CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lacroix chose a short, knitted sweater dress with full sleeves and a high collar for me to wear out. The white material clung to every line, curve and valley of my body with an accuracy that made me feel naked under his dark scrutiny. Knee high boots and a long, beige coat were added to the set.

Amari had helped me pick out undergarments and shoes. A few. But Lacroix had added everything I touched. Even if I'd only been looking at it. That went for everything. Clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Accessories. If I glanced at it, it was added to the pile.

The generosity extended outside of Amari's shop when the other woman looked Lacroix in the face and boldly told him I needed female products that Mariposa didn't carry.

Lacroix hadn't seemed upset by the command. He'd looked me over and said very simply, "If that's what she needs."

Grabbing his card from the register, Amari had locked up the store and set to work showing me the mall.

"You don't want anything in there," she'd say, gesturing to stores we passed, or, "That is the only place to get what you need."

Every place she took me, people knew her ... and Lacroix. The latter got a lot less of a warm greeting but he didn't seem to care. He merely watched me move from display to display, occasionally motioning to the clerk to grab whatever I was looking at.

"I really don't need—"

"What if you do?" was his continuous argument. "What if you get home and realize you need it?"

Amari was in full support of his methods. She helped add things to the counter until I was too overwhelmed to argue.

"I don't think I can even wear all of this," I told him as he let Amari swipe his card and stuff the thirty-foot-long receipt into a bag.

"You'll figure it out," was his sage response.

Some of the bags were stowed away in the trunk but the majority were to be picked up by someone from the house later that afternoon.

"Mr. Lacroix, I—"

The man with the ebony tangles of hair and breathtaking eyes turned to me. The motion was so unexpected it startled the words from my mind when I found myself caught in the full focus of his attention. But he didn't seem interested in hearing my attempts to convince him to return some of the items, nor was I when his arm curved around my waist, and I was jerked into the hard length of his front.

I almost gasped, hands flying to his broad shoulders for support. It was there, wedged in my throat along with his name but it was obliterated by the shattering of time when his head bent dangerously close. The perfectly crafted folds of his mouth lingered over mine, so close I felt the whisper of his breath prickle across my skin.

Our eyes held under the canopy of the umbrella, the rain a distant patter in the background.

God help me, but I wanted him. The how was unclear, but I wanted something so deeply and profoundly, I ached in places I didn't know how to soothe. The need was so intense I almost closed that sliver of space he'd placed between us myself. My fingers actually tightened in the leather material of his jacket. My toes tensed to arch.

His arms tightened as if sensing my desire and where crevices divided us vanished, except one.

His mouth drifted away, gliding across my cheek but never touching. I almost whined in protest when they grazed my ear.

"Thoran," he whispered. "My name is Thoran. I'll wait until you're ready to tell me yours, but I want to hear mine on your lips."

If it wasn't for his arm, I would have been a sticky puddle at his feet. My heart galloped in my chest with such blinding madness I couldn't function beyond falling into his eyes and silently begging him to kiss me already.

But he ended the torment by releasing me. He drew back just enough to reach around me and pull open the car door. His hold on my eyes never wavered, never lifted. Not even to flick away when helping ease me into the warm seat. Not even when he closed the door and stood watching me through the wet glass.

It was only when Cyrus arrived at his side did he break our hold. He turned to his guard and said something. Then the two were getting into the front and we were on the road.

The drive back to the house took no time in comparison. The walls of structure and the flow of people dissolved into a blur of wilderness spanning far into the gray afternoon.

Lacroix — Thoran — opened my door at the base of the house stairs and helped guide me onto the stone driveway. The rain continued to fall in a fine mist that dampened everything, despite the umbrella.

"I have a matter I need to deal with, but I'll be back for dinner," he said softly.

I wanted to ask what I was supposed to do in the meantime, but that wasn't his problem. It was up to me to stay where I was told.

So, I just nodded and let myself get led inside. He didn't follow, but remained on the threshold while Cyrus dragged my bags in and passed them off to the crew of five men ready to take them to my room.

I guessed that was where I was meant to stay and wait. So, I didn't object when one of the men motioned me to follow them up.

Alone with a million bags, I supposed that was my job until Thoran's return. I managed to get all of the dresses hung in the wardrobe and closet. The rest were folded in the dresser. The shoes, accessories and everything else found homes throughout the room.

Just when I thought I was finished, the second batch arrived with the same five men who immediately left me to figure it all out on my own.

It was too much.

Most of the items were things I never even saw. I guessed Thoran must have chosen them, but they were all so ... inappropriate. So revealing. I had to question if maybe he just didn't realize, but he must have when I lifted a short, fully transparent top in glittery white.

My cheeks warmed as I wondered if he wanted to see me in them. Part of me, the tiny hidden part I kept on a tight leash tingled at the prospect of seeing his face if I did.

Maybe not the transparent one. I wasn't ready for that. But ... I selected a knee length dress in soft black with white trim at the hem and across the V of the neckline. It fit snug at the waist and flared over the hips and around the legs. It was one he'd chosen, and I couldn't deny was a lovely pick. Mother wouldn't have approved. Black was for funerals, in her opinion, but I liked it. I even found a pair of suede pumps to match. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and dug through half the bags until I found the selection of face products Amari helped me find.

By the time Thoran knocked lightly at my door, I was dressed and made up the way I was supposed to be, yet my insides danced with nerves as I turned the knob and faced the man.

"Jesus," he breathed with an exhale that washed over my face. "Christ, love, you look stunning."

Heat swept up my chest and filled my face. "Thank you."

He couldn't seem to take his eyes off me. He traced the hills and lines of my body on repeat with a devoted attention that lit trails of fire everywhere he touched before settling on my mouth.

"I don't know about that color though," he murmured.

My hand went to my lips and the deep, red wine shade darkening the folds. "You don't like it?"

In a motion so fluid I didn't even notice until his clothes were tangling with mine and his hand was a bracelet around my waist, dragging my fingers away he was in front of me, looming over me.

"I don't know how I'm ever going to get anything done with it on you."

It was ridiculous and I felt ridiculous, but I giggled. A sound that was horrible and made me cringe inside, but I couldn't stop it.

I lowered my gaze in shame and giddy delight.

"Thank you for everything today. I really love my new things." I dared a glance up at him to find him still fixated on my mouth. The feral glint in his eyes made my knees weak and my stomach erupted into chaos. "Thoran."

His sharp intake of air collided into my chest. It flared his nostrils even as I found his hands on me. Fingers around my throat. Thumbs wedged under my chin, forcing my face to his.

"Fuck!" he growled, the sound viciously guttural. "Say it again."

Heart hammering, lungs working overtime, I dampened the lips he couldn't seem to look away from and watched his eyes darken dangerously.

I obeyed.

I breathed his name with every drop of my own fire burning white hot in the pit of my soul.

His snarl was animalistic.

His fingers flexed, tightening just enough to make me gasp and break out in shivers. The cold hard edge of the doorframe cut into my spine as he pinned me in place.

"I want to ruin you," he hissed into my jawline with scraping teeth into my skin.

I let the madness coming off him in waves addict me, tempt me. I let it turn my head to his, offering him ... me. But he only carved a vicious smirk of self-depreciation into his mouth and pulled back.

"If I kiss you, Little Blue, I won't stop there. I will take you and fuck you and mark you until there is no doubt in anyone's mind who you belong to."

He gave me no chance to respond when he drew back. The absence of his hands left a cold chill around my throat. I would have touched the spot if he wasn't watching me so closely.

"Hungry, love?" he asked instead.

I nodded, but I wasn't sure either of us meant for food.

He took my hand and led me from my room. At the stairs, he guided me down gingerly, giving my heels time to find each step carefully before moving to the next. I offered him a grateful smile when we hit the bottom, and he pulled my hand to his lips. His warm breath skated across the knuckles and red, hot lava rushed up my arm. I bit my lip to keep the moan in check but missed the shaky breath that whispered out too loud in the foyer's silence.

"We're really in trouble, aren't we, sweetheart?" he murmured against my skin.

I drew in a breath. "I think so," I replied.

The hand not holding mine slid around my middle and I was drawn to him. It wasn't with fire and desire, but a tenderness that felt equally dangerous.

"Does it scare you?"

I swallowed. "A little."

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. "Me too."

I hadn't been expecting such a confession from a man like him. I expected him to laugh at my fears and tell me I was being silly. Somehow, knowing it wasn't all in my head and I wasn't alone on this foreign island made the whole thing feel less terrifying.

It also dawned on me that he didn't reassure me that everything would be fine. He didn't offer false words of comfort. Just the assurance that I wasn't alone and that somehow made all the difference when he continued towards the dining hall with me in tow.

Along the way, I let my gaze drift up to the stained-glass ceiling and faltered. My eyes moved to the paintings. The moldings.

"Someone cleaned," I realized out loud.

All the dust and grime were gone. The cobwebs were missing from the chandelier and the entire place held the faintest hint of pine floor cleaner and lemon polish.

"I'll have the windows done next," he promised.

I looked to him. "You don't have to—"

He squeezed my fingers. "You like looking through them. They should be clean."

Heart a tender mess, I returned the subtle flex of my grip around his. It was all the words I couldn't speak when the whole cavern of my chest brimmed to capacity.

Oliver and Vance were already seated at the table when we arrived. Oliver rose politely, but Vance remained still and stoic in his seat.

I liked Oliver.

He reminded me a little of Malcolm. Kind and always thoughtful of others. Whereas Vance reminded me of Mr. Yorick. I understood it was his job to pay attention and look after Thoran as Mr. Yorick had looked after my father, but their approach was always so cold and harsh.

"My dear, you look absolutely lovely," Oliver said, delighted.

I offered him a smile as Thoran led me to the seat next to the head of the table. Next to his seat.

"Thank you." I said to Oliver before turning to Vance. "Hello."

"Miss Smith, it's lovely to see you once more ... properly dressed finally."

Mother would have liked him. The thought was not pleasant.

"Mr. Lacroix ... Thoran," I corrected myself, "was kind enough to take me to the mall."

Thoran held my chair out and helped tuck me under the table. I thanked him and was rewarded with the slightest brush of his fingertips across the naked path of skin along the back of my neck, scattering a trillion tiny goose bumps all throughout my entire body.

"I haven't been to the mall in ages," Oliver regained his seat and pulled his napkin across his lap. "Is Harvey still there? He owns the tobacco stand on the main level."

I shook my head. "I don't think we made it that far."

"Harvey was arrested five years ago for selling coke out of the backroom," Vance cut in. "He has another nine years before parole."

Oliver frowned. "Fourteen years for selling a bit of coke? Meanwhile, that Donny down the block is selling fresh livers out of his garage and not a peep from the authorities."

"Donny's smart," Vance corrected. "He doesn't draw attention to himself, and he doesn't sell to kids. It only takes one angry mom to set off the alarms and there goes everything."

It was during the back and forth that I realized Donny wasn't a farmer and his meat wasn't beef. What surprised me most, however, was the unbothered way everyone was talking about it.

Oliver caught me watching the interaction with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, my dear. This is not at all proper dinner conversation."

I shook my head. "No, please, I don't mind at all."

I really didn't. The whole thing intrigued me. Mother never allowed conversation at the table and the times Father had guests, it was always about mergers and stock exchanges. I'd wanted to drown myself in the soup multiple times just to have something to do, but a man who made a living selling human organs on the black market had my attention.

"How do you get into such a line of business?" I heard myself asking.

"You need to go to medical school," Oliver stated with every confidence.

"You do not," Vance immediately countered. "Remember Quinton? Not a lick of sense in that boy's thick skull yet he went on to become a very prolific serial killer."

"You don't need sense to be a killer," Oliver argued. "Donny was a world-renowned surgeon. He knew his way around a scalpel. That helps."

"You need connections," Thoran spoke up, silencing the other two. "People looking for the things you're selling and someone at certain hospitals who will look the other way."

Our gazes tangled together the way they always did whenever they met. "Do you...?"

He shook his head. "Blood makes me squeamish."

I felt my lips twitch. "I see."

He shot me a lopsided grin around the cut of pork chop he popped into his mouth.

Dinner mainly consisted of chatter between Oliver and Vance. The two could argue about anything. There didn't seem to be a single topic they agreed on. At one point, Vance mentioned the fog was getting out of control and the swamps needed to be covered up, a solution I didn't think was possible, but Oliver threw up his hands and yelled, "The swamps are an essential part of the ecosystem. You can't fill them up. What about the frogs?"

I slanted a glance towards Thoran to find him also biting back his amusement. His plate was empty, unlike mine which I had been very careful to pick at enough to give the illusion of being touched without looking like a pig.

When Thoran rose and excused us, I was all too happy to extract myself from the room with a murmured farewell to the two still bickering. Thoran led me away from the shouting with a warm palm against my lower back.

"Are they always like that?" I asked as we started in the direction of the foyer.

His burdened sigh made me chuckle. "My whole life. Up or down?" He'd paused at the bottom of the stairs.

I glanced from the darkened pathway leading to the bedrooms to the curving corridor to the office with the books.

"Depends. Are you taking me to bed or on a tour?" It took all of two seconds to realize the full gravity of my careless remark. "I meant, are we turning in? Not we. I mean me. Am I turning in?"

The words jumbled out of my mouth in a high squeak of mortification while Thoran stood there, one eyebrow cocked, making no move to assure me he understood.

"Do you want me to take you to bed, Blue?" he says at last.

I swallowed audible, trying to pinpoint which way he meant. I also had to remind myself that the act of intimacy had never sounded pleasant during my training. The entire process sounded painful and traumatic. Though, I did like the way Thoran touched me. The way he held me. I did want to kiss him and something I wasn't entirely sure how to put into words, but it wasn't taking him to bed. The two were worlds apart in my head.

There was also the very large fact that Thoran knew Jarrett. A dominating problem I kept forgetting whenever Thoran touched me. I knew all too well what Jarrett's grabbing hands felt like holding me down. Grabbing my breasts. Squeezing my thighs trying to pry them apart. Thoran hadn't done any of those things and he was by far gentler, but the process would be the same, wouldn't it?

"Let's just walk," he supplied when I took too long.

He didn't seem upset by my indecisive and frazzled mind, but I knew what Mother would say.

"You're a tease. A whore. You can't flaunt yourself and not expect him to react. What happened was your fault. You asked for it. Jarrett isn't to blame."

At the time, I couldn't remember what I'd done to invite him into my room. I'd gone over it a thousand times trying to think if I'd said something to confuse him or done something to make him think I wanted that. But it had all been such a normal day that had ended in an uneventful evening.

I'd bid him goodnight and changed for bed.

He came into my room.

He'd found me already in bed under the warm glow of the lamp. He'd grabbed me, ripping my nightgown. From there, it had been a fight. My sixteen-year-old strength against a two-hundred-pound man and the whiskey on his breath. I'd been so scared I'd soiled myself. That was what had saved me ... at least from Jarrett.

Nothing could have saved me from Mother the next day.

Jarrett had accused me of throwing myself at him. Of seducing him to my bed only to humiliate him. Even Malcolm couldn't save me from the stick or the three days in the box.

But maybe he'd been right.

Maybe I had started it just like I had with Thoran. I asked him to my bed knowing I couldn't follow through.

"Blue?" Still lost in the haze of that night, I flinched at the gentle skim of Thoran's fingers along the frigid flesh of my bare arm. "Easy, sweetheart. Where'd you go?"

Breathing tight in my chest, I stared up at him. "Go?"

He nodded. "You went stark white. I thought you were going to faint. What happened?"

I ran a tongue over my lips. "I'm sorry," I said, not sure for what part — acting crazy or seducing him unintentionally, or both. "I'm sorry."

"Hey." He reached carefully for my hand and cradled it gently in his. "What did I tell you about that word?"

I willed my heart to calm, to settle so I could control the short pants of air, but the more I tried, the harder I breathed, the faster my heart clapped in my chest.

"I didn't mean to..."

"Blue." His hand holding mine lifted and my sweaty palm was pressed to the center of his chest. "Breathe, sweetheart. Look at me. Breathe. In through your nose. Hold it. Slowly out of your mouth. That's good. Really good. Again."

I followed the calming baritone cadence of his voice guiding me to breathe in the middle of the foyer. The bells in my head subdued with every exhale until my heart synced with his.

"I'm sorry," were the first words I could manage as I returned.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for. The person who hurt you should be sorry."

I shook my head because he didn't understand that I was the instigator.

"Blue." His free hand closed around my waist and he drew me to him. "They're never going to touch you again. I swear on my mother's grave. I will burn their fucking world to the ground if they ever come near you."

I raised my chin to study the face of the man I couldn't figure out. I traced the sharp edges of his scarred cheek to where the puckered line dipped into the corner of his mouth. My fingers itched to trace the jagged skin, to follow them from temple to chin. But like every other time, I sank into the sandy desert of his eyes. The warm landscape of gold dominated by the most gorgeous lashes.

God, his eyes. They made everything stop moving. They brought a peace I felt to my soul.

"Why do you call me Blue?" I whispered instead.

I was sure I knew, but I had to hear him say it.

"Your eyes."

"What's wrong with Katie?" I only partially teased.

If I wasn't lost in the lock of our eyes, I never would have noticed the flare of his pupils.

"It's not your name, love." His finger silenced my weak protest. "I won't press you to tell me, but I'll ask you not to lie to me."

I couldn't refuse him that.

"Okay," I murmured.

His features softened. His touch brushed my cheek. "Will you still walk with me?"

I let him take my hand and guide me deeper into the darkness.