TEN

Ten-thirty came much too fast. Time seemed to go impossibly slow whenever I was with Macalister, but now I was locked alone in my own room, and the minutes raced by.

As soon as I’d left the library, I’d hurried down the hall and was thankful I didn’t run into anyone else. It felt like I was carrying a bomb and it’d explode if Royce saw me with it. So, I stumbled into my room, shoved the box under my bed, and pretended if it was out of sight it ceased to exist.

But the goddamn clock kept ticking, and soon I’d have to unleash all the evils inside Pandora’s Box.

At ten, I changed into a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, curled up on the couch, and tried to read, but every few sentences my gaze would drift over to the bed. Where would I do it? There? And how exactly did the strange vibrator work?

I only made it ten minutes before I sat on the floor, my back against the side of the bed and the box on my lap, the ribbon undone. My mouth went dry as I read the instructions. Half of the thing—the smaller end—went inside me. The wider, fat end would press against my clit.

Of course, I considered not using it and faking the ordeal, but I was sure he’d know somehow. And it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but be a little curious.

I’d never admit it to Macalister, but I’d never used a vibrator before. Like a fool, I’d thought my parents watched the credit card statements, and I would have been too embarrassed to be caught buying a sex toy with their money. Plus, I’d been a virgin and able to get myself off just fine with my own hand, so I never had much drive to seek out additional help.

When the time drew near, I was strangely numb to all emotion—other than anxiety—like I’d been with the initiation. It seemed weird to have the lights on, so I turned them off, and only moonlight lit my room as I climbed onto my king-sized bed. I pulled off my clothes, wiggled under the covers, and sucked in a deep breath.

At the other end of the hall, Macalister was likely in his room, thinking about me. Would he touch himself as we did this? Or would he be completely focused on me? Maybe he’d multitask during the session and check how his personal stocks were performing.

Alice wouldn’t be around because they didn’t share a bedroom. It wasn’t their loveless marriage that kept them apart. Their sleeping patterns were total opposites, as Macalister was an insomniac and Alice needed a minimum of eight hours of rest to function.

My fingers crept down across my stomach, inching lower. I closed my eyes and pictured Royce today, wearing that stunning black suit and maroon tie, his pants undone and his hard cock clenched in his hand.

As he stroked in my mind, my fingers rubbed over my swollen clit. I didn’t want to think about why I was already wet or what had turned me on before I’d even started the fantasy. All that was important was that I be ready before the clock hit ten-thirty.

Breath escaped my lungs as I pushed the black vibrator inside me. It was cold and smooth, and the other end fit tight against my slit. It wasn’t . . . uncomfortable. If anything, it felt good.

But the waiting? That was agony. I lay in my bed, my hands balled into fists at my sides, so tense I was ready to explode. Was this part of the session? To build anticipation until I was—

“Oh!” I gasped.

Vibrations buzzed against my center. The sensation wasn’t like anything I’d experienced. Instant, acute pleasure burst between my legs, so great it made me flinch. I gripped handfuls of the sheet beneath me, needing to hold on as warmth spread along the length of my body.

It stole my breath and my thoughts.

All I could focus on was the pulse, both inside and out, which made me want to twist and writhe. I turned my head and groaned into the side of my pillow. Holy fuck, it felt good. I just had to lie there and take it, surrendering control.

By the time I got a handle on the sensations, the pattern changed from a steady vibration to a slow building one. It would crest and ebb, and with each cycle I clawed my way reluctantly closer to an orgasm.

I was alone in the room. If I were controlling the vibrator on my own, this would mean nothing. Royce’s only issue with me using a toy would likely be that he didn’t get to participate.

But I wasn’t in control.

And that made all the difference. The walls between Macalister and me were only an illusion of propriety. What I was doing was wrong. Worse was the sick appeal of it. Royce had denied me for a year, gotten what he wanted, then traded me away. I could argue it served him right that he’d allowed this to happen.

I crossed a line, and now it felt too good to stop.

My breath came and went so quickly it left me lightheaded. Sweat beaded at my temples as my orgasm approached. It was useless to resist, and I gave up holding back. The only worry now wasn’t if I would come, but if I could stay relatively quiet as I did it.

A tremble worked its way up my legs, my eyes slammed shut, and I jammed my hands into my hair. I wasn’t going to come—I was going to break apart. Even if I was able to piece myself together afterward, I wouldn’t be the same. There’d always be this stain on my insides from where I’d let Macalister in.

Win at all costs.

That was what I had to do. Losing the battle was all right as long as I won the war.

I rolled onto my stomach and released a pleasure-soaked moan into my pillow as I came. The orgasm tightened my muscles until I wasn’t in control, and they tweaked and contracted like a marionette’s strings being pulled. Ecstasy purred and buzzed, sizzling on my nerves until everything was tingling.

It was so, so good until it was too much.

I reached down and yanked the vibrator out, overly sensitive. It continued humming, quiet as a whisper as I blew out a long breath and struggled to slow my heartrate. When I was no longer tingling and the fog had cleared in my brain, I grabbed my phone and thumbed out the message.

Me: One.

Five seconds later the vibrator died, and it was painfully silent in the room.

Macalister: Tomorrow you will have two.

I lobbed my phone onto the other side of the bed, hoping it would take the wicked excitement along with it.

My Porsche was waiting for me in the circle drive the next morning, washed clean and gassed up to go. I climbed into the driver’s seat and wrapped my hands around the steering wheel, letting the feeling of being in control calm me. Every mile of road I put between myself and the Hale house lifted more pressure off my shoulders.

I’d told the Hales I was going to visit my sister, but I drove out of the way to Port Cove first. The tattoo shop was nicer than I expected, with upscale furniture and flooring and a sexy vibe. Arturo, the artist, was short with tattoos crawling all over his skin, and he listened thoughtfully as I explained what I wanted.

“I have a picture,” I said.

I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and searched for it on my profile. As I scrolled, it was sickening how long it took to get through all the fake posts I’d made before finally getting to the real me. I’d buried myself under an avalanche of selfies with my daily outfits, curated office shots, and vapid party pictures. I’d posed with people who didn’t care about me, only what I could do for them.

When the consultation was over, I drove to my parents’ house.

It was the first time I’d been there since I moved in with the Hales, and it was beyond strange. Everything felt . . . smaller. The lights didn’t shine as brightly, and the rooms seemed overwrought with items my parents didn’t need. It had a claustrophobic effect I’d never noticed before.

Emily was in her pajamas and in bed when I arrived, her back propped up by pillows. It didn’t look like she’d showered today, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Concern made me collapse beside her.

“I’m tired all the time,” she said. “This baby is sucking the life out of me.”

I didn’t miss the way her gaze slid over me, taking in my designer clothes, my rich brown hair, and perfectly manicured nails. Envy wasn’t something I’d ever seen in my sister’s eyes before. Was she wondering if this was what her life would have been if she hadn’t gotten pregnant?

I wanted to tell her it was like my Instagram feed—nothing was as glamorous and perfect as what I projected. She didn’t know Royce had sold me out, or who he’d handed me over to. I wanted to confide in my sister and best friend what I’d had to do to earn the right to drive myself here today.

But I couldn’t, because that meant I’d have to admit it out loud, and I couldn’t stand to see the judgment twist on her face. Not to mention, she was on bed rest, and I shouldn’t cause any additional stress.

There was a third, shameful reason I didn’t say anything. I still wasn’t over what she’d kept from me. Her affair with her professor, her pregnancy, and the rumor she’d heard about the initiation. I wanted to move past it, but I struggled.

No one was who I thought they were, and it felt like my whole family was slipping away.

“It’s going to be all right.” I tried to make it sound convincing but faltered. So, I curled up in bed beside her and watched Netflix while we talked about things that didn’t matter. She probably wanted to escape as much as I did.

“Marist,” our mother said when she came in and discovered me in bed beside Emily. “Were you even going to come say hello?”

“Of course,” I said. “I thought you were going to join us.”

She scowled. “No. I wish I had time to sit around and watch TV, but I’m too busy.”

Her passive-aggressive statement sliced through my mood and turned my tone sarcastic. “I’m sure.”

She ignored my attitude. “I need to leave soon. I have an appointment at Barney’s.”

Tension tightened the muscles in my back. “You’re going shopping?”

“I need a dress for the anniversary gala.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, I have a budget.” An idea must have taken hold in her mind because she abruptly straightened and brightened. “Do you want to come with me?”

A hundred thoughts hit me at once, but the cynical one was the loudest. What was her motive for asking me to join her? Did she genuinely want to spend time with her daughter . . . or was she hoping I would be able to pay for her dress?

I’d go with her, if for no other reason than to make sure she stuck to her budget. I’d have to save her from herself.

It was like I’d just swallowed ice and it sat as a frozen lump in my stomach.

I sounded like Macalister.

At twenty-three, Jillian Lambert was two years older than I was. When her hair was down, it was long and wavy, but tonight her honey brown tresses were pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail. Her black dress had fluttering shoulders, and it walked a perfect line between casual and dressed up.

She’d chosen wisely. I still hadn’t figured out exactly how to dress for the Hale family dinners either. I took my seat beside Royce and flashed a sympathetic smile to her across the table. She looked nervous as hell and like she’d rather be anywhere else than seated beside Vance.

Sophia had told me Jillian had a nasty, very public breakup with her boyfriend at the marina fundraising event Royce and I had missed. I had the sneaking suspicion Vance had played a part in it. His guiding hand had orchestrated the thing somehow to make sure she would be single.

Because his father wanted Jillian with Vance, and the Hales always got what they wanted.

“Thank you for joining us this evening,” Macalister said to her.

Her voice quavered. “Thanks for having me.”

“How is the training going? Are you prepared for the race?”

She glanced at the man seated next to her like she needed his approval.

“Yeah, we’re ready,” Vance said.

Macalister was irritated his son had spoken in her place. He refocused on Jillian. “Does your father think you have a good chance at winning?”

She nodded. “We’re all hopeful.”

Macalister eked out half of a pained smile. Her answer lacked the kind of confidence he demanded from both his family and his employees. He couldn’t say anything, though. She was his link to her father, who was Macalister’s link to the president, and he wasn’t going to risk falling out of Wayne Lambert’s good graces.

“Vance has been so helpful,” she added. Her amused gaze darted to him. “Always telling us what to do and stuff.”

I snorted. “What did you expect? He’s a Hale.”

Oh, my God. What the fuck did I just say?

Every pair of eyes at the table turned to me, and the room went so quiet no one was breathing. I was Medusa again. Everyone had turned to stone.

“Yeah,” Royce said finally. “You’d better watch out or he’ll make himself captain.” His teasing tone released the tension and let the air back into the room, and I was so grateful. I flashed him an appreciative look.

“Vance doesn’t want that,” Macalister said. “I’m sure your father is an excellent captain.” His voice was cool and pointed. A warning to Vance to stay in line.

A tight smile pressed on Alice’s lips. “May I shift topics for a moment?”

Her husband nodded. “Yes.”

“The masquerade masks for the gala,” she said. “I keep thinking it would be better if we had a consistent look for the family. It’s the Hale Banking and Holding Company, and we’ll want a picture of all the Hales represented.”

Disinterest colored his expression. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking black and white? Or everyone in gold?” She pursed her lips, unhappy with the answers she was giving. “I’m still working up ideas.”

“How about the Greek myths?” Royce said.

“What?” Alice and I asked at the same time.

He tossed up a hand like he was literally throwing the idea out onto the table. “Marist has all these books about the myths, and some of them are—”

“We’re not Greek,” Macalister said.

My fiancé wasn’t fazed. “I think it could be something different and unique. That’s what Alice said we needed, right?” He shrugged as if he didn’t care either way. “I don’t know, I kind of like the idea of being a god.”

Alice tilted her head as she considered his statement, before her gaze latched onto me. “This was the stuff you used to post on social media.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Macalister peered at his wife. “I worry the whole evening lacks sophistication, but the masquerade is your concept. I leave the smaller decisions to you.”

In Macalister-speak, that meant he was giving up control because he thought it wasn’t worth his time. Costumes were beneath him.

Alice wasn’t sold, but not ready to dismiss Royce’s idea either. “Maybe Marist and I could pull some pictures together.”

Outwardly, I nodded and looked enthusiastic to help. On the inside, I wanted to slump my shoulders and scowl. Was this another part of me the Hales would modify and skew to fit their brand?

“You’re going to a masquerade party?” Jillian asked. “That sounds fun.”

Macalister’s glare carried the heat of a thousand suns, and it was shocking that Vance didn’t burst into flames. He obviously hadn’t asked her to be his date yet, but he rolled right into an easy smile. “It will be fun, and you can come.” His eyes sparkled with charm. “I’ll even let you be my date.”

“Oh.” She laughed nervously. “That’s okay. We’re just friends.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Well, friend, I need a date.”

Jillian’s hesitant gaze darted around the table, searching for help, but she didn’t find any. Her shoulders tightened as her chin dropped toward her chest. “I just got out of something serious.”

Vance’s expression darkened. “Yeah, with a serious douchebag. Screw that guy. Show up on my arm, and he’ll see how much you’ve traded up.”

She looked torn. The idea had appeal, but her gaze flicked over to Royce for a second. Was she thinking about how awkward it’d be since she’d slept with Vance’s older brother?

I couldn’t picture them together. Jillian was pretty, and she’d been popular enough in school, but they had nothing in common. It had probably been a one-night stand, and he’d been his fake persona with her. Playing his role as the cocky bastard who made all the girls swoon. She hadn’t seen the other side of himself that he’d shown only to me.

I knew it, because I couldn’t stand anything else to be true.

It was clear Vance wasn’t going to be able to close the deal, and Macalister wasn’t going to let that happen. “I invited your father personally,” he said. “Please, I insist.”

That settled it. She couldn’t refuse the king.

Her voice was timid. “Okay.”

“Excellent,” Macalister said.

Jillian’s gaze fell to her plate, and she looked like a trapped animal, resigned to the cage closed around her. Was that how I’d looked the day I’d made the deal to marry Royce? It felt like a lifetime ago.

I stared at her across the table, feeling nothing but dread. This family was going to eat her alive.

All through dinner, Macalister hadn’t so much as glanced my direction. His indifference toward me made me question if what had happened last night had been real. I was terrified to be alone with him and answer the questions I knew he was going to ask.

But a deal was a deal, and I had no choice.

At seven-thirty, the door to the library was open and Macalister was already waiting inside. But unlike the other nights, he wasn’t seated behind the desk. He stood beside the leather reading chair, his attention on the black cat knotted in a ball on the top of the high chair back. I expected Macalister to shoo Lucifer away.

He lifted a hand, set it on the cat’s head, and stroked all the way down its back.

Lucifer’s apple green eyes popped open and peered up at the man petting him and, after a moment’s consideration, he decided he would allow it. As Macalister stroked the cat again, Lucifer stretched and gave a rumbling, content purr.

Macalister was in side-profile to me, unaware I was watching him. As his face softened into a smile, I fractured. Maybe all the Hales had two sides, but I didn’t want to see this other version of him. I could only deal with him as Zeus—uncaring god of the mortals. He was complex enough like that.

“Royce told me you hated the cat,” I said quietly.

Macalister straightened and dropped his hand like Lucifer had burned him. He wasn’t pleased I’d caught him being affectionate and tried to hide his embarrassment with a dark glare. “And I told you that you shouldn’t trust anything he says.”

He strode to the chessboard and sat, which meant I had to shut the door and join him.

“What is it about mythology that appeals to you?” he asked as we began playing.

I didn’t want to have this discussion. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”

He found my lack of answer unacceptable and let me know with his sharp tone. “Try.”

I sighed. “So, you have these gods, who have power and immortality and are supposed to be superior . . . and yet, they’re so much worse than the mortals. They’re spiteful and jealous, full of lust and wrath. They don’t care about anyone but themselves.” I tried not to get distracted by talking. I had to focus on the board and defend my queen. “They’re people’s terrible, basic instincts, but amplified.”

“You’re saying you enjoy reading about horrible things happening to horrible people.”

Was he teasing me? His sense of humor was so dry, I could rarely tell when he wasn’t being serious. He was in such a good mood tonight. Getting Jillian to agree to be Vance’s date must have been the reason. All his ducks were lining up for him to get everything he wanted.

“When you’re a god,” I said, “there are no consequences, so power corrupts absolutely. It makes for some pretty fascinating and messed up stories.”

There was a long moment of quiet. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what I’d said, or his next move.

“Then,” his gaze lifted from the chessboard to meet mine, “after I’ve won this game, you’ll pick out one of your books for me to read. I’ll start with your favorite.”

My heart clunked in my chest. Him reading my favorite book was almost as intimate as him giving me a vibrator. I swallowed thickly, searching for a way to distract. “Who says you’re going to win?”

He blinked slowly. “My knight, most likely. I’m taking your queen in two moves, and then it will all be over.”

Confounded, I stared at the board. How the hell was he going to—

I deflated as I saw what he anticipated.

“You’re a clever girl,” Macalister said, “but you get lost in the game. You’re thinking about each move you make, while I’m at least two moves ahead.”

Just as predicted, in two moves he carried out his plan. My queen was captured, and without my most valuable piece, it was only a matter of time before he had me locked in checkmate.

A victorious smile burned across his lips. “I’ll wait here for you to bring me my book.”

I sighed and climbed out of my chair. I used the short walk to my bedroom to try to figure out which title to give him. Would he want the most literary and sophisticated one from my collection? Or the one I thought he’d tolerate the best?

When I returned and presented the book to him, he examined it with disdain. “This is your favorite?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“And, being that it’s your favorite, I assume you’ve read it multiple times.” He thumbed through the book, showing off its pristine pages and unmarred spine.

“Uh . . .” I was so busted. I’d only read it once. “I thought this was the one you’d like best.”

He shut it with a loud slam and thrust the book toward me. “That’s not what I asked for, though, is it?”

“No, I’m sorry.” His disappointment was so heavy it was crushing, and I needed relief. “I’ll be right back.” I grabbed it from him and took off for my bedroom.

When I returned with the black book and its well-worn gold embossed cover, Macalister’s displeasure faded. He took the hardcover book from me, his gaze scanning the printing on the front before opening it and reading the inside flap of the dust jacket.

He asked it without looking at me, as if he were only mildly curious. “Are you looking forward to tonight?”

His question opened me up and filled my interior with concrete.

“It’s all I could think about today,” he added.

It became impossible to breathe. Everything in me was too tight, too strained. “Macalister,” I pleaded.

I couldn’t have picked a worse thing to say. His eyes lidded with desire, and he licked his full lips, like I looked delicious and was about to be devoured.

“I enjoy the way you say my name.” His expression teemed with dangerous lust. “Like it’s nearly unspeakable—a word too filthy to say out loud.”

I pressed my hand to my chest and took a blind step backward, but he matched it with a step forward of his own, keeping me only an arm’s length away.

“You’ll say it tonight,” he said.

What? I shook my head. “No. I won’t.”

He hardened at my refusal. “You will. You’ll think about me, and when the pleasure is too much, you’ll say my name.”

“No.” I found my footing and my spine. He’d gotten me to do a lot of things, but . . . “You can try to control me all you want, but you can’t tell me what to think. You can’t make me think about you.”

Excitement danced in his vibrant eyes. “You gave me complete control over your experience. That was the deal we agreed on. You say I can’t make you think about me, but I’m already two moves ahead, Marist.” His voice swelled with power. “I can, and I will.”