Ronan’s motorcycle is now nothing more than a crumpled heap of metal adorning the evening news. Surprisingly, my brother survived with his body intact, but not his skull. A brutal fracture has caused internal swelling. The only way to slow it was a medically induced coma that reduced him to a living, breathing statue hooked up to tubes and beeping machinery.
“You get some rest,” Hunter says five hours into our vigil, only one after Ronan left surgery. “I’ll stay with him tonight.”
I grit my teeth rather than refuse. Blinking tears back, I run my fingers over Ronan’s bandaged hands and finger a lock of his hair. Then I leave Hunter slumped on the chair beside his bed and return to the hotel with renewed determination.
Hunter was right: Everything is going to hell. But we Hollingses are natural-born sinners. We always find a conniving, scheming way to survive.
This fall from grace won’t be any different.
Or so I tell myself. In all twenty-four years of my life, I’ve rarely had to take up the family mantle. Just once before has the fate of everyone rested on my shoulders. The memories flicker behind my eyes, desperate to descend, but I don’t let them. I shake my head to banish the past and approach the suitcase of clothing I left by the suite’s entrance.
In my haste, I only grabbed a few things. One of them plays into my favor, ironically: a black dress with a plunging neckline, which I don’t even remember ripping from its hanger. Maybe some subconscious part of me knows what I need to do before I’m ready to admit it to myself.
I’m still not ready. Gritting my teeth, I enter the bathroom and shower. Then I arrange my damp hair around my shoulders and pull the dress on. Red lipstick would complete the look. Or a piece of jewelry. Something to make my intentions painfully clear.
And what are they, Snowy? A part of me demands.
The sick answer can only be uttered out loud to condensate over the mirror. “I’m selling myself.”
Not literally, but I know from experience that there are some assurances even a wink and a smile can garner. Some favors are best left unspoken. Like being seen with a reclusive old baron in exchange for a few “investment” dollars.
I can do this. I’ve done it before…
But none of those previous moments ever left me feeling like this. Tense. Sick to my stomach. Unable to catch my breath. Perhaps because the stakes have never been higher.
Slowly, my fingers drift to my throat, brushing stray hairs from it. I look at myself as someone like Blake Lorenz might. Like meat. Property. My body doesn’t cut a figure in this dress anywhere near like what Sloane’s would. My cleavage is all but nonexistent. My face is pretty but nothing exceptional. Up until this moment, the most valuable thing I ever had to offer was my name.
Though there is one other virtue I have left…
Do I have what it takes to put it up for sale?
My heart lurches whenever I try to come up with an answer. So I run instead and head downstairs to the hotel lobby. Armed with only my purse and a pair of heels, I leave in a town car toward one destination, and I nervously wring my fingers until it finally appears on the horizon.
The Bolles Gentlemen’s Club was always an enigma to my younger self. It was the mysterious, mystical place where Papa held court over the powerful men of Mayfield. Lives were built and ruined within the four walls composing the brick four-story building. Only the most influential men sought membership here. How has it all fared in my father’s absence?
Well, I’m about to find out.
I swallow hard but fail to dislodge the lump in my throat. Elegant settings typically instill confidence in me, but not tonight. My fingers nervously tug at my dress as I struggle to imagine my appearance. Is it too long? Too short? Should I smile? Pout?
Garnering pity is one skill I’ve always possessed, but lust? Even Daniel chose to slake his with someone else. At the thought of him, my lips contort into a frown and it’s suddenly impossible to sit still. Daniel Ellingston, the man I chose to spend my life with, couldn’t be bothered to warn me he’d tear it all apart. Am I hurt by the betrayal or more annoyed that I didn’t see it coming? I can’t tell as anxiety dominates my every nerve.
“Miss?” the driver questions. He’s waiting for a cue from me, to ensure that this is where I want to be.
The reputation of this place precedes it. Even this lone driver is aware of what takes place beyond these walls, though I’ve only heard rumors, most of them from Papa’s mouth. “You want to know where dumb girls who soil their families’ names end up?” he asked me once. “They end up spreading their legs in the middle of Bolles, desperate for a benefactor.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Once again, Papa has an uncanny habit of predicting the worst possible scenario of our misfortune. What would he say were he to see me now? I can picture it clearly. He’d tilt my chin with a nudge from his right hand, grazing my skin with the sharp edge of his signet ring. His cold, gray eyes would stare directly into mine. Then he’d snarl, “Settle only for the highest bid. You’re a goddamn Hollings. That means something.”
“Miss?” the driver questions again.
Squaring my shoulders, I reach for the door and open it without waiting for the driver’s assistance. Two steps carry me over the curb. With my head held high, I march the rest of the way.
Like I’m not dying inside.
Individual pain means nothing in the grand scheme—a lesson all three of us learned at some point. Blood trumps all but one ruling factor.
Money.
I picture a fitting amount as I approach the glass entrance of Bolles, where a man in a black suit stands guard. How much is Snowy Hollings worth, body and soul?
“Madame?” The man pulls one of the doors open and inclines his head inside. He doesn’t bother asking for my name. Perhaps he’s used to it: a parade of desperate women cycling in and out of these doors.
Where do desperate little girls wind up, Snowy? Spreading their legs inside Bolles.
One step over the threshold of the building and I swear I can sense my father’s presence. He dwells within the dark walls of a deserted foyer and the muttered voices drifting beyond a short hallway.
Bolles is different than I pictured: dark, stuffy, and obscured by clouds of cigar smoke. So much for my fantasy of proudly facing a room of lecherous men and picking the least offensive of the lot to save me. Reality is a lot less idealistic.
Instead of a den of shadows, I step into one brimming with heat and sinister overtones that taint the air, richer than any cigar. A chandelier hangs above, illuminating the grand entrance. Up ahead, a swath of light beckons where rich laughter intermingles with muttered chatter.
Somehow, that makes it worse. I’m entering a den of men with no real reason to humor a disgraced Hollings.
I’m entering a world where my name no longer means a damn thing.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging from the wall, which throws my appearance in stark relief. I look so pale against these dark walls. Red rims my swollen eyes—the evidence of too many tears to disguise. No matter. I’ll use the pathetic weakness to my advantage.
Turning toward the narrow hallway, I start forward only to feel my heart crawl farther up my throat with every step I take.
When I finally glimpse the club’s interior through an arched doorway, the air escapes my lungs and my resolve melts into a puddle at my feet. There’s no way in hell I can do this.
Apparently, a woman spreading her legs in Bolles means more than the obvious imagery; it means entering a room where at least fifty of the world’s most powerful men sip from crystal glasses while being served liquor by women wearing bits of lace and silk. It means capturing the attention of men who balance a priceless antique ring on one finger and an eager hostess on the other.
It means more than just sex. A woman in Bolles needs to be willing to spread more than just her legs to command attention here.
She needs to spread open her fucking soul.
And you can, a part of me insists. I only need to think of Ronan fighting for his life in a hospital bed or of Hunter drinking himself into oblivion.
My choice becomes clear; there isn’t one. I’m a goddamn Hollings.
Blinking pricking heat back, I hone my gaze over any likely suspects. Surprisingly, I don’t recognize some of the men. Others…
That’s James Marsten in the corner, oil magnate and an old rival of my father’s. Would he pay for the privilege to humiliate Forrest Hollings from the grave? If he won’t, then the man across from him might. My father negotiated a deal that netted him a huge loss once. My innocence might make a fitting revenge. Or…
I start forward, craning my neck to better survey my options. I barely make it over the threshold before someone grabs my forearm. Hard. A gasp escapes from my throat, but before I can turn to see my assailant, they drag me through an open doorway I didn’t notice.
It leads into a small sitting room furnished with black leather armchairs overlooking a lit fireplace. Then I’m let go to stagger to the center of the room, and I whirl around and find a figure chilling enough to stop even my heart in its tracks. Just as quickly, it surges to life again, hammering so fiercely that I can feel my pulse in every fiber of my being.
“You don’t belong here,” Blake Lorenz tells me, his eyes narrowed.
God, I hate how effortlessly he straddles that painful line between familiar and terrifying. Those eyes belong to me, realer than any memory. But the expression is one from a nightmare. Not even in my wildest terrors could I ever imagine my Brandt so…twisted.
Dressed in a navy suit and a darker tie, the man cuts an imposing figure against paneled wood. My mouth waters and my spine tightens, though I don’t know why. Not attraction, I don’t think. Maybe it’s instinct. I’m in a proverbial den of lions, but this man is something far, far worse.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, feeding me each word slowly, as though he thinks I’m an imbecile.
“Why does it matter?” My voice comes out stronger than I could have expected. My chin juts defiantly in the air while, inside, I flinch at how his jaw clenched in response.
He doesn’t enjoy being challenged. Do I have what it takes to keep doing so?
My heart taps out an answer in frantic Morse code: Hell no.
“Your family’s influence doesn’t extend as far as you believe, Snow.” A dangerous smirk tilts his mouth. He deliberately clipped my name to unsettle me.
And he has. My fingers tremble. Knitting them into fists is the only way to hide the vulnerability.
“Did you buy the club too?” I wonder only to remember that he did. A sudden realization strikes and I’m compelled to voice it. “First, our business. Then our house. Now, this club… It’s almost like you’re attempting to emulate someone, Mr. Lorenz.”
His head cocks to the side. “Oh? And who would that be?”
Every nerve in my body warns me to tread carefully. No matter what, it’s pure insanity to utter one name. “My father, Forrest Hollings.”
Blue eyes flash like a whip, and I regret my stupid slip of the tongue.
“Never compare me to him,” he commands in a hollow tone.
“Why?” I counter, once again toying with a dangerous possibility. My eyes tell me that this stranger is nothing like the Brandt I knew. But my heart? It’s always been a foolish thing. “I don’t remember you”—at least not the name Lorenz—“but whatever you have against my family, it almost feels…personal.”
A wry smile shapes his mouth, more alarming than his various scowls. “Oh, but this is personal. Your family has made more enemies through the years than you can keep track of.”
“That’s true,” I say hoarsely. “But I can’t help feeling as though you don’t just hate my family.”
“Oh?” A black eyebrow cocks into the air. “And who would I hate?”
His cold utterance of my name provides a clue.
“Me.” Suddenly breathless, I grapple for air. “It feels as though you hate me.”
He laughs, but it’s quick and fleeting, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. They smolder. “That’s a very selfish statement to make. After all, one might assume that every one of you Hollings has plenty of sins to atone for.”
I can admit as much. Had I only his words to go on, I might believe he feels the same—but he glows vengefully at the mere mention of my family. He ignites when he speaks of me.
“If I did hate you,” he adds deceptively softly. “It wouldn’t be your family’s ruin I was after. Your stocks, your holdings, even your home wouldn’t satisfy me.”
He pauses expectantly. It’s like he wants me to goad him on. To prod. To give him a reason to taunt me further.
I resist for two seconds—but crackling firewood taints the air. Orange flames reflect off his hollow gaze. I can almost see myself in them, slowly burning alive.
“What would you want?” My words rise to a mere whisper.
“I wouldn’t be satisfied with your family’s ruin.” He takes a step forward, catching me off guard. Laughing, he takes another. One of his hands captures the ball of my chin when he’s close enough. He roughly tilts my head to the side, surveying me from the newer angle.
I stiffen but allow the contact. A part of me understands the unspoken rules; here, he holds all the cards to both my doom and my salvation.
“If I truly hated you, I’d want you broken,” he confesses before letting me go. Narrowed eyes notice how I shudder in the wake of his touch. “I’d want you a shell of who you are. I’d want you quivering in the palm of my hand. I’d want you in pieces. Are you in pieces?”
Breathless, I shake my head.
“I can’t hear you.”
“N-no—”
“There’s your answer, then.” I can’t escape the feeling that he wants to add something else. For now. “Now, leave. You don’t belong here. Consider your membership revoked—”
“Y-you can’t do that!” Indignation taints my voice, giving it a whining tone.
“Can’t I?” He levels that dangerous gaze at me again, cutting through any confidence I have left. “Your name doesn’t hold power anymore. You’d do best to remember that.”
“And you should remember the rules of Bolles,” I counter, hating how my voice trembles.
But this is one element where I feel I have the edge. This man may shell out money for the club, but rumors of its ongoings were my bedtime stories, told as a privilege for my brothers to aspire to and an ever-present threat for me to fear.
“Membership is decided by a majority vote,” I tell him, parroting my father’s old rules. “I have as much of a right as anyone to argue for a place here.”
“And what could you want with a membership?” His tone alone should give me pause. It’s far too quiet, like the lull before a storm.
Any other day, I’d heed the silent warnings. I’d exercise logic over emotion. But, within seconds, this man already has me questioning everything I’ve staked my entire being upon. I can’t let him go without standing my ground. I can’t face myself without doing so.
“I’m going to find someone who can help me save my family’s name.”
Recognition draws his lips to a harsh line. “You mean to whore yourself.”
I wince as if slapped and find myself staring down at the floor rather than facing him directly. Damn him. I should get used to hearing the term, I suppose. Whore.
“You are…”
Does the thought anger him? The grated quality of his voice claims yes. Very much so.
I sense him reach for me, his hand a shadow in the corner of my eye. Inches from my face, he draws back.
“Little Snowy Hollings, ready and willing to suck some rich old bastard’s cock rather than join the ranks of us mortals. I never thought I’d see the day.”
His crudeness feeds anger I didn’t even know I possessed, festering in the pit of my stomach.
“More than that,” I spit, lifting my chin. “I would rather spread my legs in the middle of Bolles than watch you tear my family apart.”
He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity, peering deeper than my battered veneer. “Spread your legs,” he echoes finally, his face devoid of expression. “How about you spread them for the only man here with any damn power?”
The insult strikes deep. Wrenching from his grasp, I start for the hall. “If you’re done mocking me—”
“Do you hear me laughing?” His voice renders me motionless even before his hand returns, latching onto my forearm.
Hope and fear lodge themselves in my throat, forming a repulsive mixture. “What…what do you mean?”
I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Nonetheless, he doesn’t hesitate.
“You spread your legs for me.”
I blink as the world ruthlessly spins beneath me. You’re insane, I want to say. My lips part, but nothing comes out. Speechless, I’m wrenched around to face him.
“Name your price,” he dares. Fire glimmers behind his eyes again. He’s mocking me. Or is he?
My tongue flits along my bottom lip, wetting it. I hallucinate, because I swear he tracks the motion, grinding his teeth.
“My family’s shares,” I say at last.
He scoffs. “Fuck no. You’re not worth that much.”
“Then I suppose I’ll take my chances with the rest of Bolles.”
He still has my arm in his grasp. I tug, but he doesn’t let me go. If anything, his fingers tighten their hold.
“And risk another night that poor Ronan’s hospital bills go unpaid?”
“How did you—” I bite the question off and choke it down. “His bills, then.” Anxiety gnaws away at my skull. The hospital bills alone aren’t anywhere near enough. But it’s a start. Another day, I can worry about the rest. This would be one less matter pressing down on my shoulders.
Though am I truly considering it?
Blake Lorenz must pick up on my unease. He releases me, swiping at his chin with a thumb. “Do you even understand what you’re offering? Or do you think someone will take pity on you and give you the money for free? That’s not how the real world works.”
He sneers down at me, so convinced that he saw through my master plan. It horrifies me to admit that he has. But I’d rather die than let him know it.
“I’ll let my benefactor decide for himself what he wants to do with me,” I say, drawing myself to my full height. Even on heels, I barely reach his chin. What I lack in height I hope I make up for in sheer loathing, which I pour into every word I throw at him next. “He can teach me to do whatever the hell he wants.”
He raises a black eyebrow, so fucking stoic. “Oh?”
“Yes, because…I’m a virgin.” My face heats at his sharp intake of air. “A fact I think someone might find worth far more than a few hospital bills.”
And with one reckless act, I just gave away the only valuable card in my hand.
“You’re lying.” He sounds so sure of that, even as he eyes my body boldly. Just who does he think I am? Though he’s already said as much: whore. “And frankly, Ms. Hollings, I’m not interested in—”
“I’m not lying.” My fingers drift deliberately down my front, hovering above my navel. “Shall I prove it?”
He visibly stiffens. The line of his jaw, his posture—everything hardens until he’s a single solid mass blocking my only exit from this room. Only one aspect of him maintains any motion: his eyes as they chase the path of my fingers before returning to mine.
“Strip.”
The room wavers in and out of focus. “W-what—”
“You made the offer,” he interjects. “Prove it. Strip.”
An impatience crackles from him that wasn’t there before, and every instinct I possess converges on a single thought: Run.
“I-I don’t—”
“Do you want the money or not?”
I jump. He shouted though he doesn’t seem to realize.
Gritting his teeth, he nods toward my lower half. “Then take off the fucking dress.”
I should refuse. God, I want to. I imagine what it would be like to turn my nose up at him and march from this room. Thrilling. But Ronan would still be on life support. Hunter would drown in his guilt. I’d still be a Hollings with nothing to show for it.
“Don’t fucking tease,” he snarls.
I’ve reached for a single strap without realizing it. Blushing beneath his scrutiny, I seize a fistful of the skirt instead. I start to lift it only to catch myself gaping through the open doorway. Anyone who walks past this room can see right inside. Am I brave enough to let that happen?
“No.” Blake’s closer, blocking my view with his bulk. Flashing eyes hold me captive. “You don’t think about them,” he warns. “Take off the fucking dress.”
I obey, cinching the fabric in both hands and wrenching it over my head. A heartbeat later, I’m standing before him wearing only a lace thong and a pair of heels—I’d forgone wearing a bra from the outset.
Blake Lorenz takes me in with a quick glance, frowning at what he sees. A low sound escapes him. Words? My ears decipher them belatedly.
“There’s no way in hell you’re a virgin.”
What about my body gives him that idea? Looking down, I can’t tell. Pale skin greets me beneath unflattering firelight. My hands twitch helplessly at my sides, aching to cover the most vulnerable places. But I can’t—and he knows it.
“Move and you won’t get a fucking dime.” The threat comes as he begins to circle my position while his hands fist the air at his sides.
I keep myself utterly still, facing forward. A piece of my hair is disturbed from behind and I hear him inhale. My mind jumps to the first primal explanation it comes up with. Is he smelling me? The curl is released without comment, but his slow patrol continues.
“You mean to tell me that your fiancé never fucked you?”
“We haven’t made love,” I counter, fighting to keep my chin in the air. “Yet.” My voice cracks over the pathetic assurance. As if Daniel will give a damn about me after this.
Even Blake Lorenz has enough tact not to point my folly out. “Why?” he demands, returning to the subject of my alleged virginity. “Don’t tell me you were saving yourself for marriage, Little Snow.”
“I was.” Raw pain bleeds freely into my voice, but there’s no hiding it now. I let him taste a hint of the suffering he seems to crave. “I was.”
“For him?”
It’s a dangerous question. One with no real answer. So I say nothing, but he seems determined to fill in the blank regardless.
He lifts another piece of my hair and fire burns across my scalp—he tugged. “Don’t tell me you had someone else in mind?”
Again, his hostility feels out of place. At least in a stranger. My nipples tighten reflexively. Despite the fire, he leaves me feeling cold. Exposed. Vulnerable.
“Does it matter?” I croak.
He lets my hair go and it falls against my lower back. “No.” Then he completes his circle, but his expression only alarms me further. Something new alights his gaze, adding definition to his harsh features. “You think you’re worth stake in your company, Little Snow?”
I struggle to keep from withdrawing beneath his scrutiny. I’m a Hollings, I chant to myself. A goddamn Hollings. “I’m sure someone would think so.” The boast takes my breath away. Humpty Dumpty’s all grown up; she thinks she’s worth a fortune.
“Should I let you have the floor?” he wonders, leaning in to hiss each word near my ear. “Auction off the chance for one of those men to rip their way inside you? Mark you?”
I cringe at the imagery. Mother always made love-making sound beautiful. To Father, sex was a transaction. Or a weapon.
“You know where stupid girls go, you little bitch? They spread their legs in Bolles…”
“Look at me.” Blue eyes survey me coldly, unamused by my sudden lapse in attention. “Or maybe you want to be bought and sold?”
“Sold,” Papa hissed, shoving me against the desk. “I’ll teach you what it fucking means to be a Hollings.”
My eyes blink rapidly, chasing the memory away. No. I refuse to let the past haunt me here. Instead, I focus on the man before me, and I force myself to nod.
“Yes…”
“Half,” he tells me. Confusion descends, but my frown only seems to anger him further. “Half of Hollings shares. But I want more than just your cunt.”
My cheeks sear at his word usage—and he knows the effect vulgarity has on me. On him, triumph is a vicious expression of bared teeth and glinting eyes.
There’s no more use in pretending to be brave. “What?” I ask in a whisper.
“I own you for an entire year,” he proposes, but his frown betrays his confusion. He didn’t intend to ask for this. It’s a request born of smoldering hate. “All of you. You eat, sleep, and breathe at my beck and call.”
“And…” I’m forced to lick my lips again to find enough traction to speak. For all of my effort, I can only string hollow gasps into the semblance of speech. “And you’ll give me half of my family’s shares?”
It’s more than I ever could have hoped for.
“At the end of the year. If you survive that long.” He doesn’t laugh to taper the threat. It lances between us, stabbing deeper than any form of physical violence.
“You want to hurt me?” Fear has me backing against the fireplace. I trip over the carpet, forced to cling to the mantel for balance.
His expression doesn’t waver. There’s not even an echo of pity or guilt. “I told you what I wanted from you,” he says, nodding toward my chest as though it contains the answer.
He turns on his heel while my brain struggles to piece together what his confession truly means: If I hated you…
I’d want you in pieces.
Near the threshold, he tosses back, “I don’t want a fucking martyr. Innocence doesn’t suit you. Come to me only if you’re willing to earn your goddamn keep—but you don’t tell your brothers or your accountants. You tell no one. You have a day to decide.”
He returns to the heart of the club, leaving me there, nearly naked and trembling.
His hate clings to me.
My doom.
My salvation.