by Sylvia Frost
“Rose, I need you to text me the phone number and address of everyone on last night’s guest list.”
“There are quite a few, sir.”
“Now,” Rex snapped, his wolf growling that he should fire her for being so slow.
“O-okay. Just give me a mom—”
Rex hung up before she could find another excuse for her obscene incompetence. Dropping his phone, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Compared to the burning of his matemark, it didn’t even hurt.
When Rex withdrew his fist, there was a claw where his pinky finger had been. He stared at it and the hole he had punched in horror. His pinky shrunk back into a finger.
What the hell was he turning into?
Maybe he should’ve told Samson the truth long ago. That he had lost his mate. That he couldn’t, no wouldn’t shift to find her. But just as Rex contemplated calling his brother, his phone pinged.
It was a number and a name, the very first one on the list in fact.
No, he could do this. Just a few moments longer.
Reagan, Christine & Lucille Miller, 1-517-392-1092
Chapter 14
Acceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Listen to Vanessa Carlton’s “White Houses.”
•Watch the first five minutes of Up (the part where the sweet old man loses his wife) over and over again.
•Stare at puddles morosely while humming “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music.
Unacceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Throw things.
•Destroy clothing.
•Call Daniel Hawthorne and scream at him that he ruined your life.
•Put restraining order from Daniel Hawthorne through paper shredder.
•Sleep with men who were designated for stepsister.
Even in a ball gown, Cynthia felt surprisingly inconspicuous as she tapped her phone’s screen to bring up the spinning wheel logo for her favorite ride-sharing app. Seconds later a black, unmarked car slid up next to the empty valet stand of the Plaza hotel. Plenty of cars were around, and at six in the morning in Manhattan, she wasn’t the only person doing a walk of shame in black-tie attire. As she opened the door herself, she risked one last glance back at the hotel’s red-carpeted steps.
Rex wasn’t there.
“You didn’t put in an address,” a deep voice with an English accent drawled from the front seat.
Cynthia flinched at the sound.
The man in the driver’s seat was not the usual cabbie. For one, he was dressed in a tuxedo. For another, he looked vaguely familiar, with his swarthy skin and black, burning gaze. Cynthia would’ve said something, except she had long ago learned that ride-sharing was a whole new game. One time her driver had been a dancer at Julliard, still in her leotard.
Cynthia sighed and shut the door behind her. “81st and 2nd, please.”
“Not far, not far,” the driver murmured in baritone singsong, not bothering to enter the address as he pulled into traffic. His voice was undeniably sensual, although it made the hairs on the back of Cynthia’s neck stand up on end. Or maybe that was just her impending hangover.
Cynthia pressed her head into her hands, trying to soothe the throbbing at her temples. “Shit.”
“Difficult night, princess?”
“What?” Cynthia started at the nickname, eyes wide.
“I asked if you were all right.”
Cynthia slunk back down into the leather seat. “Yeah, fine.”
Sighing, she put her open palm against the window. The glass was cool on her fingertips, a welcome respite from the feverish pain running up her leg. She really did have to go the doctor to get that mark checked out.
“Seems like you came from a rather fancy party? Didn’t go as planned?”
“Nope, this was the plan.” Cynthia shrugged blankly and stared at the edges of Central Park as they sped up 5th Avenue. In the purple light of dawn, the trees seemed taller, more twisted, tiny green sprouts just beginning to pop from their mahogany bark. The touristy souvenir carts were just rolling up.
She was tempted to tell the driver to turn around so she could run back into Rex’s arms. He was such a heavy sleeper that he hadn’t noticed her leave. He probably wouldn’t notice if she came back either.
But no.
Rex was dangerous.
Cynthia knew she was only one step away from everything spiraling into out-of-control drama land against her will, like it had for every guy she had ever dated, from the camp counselor she lost her virginity to all the way to Daniel Hawthorne. And Rex wasn’t the kind of guy who would spiral with her.
Cynthia reached down and undid the ribbon-like strap on her shoe. Her fingers moved to the mark of fur there, and she sighed as she applied pressure to it. It felt like a wound even though there was no blood.
But the pain, both emotional and physical, only proved her point. If she went back to Rex, she’d never be able to leave again. She’d turn into one of those simpering, stupid trophy girlfriends. Or worse. She’d give him her heart and then he’d tell her to leave. That was what happened when you loved people.
The cab glided to a halt in front of her building. Thankfully, Harry, the alert doorman in stepmother’s pocket had changed shifts with Donald, who was too busy eating a bear claw to notice her arrival, let alone report it to Lucille.
“Your stop,” the driver said, his voice the same low purr as the engine of his strangely fancy car. Was it a Lexus?
Cynthia double checked the ride-sharing app to make sure she hadn’t accidentally hired one of the higher-end services by accident, but the fare was reasonable. She opened the door to get out.
“Wait, Cynthia.”
“How do you—?”
“It’s in the app.” He held up a hand. “Would you mind if I offered you a piece of advice?”
“About what?”
“You seem to be running away from something.”
“And you’re what—going to tell me to face my fears? Based on the thirty seconds you’ve spent with me in a cab?” Cynthia’s thumb stalled over the generous tip she was about to give him, one high-heeled foot already on the curb.
“Actually, just the opposite.” He shook his head. “My advice is to keep going. The rich and powerful play dangerous games, and while I’m sure a capable young woman such as yourself could win, eventually. I’m not sure it would be worth the price.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Cynthia said with flat sarcasm as she jumped out of the cab and shut the door. He wasn’t getting a tip. Nosy. And who was he to say she wasn’t one of the powerful? He was a cab driver. She was in fancy dress.
But as the cab pulled away, her ankle buckled from a sudden burst of pain and she wobbled. And then fell. The pure white fabric of her gown made contact with the grimy concrete, and the hem ended up soaked in a dirt-clouded puddle.
“Shit!” Her voice echoed throughout the just-waking street harshly, and she cringed. But she didn’t get up.
“I’m not sure it would be worth the price.”
Cynthia wiped her hands at the corners of her eyes, surprised to find they were wet too. She was crying. Sobbing actually. Although she didn’t feel sad so much as exhausted. I’ll just sit here a second, she thought. She did move her dress and feet out of the puddle at least, brushing at the stain with her hand. She’d scrub it later tonight.
Wiping away the hot tear from her cheek, Cynthia hiccupped. But each sob was quieter and less dramatic than the last.
It will get easier. Being alone always does. It’s not like I have any right to feel sorry for myself. I’m the one running away.
A solitary leaf floated down the puddle, twisting and turning as if there were whole tides in that single splotch of water. A sad smile tugged at her lips. Humming “My Favorite Things” to herself, she reached out and nudged the little leaf forward, where it promptly capsized.
Just like me. Running in circles. Getting distracted. I
’ve got to clean up my life first, before I risk messing it up even further.
Quickly and with practical ease, she unlaced the ribbon keeping her shoe up. Even just bringing down the friction between the strap and her mark of fur eased the pain a little.
She stared at the shoe. With its three-inch heel and fragile-looking web of straps and ribbons, it was a symbol of everything she had once wanted. A life as a high-profile fashion designer, jet-setting from summerhouse to ski resort. Most of it, if she was honest now, probably on her father’s dime.
I’m not a princess though. Not anymore.
Cynthia sighed, and then before she could think too much on it, she lunged backward and hurled her shoe as hard as she could into Central Park. It flew long and far. Farther than she ever would’ve thought. Something twinged between her ribs as she realized that she wouldn’t be able to find it again. But the real weight on her chest was from the realization that she didn’t want to.
She was done with that. Done with Rex. Done with everything but the solace of finally getting her company working. With or without the help of investors.
Cynthia stood up, brushed off her dress, and pulled the hem up, staring at it with a wrinkled nose. Then, taking off the other shoe, she walked barefoot toward the back entrance to her stepmother’s basement.
“My advice is to keep going.”
Chapter 15
Nothing.
Rex stared at the screen of his phone. The link in his text message from Rose was a final purple. He had called every single number and, of the ones who answered, none was his mate.
Details beyond that were beginning to get murky. Crimson walls swam around him, the fleur-de-lis pattern of his wallpaper blurring into streaks of silver. His whole body throbbed, except for his ankle, where he couldn’t feel anything at all.
Rex lurched upward, one hand reaching out to the wall for balance. But he stumbled when his hand fell through the hole he had punched an hour ago.
Had it only been an hour?
A fresh wave of hurt and anger fizzled through his body. This time, he didn’t fight it.
Samson, his brother, had lasted a full week without his mate. Yes, he had lost some of his strength, but he had been nothing like this. His brother was a real wolf. Strong. His brother didn’t need to play with humans and stock markets to feel like he was an alpha. Command was in his blood.
Rex’s wolf growled at this poisonous thought. His wolf was tired of its gilded cage. It wanted to tear. To hunt. To feel the fresh softness of soil instead of silk, to taste the tang of air untainted by smoke.
After everything, Rex wanted it too.
What had all this bullshit gotten him? All this control?
She still ran.
Rex shivered, groaned, and closed his eyes. His nails, once cleanly manicured, lengthened and hardened into claws. The pain washing across his body receded as he gave into the calm of pure instinct.
Crack.
His spine broke, but it didn’t hurt. A second later, it twisted and reformed.
When Rex opened his eyes, he was on four legs, and his matemark had dissolved into the rest of his downy brown pelt. Emotions were faraway human things. Rex’s wolf found them strange, much like the rest of the room.
Everything was so tall. Rex sniffed. And smelled terrible. Artificial, chemical. In particular, the strange, black square of glass fascinated Rex. He pushed at it with his wet nose, and it began to buzz.
Symbols flashed across its screen, along with a picture of a scruffy man in flannel.
The phone tickled his nose as it vibrated, and Rex wheeled backward. It was his brother. His hind legs collided with the bed. He found himself snarling at the contained space, and his claws dug into the hardwood floor.
Enough.
Rex dove toward the black object, took it between his teeth, and crushed it. Easy. The broken shards didn’t even hurt his tough tongue. When Rex spat the phone back out it had stopped buzzing. He sniffed—pleased, but not satisfied.
This was only the beginning.
He didn’t need any of this. He only needed her. Now he would find her.
Chapter 16
Things Lucille Is Good At
▪Doing her own nails.
▪Making me feel like a failure.
▪Spotting messes.
▪Stealing my college fund.
▪Ignoring the fact that all of this only belongs to her because of Dad.
▪Being there.
▪Looking after stepsisters.
▪Caring.
▪Caring way too much.
Cynthia was careful.
She snuck into her room through the back door basement entrance with a cat burglar’s grace. Okay, a cat burglar with a limp, maybe. But nothing squeaked or screeched as she slipped into her room.
Once safe inside, she allowed herself only one second to let out a breath before heading to the adjoining bathroom and getting to work. Her first and most important task was to make sure that there was absolutely no trace of her nighttime adventure. FBI levels of diligence were required because Lucille had almost as good an eye for messes as Cynthia did.
She began with her dress, slipping out of it and trying to get as much of the mud out of the hem as possible with a washcloth. Although it was hard because she was sensitive to the almost waterfall-like roar of the sink as she turned it on.
After the dress went the single other shoe, and the purse. She placed them as far back into her well-organized, if over-stuffed, closet as possible. Only once that was finished did she don her usual late-night ensemble of silky pajama pants. Normally, she liked the slippery smoothness of the fabric, but now, they felt like sandpaper.
Cynthia exhaled, trying to steady herself. The adrenaline from throwing the shoe and sneaking into the house having worn off, she was left feeling as sick as if she had already woken up hung over.
What if he gave you an STD, you idiot? You didn’t use protection.
Cynthia fell more than sat into her old, overstuffed office chair. That was right—they hadn’t used a condom. What had she been thinking? She never behaved so irresponsibly.
At least I have an IUD, so I’m not pregnant.
With that cheery thought, Cynthia booted up her five-year-old computer and stared at her emails.
Someone knocked at the door.
Cynthia started in her chair and swallowed. The action didn’t ease the sting of her dry throat or her pounding headache, and, most importantly, it didn’t stop the knocking.
What if it’s him?
The knocking got louder.
Cynthia spun in her chair to face the door, which rattled in its white wooden frame. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Hello?” a feminine, nasal voice called from the other side of the door. Lucille. “Cynthia?”
Cynthia slunk down into her chair, the fake leather making her silky pajama top ride up her spine, along with another bolt of pain. It wasn’t him. Shouldn’t she have been relieved at that fact? Normal men didn’t stalk you down when you disappeared.
But you like that he’s not normal.
“I’m coming in.” Lucille opened the door, but she didn’t move over the threshold. Instead, she wrinkled her nose, peering into Cynthia’s dim room, lit only by the blue glow of her computer screen.
“Hello,” Cynthia said again, not knowing what else to say.
Lucille flipped on the light. “We need to talk.”
Cynthia put her arm up over her eyes to stop from being blinded, but it didn’t help. Her eyes were especially sensitive for some reason. Every part of her was. She felt like she had fallen from the top of the Empire State Building.
“About what?” she asked.
“Come sit over here.”
Tentatively, Cynthia lowered her arm and blinked away the stinging in her eyes from the sudden change of light.
Lucille was sitting on her bed, legs primly crossed at the ankles, staring at Cynthia with the same wide-eyed pity she had after her
father had died.
An echo of the rage Cynthia felt then bubbled up in her. She couldn’t even bother to fight back the scowl.
Lucille didn’t comment on Cynthia’s surly expression. Usually, she loved to nitpick any little problem.
“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.
“Sit down,” Lucille said.
Smoothing down her pajamas, she stepped over to her bed and sat down on the edge as far away from Lucille as possible. But it was still close enough for her to be able to take in Lucille’s appearance. Which looked startlingly… normal.
Usually, this early, she was in curlers and a full facemask—a habit Lucille still hadn’t shed from her time working in a hair salon in Jersey. But this morning, her face was naked, washed of all makeup, and she wore a velveteen red robe instead of her usual too-short chemise.
“I got an interesting call an hour ago,” Lucille said.
Oh no.
“Oh?” Cynthia said. “That’s early for a phone call.” Please don’t let it be him.
“It was Rex West.”
Great.
“Do you know him?” Lucille asked.
“N-no,” Cynthia lied, but it was obvious even to her. Her breath hitched just hearing his name.
“Really?”
“Well, I mean, yes, I know of him. Any entrepreneur born in the twenty-first century knows of him. Not to mention that you, Reagan, and Christine went to his party last night.” Cynthia forced herself to meet Lucille’s point-blank stare. “But no, I’ve never met him.”
Liar. Rex’s voice echoed in her mind with such force, Cynthia had to keep from turning around to see if he were right behind her. Again.
Lucille’s eyes were so much smaller without the fortification of mascara and her wrinkles so much deeper without concealer. “He seems to know you. He said that he had met a girl named Cynthia at the ball. That she had left his apartment without giving him his number, so he was calling every number on the guest list.”