a way that made people uncomfortable. I got teased about it some at school, but no one was as bad as Ivy. Again, Hunter’s voice echoes in my head, telling me to breathe. I look at him, try to be brave, and tell him the story he’s asked to hear.
I want to be pretty and polished for him, so I swallow the sick and pretend I’m telling a fairytale. One of the original, incredibly horrid ones, not the Disney remakes. I never liked those much, was always more drawn to the dark tales that made me feel things I didn’t totally understand.
“When I was six, and she was…old enough to know better, she decided to conduct her own personal witch trial and told me if I didn’t pass, our parents would send me away to live with the other witches. She looked up some of the real things they used to do during witch trials and put together her own.”
My sister, the event-planner-in-training. I’m surprised she didn’t sell tickets. Her friends were always amused when she decided to torture me for their entertainment. Kids are the freakiest, most sadistic freaks. But this special event she’d kept to herself. I should’ve known that wasn’t a good sign. Even she was worried that she was going too far.
“She—she hurt me.” My storytelling strategy needs some work because I’m choking on the memories, the recalled sensations of what she did—the pinprick pain of needle stabs, the very real possibility that I was going to drown when she held me down in the half-full bathtub, the slow crush of air leaving my lungs because she had piled yet another book on top of my chest. In the present, I can practically feel those horrible things happen over and over again. I’m going to get lost in it, start rocking in my chair, because it’s all too much. But Hunter’s polished silver voice interrupts me.
“No one’s hurting you now.”
“Did you notice the scar on my back last night?” After his nod of confirmation, I press forward. “It’s from a pair of kitchen scissors. She told me if I really wasn’t a witch, when she cut me, Jesus would protect me and it wouldn’t hurt.”
That’s when I start laughing because it’s just too absurd not to. After seei
ng what a manic disaster I am, there’s no fucking way Hunter’s going to want anything to do with me. I steal a look at him, to see him planning his escape route, but he’s not. He’s sitting there, his elegant fingers clutching the stem of his glass so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped, his face a ghostly shade of pale. I remember the ashy hue of Rey’s skin when I’d related this story, how I’d wanted to fall into his dark brown eyes, wide pools of sympathy, and never crawl out.
Hunter looks more angry and ill than sympathetic, but his words implore me to offload some of my suffering. To heft it onto his refined shoulders because he can bear it. “Tell me the rest.”
“She cut me.” I shake my head because, even with the evidence carved into my body, I still find it hard to believe. “I screamed because it hurt, and I begged her to stop. I told her I’d go live with the witches if she’d just stop. Eventually she did and swore me to secrecy. She said she wouldn’t tell if I didn’t. So I didn’t. Even when I started to feel sick and the cut hurt really bad. But when I came home from school with a fever, they found out.
“I threw this epic fit when my nanny said she was going to tell my parents. I cried and screamed and locked myself in my room. They had to drag me out. I’m sure they thought I was delirious from the fever when I started shrieking about witches. I don’t remember much about being in the hospital. I was probably sedated for a lot of it. Anyway, I was there for a week, and when I came home, my parents acted like nothing had happened. My sister got in trouble, I guess, but they wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t let me talk about it. So even though it was a long time ago, I never quite got over it. And that, Mr. Vaughn, is why I lost it when you asked me if I was a witch.”
I crushed down the panic in the last few sentences and managed to sound cool and collected at the end, even adding a vaguely snarky flourish. Why didn’t I ask for a cocktail when I had the chance? I’m underage, but they don’t card in these kinds of places. The burn of a really strong drink sliding down my throat would be welcome. I’m tempted to reach over and take a swig of Hunter’s martini, but he’s ordered it dirty and I prefer it with a twist.
Hunter’s color is back. He’s regarding me with narrowed eyes and cocks his head. “So you safeworded because I scared the living daylights out of you by asking if you were a witch.”
“Yes.” I’m embarrassed because it sounds juvenile and insane, although his tone’s not derisive. On the contrary, he nods and looks thoughtful.
“But everything else was okay?”
I flush at the memory and purse my lips. “Yes.”
“More than okay?” He raises his oh-so-nicely sculpted brows, and my heart flutters.
I turn a deeper shade of red and take a hard swallow. “Yes.”
“So if I promise not to ask if you’re a witch, you’d be willing to play again?”
He’s teasing, but not being mean. This is far preferable to the unbearable sympathy and pity I usually get after telling people about my psychopath of a sister. Instead of being wound tight from exposing the inner workings of my psyche, I’m trying hard to contain the grin that’s threatening. “Yes.”
“I think that should be a ‘yes, sir,’ then, don’t you?”
A warm tingling starts in my spine and spreads throughout my torso, all the way to my fingers and toes. I have to gather up the slips of air still in my lungs to breathe, “Yes, sir.”
He leans back and picks up his drink, looking pleased. I like making Hunter Vaughn look pleased. I’d like to make him look that way all the time. He’s about to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, and something deep in my core clenches. For fuck’s sake, how can he make me feel this way with just a word? Thankfully, I’m distracted by a waiter bearing a tray heavy with food and another clutching what is no doubt a very pricey bottle of wine.
“I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering. Overconfidence is a bad habit of mine. Will you stay and have dinner with me?”
“Yes.” I’ve dropped the “sir.” Surely that won’t get me in trouble with the waiters still here? “I’ll need to let Mr. Walter know.”
Hunter’s signaling that the wine meets with his approval. Before I can protest, the waiter’s filled my glass.
“Stephen will tell him.” He makes eye contact with the man who poured the wine, who drops a curt nod in return.
“He’ll want to hear it from me.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
I slip my phone out of my clutch as the waiters back out, and Rey picks up on the first ring.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Vaughn has invited me to stay for dinner.”
“And you’d like to?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, little one. I’ll be downstairs. Take your time. The sidecars here are to die for. Call if you need anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up, and Hunter’s regarding me curiously. I sometimes think that being a submissive makes you the dullest conversationalist in the whole world. Yes, sir; no, sir. But the truth is if you’re worth your salt, you’ll be able to converse on just about any topic at the drop of a hat to entertain your Dom and any guests he might have. A head full of rocks is not going to cut it, as my dinner with Hunter proves. He wants to talk about current events and books.
When we’ve finished, he asks, “May I call you?”
Most of me is screaming hell, yes, but that doesn’t seem like a good idea. “You can call Mr. Walter about me, sir.”
A cloud of displeasure settles over his handsome face. “Are you playing hard-to-get?”
I can’t help but smile. As evidenced by last night, hard-to-get is not my style.
“No, sir. I’m trying to be respectful. I’m Mr. Walter’s responsibility.”
He frowns, annoyed, but doesn’t argue. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll do that. Come, I’ll show you downstairs.”
Hunter’s come around to my side of the table and offers me a hand. When I surrender mine, he tugs me into him and shoves me against the wall, making me drop my clutch in surprise. He’s pinning me against the smooth surface with a hand at my throat, nudging my chin up with his thumb, and he’s pushed a thigh between my legs. Holy crap.
He leans down, his cheek a hair’s breadth from mine, much like the first time I met him. When I feel his breath hot in my ear, I nearly die.
“You know when I asked you if you were a witch I was flirting with you.”
“Yes, sir,” I squeak. I do know that. Now.
“And anyone who asks you now that you’re a lovely grown woman is doing the same.”
I hesitate for a split-second, and he nudges my chin higher, forcing a gasp.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve beguiled me, Kit, and that’s not a simple thing to do. I would imagine you’ve charmed more than your fair share of people before you got to me as well. So the next time someone asks you if you’re a witch, you’re not to be afraid, understand?
“Your sister was a brutal, nasty little wretch, and your parents were spineless dilettantes who had no business raising children. What they did to you was atrocious, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The next time someone asks you if you’re a witch, you’ll remember it’s because you’ve enchanted them and they can’t imagine someone with your beauty and allure isn’t supernatural. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I’ve tried so hard to shore up my defenses around this particular soft spot, and I’ve done a decent job, too. But for all my efforts, it’s mostly camouflage. Hunter’s just added substance and weight to the paper fort I’ve put up. From now until the day I die, I won’t be afraid anymore. Instead of feeling six years old, hurt, sick and terrified, I’ll hear Hunter Vaughn saying in his rich, silky voice that I’ve beguiled him. No, I won’t be afraid anymore.
“There’s a good girl,” he murmurs and brushes a kiss by my ear. “Let’s return you to Mr.
Walter before he thinks I’ve absconded with you, shall we?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead he scoops up my clutch, hands it to me, and opens the door. I let him herd me down the stairs and through the restaurant to the bar where Rey is sitting on a high stool being chatted up by a himbo-looking blond in too-trendy clothes. He’s plastic next to Rey’s classic good looks and subtle elegance. Hunter doesn’t hesitate to interrupt their conversation, perhaps sensing as I do that their interaction isn’t going anywhere.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
Unlike the first time, he doesn’t sound hostile, only envious.
“That she does.” Rey’s tone has changed as well. They’ve come to an understanding. Good. I suspect—hope—they’ll be talking quite a bit in the near future. Before he nudges me toward Rey with the hand resting on my back, Hunter leans down and says softly but surely into my ear, “The next time I see you, we’ll finish what we started last night.”
My eyes go wide as I take the few steps I need to reach Rey. When I turn around, Hunter’s headed to the exit and doesn’t look back.
Chapter Eight
‡
Year One
“On your knees, sweetheart.”
We’ve arrived at Hunter Vaughn’s house for my first official playdate, and the modest pleasantries are over. I drop to my knees and fold my hands in my lap, eyes cast down.
“Very nice.” Hunter’s hand, a hand I’m becoming familiar with and fond of, comes to rest on the top of my head. “Is she leash-trained?”
“Not yet. You could try her, though. She’s a fast learner. She likes the collar.”
It’s disconcerting to be thigh-high to these men who’re discussing me like livestock, but I sit back on my heels and focus on my breathing.
“Not today. Soon enough.”
The idea of Hunter leading me around, tugging at the end of a leash clipped to my collar, brings uneasy excitement. Embarrassing, yes, but potentially stirring as well. As Hunter’s stroking my hair, they talk about other people they know. Apparently a Dom got drunk at a play party over the weekend and caused quite the stir. Luckily no one was hurt, but Hunter still seems uncharacteristically agitated.
Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) Page 6