by Chloe Cox
“Ok, well, that and my actual job,” she muttered to herself.
Which, this particular morning, was going on a local morning television show to talk about her big makeup line launch. So probably she shouldn’t look like a total zombie. Although how much fun would it be if she went in actual zombie makeup and just pretended that was the look now?
Sierra laughed to herself, out loud, alone in her bathroom.
When was the last time she’d done that?
She had no idea. But she suspected ass-crack-of-dawn giggles had something to do with Conor freaking Kelly.
She looked at herself in the mirror as the shower steamed up the bathroom, and, for a second, she thought she might have a kind of glow.
Sierra Fiore was in a whole different kind of danger now.
“Careful, Fiore,” she said. “Be careful.”
Sierra pretty much immediately forgot to be careful.
Conor was in the backseat with her now, as they were being driven by another giant bodyguard to the WLTV studios. So that was new. She figured there would probably be some more changes to her security detail, after last night’s epic failure, but she’d get the details about it later. She pretty much never felt safer than when Conor was sitting next to her.
Which he had known, of course.
Which was why he’d announced that he was staying with her until they caught the guy. Sierra had seen that—she’d seen that he’d seen her fear, that he’d understood it. And she sort of suspected that she might freak out about that vulnerability later.
But right now? In the dark, on Storrow Drive, ensconced in the back seat of a bulletproof car with Conor Kelly as they drove past strobing street lights?
All she could do was steal glances at his hands. His large, rough, craggy hands, resting on his muscular thighs. He was wearing the same clothes as the previous night—jeans, tank top, sport’s coat over it. Sierra kept thinking about what was under all of that.
She inhaled sharply and forced herself to look out the window.
“You ready?” Conor’s deep voice pulled her back in, just as the car turned into the studio lot.
“Always,” she lied.
The launch party was coming up. They’d booked the Institute for Contemporary Art, there was a famous DJ. The whole thing was finally coming together. All she had to do this morning was go on television and talk about why the makeup was awesome.
So why was Conor all she could think about as the morning flew by?
The whole studio, dark except for the stage where the hosts sat in their comfy chairs with their coffee mugs, buzzed with a busy, nervous energy as the show went on and her airtime approached, and Sierra was barely conscious of any of it.
Ridiculous.
“Sierra, you’re on in five,” a production assistant said in her ear as they whizzed past.
Sierra looked up at Conor. He seemed unperturbed, his eyes focused on everything and nothing at once.
Then he looked down at her with those ice blue eyes, and everything stopped.
“I called ahead,” he said. “About security.”
Sierra just nodded. Jesus, she felt hypnotized.
“I told them no questions about last night,” Conor went on. “We don’t even know if they got a good photo, and it’s better if they can’t confirm you were coming out of the club. It’s a security precaution.”
“Right,” Sierra said, shaking her head. “Thank you.”
Conor stepped in close to her. She’d already done her own makeup — it was kind of the point of the whole interview — so they’d since been ushered to the edge of the set. They were standing in relative shadow, back in a silent mess of over-worked interns, sleepless production assistants, and very focused camera and microphone people, all of them looking at the brightly lit stage with the intensity of brain surgeons.
Conor had spoken so softly that she could still hear the pitter patter of the morning hosts, a married couple named Brett and Dani. Out of the corner of her eye, Sierra could see they were chatting with the producers during the commercial break, huddling together like they’d found something important.
But then Conor’s hand found her elbow. How did he feel so hot to the touch? The warmth of him traveled up her arm, across her chest, up her neck. She wanted to breathe him in.
“You ok?” Conor said.
Sierra blinked.
Right. She should be terrified. She definitely had been outed at Club Volare last night, whether they got the photos or not, and her jackass stalker had thrown bloody roses at the car. She should be a mess.
But looking into Conor’s eyes, she mostly just thought: maybe I don’t have to be scared anymore.
The worst had already happened, right? And she had never been a coward. Sierra would just go in there with her head held high and kick ass.
“Hell yeah I am,” she said.
Conor grinned.
The lights went on.
“And now, as our next guest, we have everyone’s favorite American Princess…”
Conor watched Sierra walk on stage to the usual applause, and let his eyes wander back over the closed set. A television studio was a security nightmare. A million people coming and going, high turn over, general swirling chaos when the cameras weren’t rolling. He’d been able to strong-arm the producer into agreeing not to ask Sierra about Club Volare just yet, but he’d bluffed his way through that. Conor didn’t have any juice in the media industry, and it would probably be counterproductive to threaten every gossip outlet with physical violence. Eventually they’d all run with it.
So there hadn’t been time to talk to Sierra about the previous night. Or the new normal.
Just as well. Conor had gotten a few extra guys added to Sierra’s security detail, guys that Kane knew personally this time, and he had an email in to Rourke and Kane about the stalker’s tattoos. He was closer to getting his man.
But he still hadn’t figured out how he would break it to his sub when he finally got him.
Conor frowned. The idea of telling Sierra that her brother had hired a stalker to murder her didn’t sit well. In fact it sat like a goddamn elephant on a wrought iron fence. But he’d signed up for this.
He’d always signed up to be the man who broke her heart.
Maybe that’s what got his attention.
Maybe it was a change in Sierra’s voice as she made that weird morning show small talk.
Or maybe he could just feel it in the air. But when he tuned back into the on-air banter, Conor somehow knew something was coming.
“Ok, so you’re wearing it right now?” the lady host was saying, holding up one of Sierra’s makeup products for the camera.
“Yeah, and I’m glad, because I had no idea you guys had to get up at three in the morning for this show and I would look like absolute death otherwise,” Sierra said. “Seriously, I have no idea how you do it.”
The woman—Dani—smiled, and looked at her co-host, Brett.
“Well, we’ve heard some other rumors about why you might have a bit of a glow,” Brett said.
Sierra’s expression, just for a moment, froze.
Conor thought of several things he could do to the producers and to Brett, and he watched.
There was a pause. A pause where they almost seemed to be winking at the camera. Where they wanted her to know they knew. And then…
“That’s right,” Dani said. “You’re turning your launch party into a joint birthday party for you and your brother at the famous family compound? We hear it’s going to be the biggest party of the year.”
“American royalty coming of age,” Brett said. “And you’re giving away two tickets?”
Fucking nonsense.
Conor wasn’t interested. He was interested in Sierra’s face. He was very interested in the surprise he saw there, and how quickly she recovered it.
He remembered Jared pushing her on the birthday party. It would still be Conor’s best shot to get on the compound to look for hard evidence
of Jared’s crimes, but Sierra hated the idea. She recoiled at it. Like she was recoiling now, working hard to hide it.
“Wow, you’re more informed than I am. Well, that hasn’t actually been decided yet,” Sierra was saying. “I will definitely let you know if it changes.”
“Um, we want invites,” Dani said, laughing. “And I hear your brother’s still single, is that true? Just asking for all our single ladies out there…”
Conor tuned her out. He was still watching Sierra, the gears in his head turning. So Jared had leaked that piece of disinformation to the co-hosts, maybe even paid them to ask her about it, all to pressure her into it on live television. Nice.
But she could handle it. And it was almost over.
“Ok, one last thing,” Brett was saying. “We have a few fans who called in to ask you one question each, how do you feel about that?”
“I feel fantastic,” Sierra said. Big smile. Right into the camera.
“I think we have our first fan on the phone,” Brett said, messing with his earpiece. “Sean, is that you?”
“Sure.”
The voice that seeped out over the studio speakers was wrong. It wasn’t fully human. Whoever was speaking was using a filter of some kind, a distortion to hide their voice.
Sierra looked at the hosts, unsure. They looked at each other.
Conor got up and walked over to the edge of the set, his eyes on Sierra. He grabbed the producer he’d talked to earlier, a man with a dumb goatee and horn-rimmed glasses.
“Cut it off,” he said.
“What?” the producer said. “I can’t.”
Brett was all smiles on camera. “Sean, what’s your question for Sierra?”
“Cut it off,” Conor said. “Or I will.”
But he was too late.
The oily voice came through the audio on every part of the set. Somehow, Conor could tell it was smiling.
He got up, and just as the voice was asking its question, Conor walked right onto the live set, his eyes locked on Sierra’s.
“I saw you at your pervert club last night, Sierra,” the voice said. “Have you always been a whore?”
It landed like a bomb. The studio fell totally silent. The only sound, for an eternal second, was the sound of the oily voice laughing.
Conor broke his gaze with Sierra and turned, snarling. The cameras were all on him. He had put his body between her and the cameras, not wanting to give this piece of shit the satisfaction of seeing Sierra’s face. Now he looked for the one with the steady red light, the one that would be broadcasting live.
And he looked right into it.
“I’m coming for you,” Conor said into the camera, but talking to one person in particular. “And when I find you, you’re going to regret every bad decision that led you to be the piece of crap you are today.”
Conor looked up, around. Saw the stunned faces of the crew, the producers. Right. This was morning television.
“And good morning, Boston, I guess,” he said. “Get your asses out of bed.”
The red light went out.
“And we’re cut to commercial,” came the lone voice from the darkness.
Nobody else said anything. A silent set of several hundred people.
Conor turned back around, saw Sierra looking at him. She seemed as shocked as everyone else, probably more so, given her stalker had just found a way to harass her on live TV.
Which was sloppy. Which meant Jared had bribed someone. Which meant Conor could find him.
But that was in the background. Right now, in that moment, he was still looking at Sierra. She blinked at him, shook her head slightly. And then the hosts began to close in. The producers. Wanting interviews, wanting to find out what just happened.
Fuck that.
Protector mode activated. He muscled his way through, grabbed her, started moving towards the door.
Time to get his sub safe and settled.
And Conor knew just how to do that.
Eighteen
Sierra didn’t actually start getting angry until they were practically back at her apartment, but when it started, it started strong.
First, Jared somehow outmaneuvered her by getting a couple of morning show hosts to ask her about a birthday party on live freaking television? Never mind the awkward position that put her in; being media savvy was supposed to be Sierra’s thing. That stung.
Second, her slimeball stalker somehow got through the screening process and got to ask her a question on that same live television show, basically outing her as a member of Club Volare to literally all of Boston. And he called her a whore. It felt like no matter what she did, no matter how much money she put into it or how careful she was, this creep could still get to her. So no matter what she did, if Sierra showed herself in public, she paid for it.
She was so mad it was all she could do to keep from crying, which was somehow even more frustrating.
The only bright spot was Conor. Sierra very much doubted that he knew what can of media worms he had opened by staring directly into the camera and threatening her stalker on live television, but he’d done it anyway. And then he’d told the entire city of Boston to get their asses out of bed.
She could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye the whole way back, even while she tried to fight to keep it all down. And then again in the elevator. And now as she walked into her own apartment at eight in the morning feeling as though she needed a nap.
An angry nap.
“You want to talk about it?” he said.
His voice was like warm honey over gravel, but for some reason, it just agitated her more.
No, not “some reason.” She knew why.
Sierra stole a look at her third bedroom, the one right off the living room. She had planned to set Conor up in the bedroom next to hers, but it occurred to her that he might have some sort of security reason for wanting the one nearest the entrance. But he couldn’t have it. That was the room where she made…everything. It was the room where she made herself. It was where she would go when she felt like she was going to explode, before all this started, and she’d paint and come up with some crazy look and feel better.
And she hadn’t set foot in it in months.
And now, with Conor there, she definitely couldn’t set foot in it. The very idea sent her into a horrified panic. If she did, he might see what was in it, and then she would have no choice but to explode into a cloud of dust from sheer embarrassment.
He was standing behind her, closer to that third bedroom. Sierra hadn’t really thought about it, she’d just walked in and dumped her bag on the coffee table and automatically she’d looked at the third bedroom.
“Princess,” came the warm honeyed gravel again. “Don’t make me give you an order.”
“There’s not really anything to talk about, Caveman,” she said.
She heard him come close before she felt him, his big hand on her elbow again. That same heat spread through her as he touched her, and no matter how she tried to fight it, it warmed her to the core.
Conor turned her to face him, his blue eyes glittering down at her. Seeing right through her.
Then he pointed right at that third bedroom.
“What’s that?” he said.
Sierra blinked. “Nothing?” she said.
Conor’s eyes flashed. “Lying to your Dom is an interesting choice, Princess,” he said. “Gonna tell me?”
But he only waited a beat for an answer. Like he knew she couldn’t speak.
Instead he just walked right to that third bedroom, a room that no one else had been in except for that one terrible night the police came, and he opened the freaking door.
Sierra froze.
It was like someone finding her diary, and then opening it.
Conor looked at her. Sierra didn’t say anything. She was trapped between her admittedly childish but constant fear that someone would go in there and see her stuff, and her apparently new desire for Conor himself to do exactl
y that. She was too afraid to choose.
Conor chose for her.
He walked right in, and Sierra blinked herself unfrozen and followed right behind. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she couldn’t stay out here.
Conor found the light switch and flicked it on. This was actually the biggest bedroom in the apartment, with a double height ceiling and three giant windows, all of them facing south for the best natural light during the day. Technically it was probably the master bedroom. But it was where Sierra felt like her…stuff, or whatever you called it, should go.
Her stuff, per se, was a whole mess of portraits. Some of them were look designs, but most of them were portraits — really detailed, expressive portraits — of just…imaginary people.
It had started when she was really little, at one of Sierra and Jared’s joint birthday parties. There’d been an area where the socially awkward indoor kids could draw or craft or do whatever while the other kids played their games, just a little table and chairs outside in the shade. But that table was a freaking oasis. Art was the only thing so boring to Jared that he wouldn’t try to ruin it for her, so he pretty much left her alone while she was over there. Her little butt was glued to that chair, her head down, her hands busy. After that, her father just always thought she loved art. Whenever he didn’t know what to do with her from then on, he bought her art stuff.
And she did love it. She started drawing and painting imaginary friends, basically. As she got older they got more sophisticated, and she’d play with them in her mind, figuring out who they were and what their lives were like. And besides being more fun than playing with dolls, it also helped with the loneliness, which turned out to be pretty crucial during the ugly duckling years.
And at some point, she’d started creating makeup looks for these portraits of imaginary people who so often happened to be really good at things Sierra wished she was really good at.
And then…Sierra started wearing those looks. Different versions of herself, of them. Different masks. She made videos with weird character voices, took pictures, shared them, even as she was becoming famous for being a rich, spoiled mess. She got a deal for the makeup line, but no one knew how personal it really was.