Chapter Three

CHESKA

The car stopped at Arthur’s yacht. My mobile vibrated, and I pulled it out of my clutch, which Arthur had retrieved from the alley floor.

FREYA: Where are you? We’re worried.

I took a deep breath.

Gone home. Had a headache. I’m going to bed. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.

I put my phone in my bag and tried not to feel guilty for omitting the truth about what had happened. But despite my throbbing cheek and my brush with the attackers, I needed to know what Arthur planned to do next. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to get behind the high walls he had clearly built around him. He was a deep, dark mystery wrapped up in a seductive package, and I was intent on figuring him out.

The driver opened the door beside Arthur and he stepped out. He walked around the boot and opened my door. I climbed out, wincing when my stomach stabbed with pain—the result of the punch I’d taken to my torso. Like in the alleyway, Arthur didn’t hesitate; he scooped me into his arms and carried me toward his yacht. Nerves burst in my chest.

Arthur walked onto the back deck and through to the living quarters. I roved my gaze around the area, numbly looking at the cherry-wood finishes and Italian furnishings. An older man was waiting, and when I saw his black bag, I realised he was a doctor.

“Not in here,” Arthur said to him and carried me through the centre corridor of the boat and into a large master bedroom. He placed me down on a huge bed that was dressed in black bed linen. Arthur stepped back, but from the way he crossed his arms over his chest and remained only a few feet from the bed, it was crystal clear that he wasn’t leaving.

The doctor looked at him, appearing slightly unnerved. “Señor? I will examine her now.” Arthur nodded his head at the Spanish doctor but stayed where he was. “You can leave the room.”

“No,” was all Arthur said. Goosebumps broke out on my arms at his curt, cold response.

The doctor looked to me for guidance. “I’m fine with him staying,” I said.

The doctor sighed but examined me from head to toe. He hesitated, glancing back to Arthur when he said, “Have you been compromised, señorita?”

It took me a moment to understand his meaning. When it hit home, I shook my head. “No,” I said, seeing Arthur’s jaw clench again. The doctor stood and started putting his equipment back in his bag.

“Bathe, then place ice on your cheek for the swelling. I will leave pain medication for you to take. There is no lasting or significant damage. You will be fine once the bruising fades.”

“Thank you,” I said, and the doctor left the room. A man dressed in a dark suit came to lead him away. I looked down at my torn and bloodied dress and felt disgust and the residual embers of fear roll through me.

What would have happened if Arthur hadn’t found me?

“Shower is through there.” Arthur pointed to an en-suite bathroom. When I struggled to get up from the bed, he held out his hand. Our palms kissed, and my heart doubled its beat and shivers raced through the very marrow of my bones. Arthur helped me off the bed. There was no reason I couldn’t go and shower next door on my own yacht. But I didn’t want to go back there alone. That thought forced me to remember something, and I felt my stomach cave in.

“They knew my name,” I whispered, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His hand held me a fraction tighter at that information. I sucked in a stuttered breath. “They called me a spoilt Harlow cunt.” I swallowed back the bile that was clawing up my throat. “Arthur … they knew who I was. They knew I was a Harlow.” The fear I had felt from the attack increased tenfold at knowing I was targeted. That they had followed me to the alley. That they had been waiting for the right time to capture me. To hurt me. To take me …

Arthur stepped closer, so close I smelled the fresh water notes of his aftershave and the spice of what must have been his bodywash. “They won’t get you here,” he said, and I felt the truth of that statement wash over me like a refreshing summer rainfall. He nudged his chin toward the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Get the smell of those fuckers off your skin.”

At his curt attitude, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Before I did, I saw Arthur take his phone from his pocket and start calling people. I moved to the shower and turned it on. Steam filled the luxurious space, and I stripped off my dress, avoiding the mirror. When I was naked, I went to move under the spray, but I caught my reflection in my peripheral vision.

I had to see it. Had to see what those monsters had done to me. My stomach rolled—I had red welts from their grips, and my cheek was slightly swollen and sore from the strike to my face. But, bizarrely, what held my focus the most were the finger marks Ollie Lawson had left on my arm. A fissure of unease trickled down my spine as I thought of how he had changed in a second from the kind and attentive friend he had always been to the controlling and aggressive boy he’d morphed into at the club.

And he hated Arthur. Arthur who had just saved me.

My legs were weak as I entered the shower, the hot spray crashing down on my head like holy water piped in from Lourdes. Shock must have still had me in its grasp; my legs buckled and I hit the tiled floor.

Those men knew my name. They had come after me.

Who were they? What did they want with me?

Shivering, I tried to get to my feet, but my pathetic legs wouldn’t move, residual shock from the attack rendering them useless. The door to the bathroom suddenly slammed open, and there Arthur stood, backlit by the dim bedroom light, appearing like a fallen angel.

“I can’t get up,” I whispered, despising the tremble in my voice.

Arthur walked toward me. He didn’t look at my naked body once as he picked me up in his arms. “Have you cleaned yourself?” He looked at my half-damp hair and still-dirty skin and must have decided for himself that I hadn’t. He removed his glasses and put them on the side of the sink. I couldn’t take my eyes from his face, the unobstructed view of his deep blue eyes and long dark lashes.

As if I weighed nothing at all, he carried me under the spray. His white shirt and navy shorts became sodden, and his dark hair went from styled to the side to flat against his forehead. He looked so much younger this way. At times I forgot we were the same age. He always seemed so much older.

Arthur sat me on the stall’s ledge and reached for the shampoo on the corner shelf. He poured some into his hand and started washing my long dark hair. I winced when he brushed over a bruise that was forming on my scalp, where the attackers had yanked my hair back. Arthur’s hands stopped moving, and he exhaled a long, steady breath. He resumed washing my hair, but this time he was softer, more careful, so gentle in his touch and tenderness that tears welled in my eyes. As I tipped my head back, the tears spilled onto my cheeks, dripping down my neck and melding with the hot water.

I closed my eyes, to try and stop them, to not show any weakness in front of such a strong and formidable man. Arthur pulled away, clearly seeing my tears. I opened my eyes, and when I did, he was staring at me like he never had before. His steel eyes seemed softer somehow, sympathetic. His head tilted to the side, and he placed both hands on my face, careful of my hurt cheek.

With the touch of feather, he smudged the tears from my skin with his thumbs. I swallowed at the heaviness of the moment. The touch of his hands on my face was like a balm to my severed nerves, to the fear that was coursing so thickly in my veins that my entire body ached.

Arthur’s white shirt had turned transparent, and through the material I saw his ripped muscles and haunting black tattoos. The London skyline on his torso appeared sinister and gothic—the London of old, Victorian, eerie.

He stayed silently before me as I shed tear after tear, exorcising the images of the attackers, their unwanted touches. When they had run dry, he took the shower head and rinsed off my hair.

He grabbed a flannel from the shelf, covered it with body wash and bent down until he was at my eye level. I held out my arms, and Arthur ran the flannel over my reddened skin. My breathing grew more laboured with every stroke he made. He moved the flannel over my neck and down over my breasts. I was breathless as he skimmed over my flesh, but he never once looked at me with desire. Not in this moment. He was caring for me after an attack. And I was drawn to him all the more for it.

Arthur dragged the flannel down my legs and over my feet. As he stood back up, he hooked his arm around my waist and turned me around. With one arm keeping me steady, he ran the flannel over my back and then down over my backside and the tops of my thighs.

I fought back tears of both sorrow and relief. Sorrow for the attack, but relief that Arthur had saved me. Turning me back to sit on the ledge, Arthur brought the shower head to me and rinsed off the soap.

Who was this man? The man who had just killed four others in front of me, without exertion or guilt. The sadistic man who had forced someone to castrate himself as I watched. And now he was here, caring for me like a saint, when we all knew he was anything but.

Arthur carried me from the shower and wrapped an oversized bath sheet around me. He placed me on the bed, and then ducked back into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, blocking Arthur from view. But when I lifted my eyes, I saw his reflection in the fog-free mirror. I saw every inch of him as he tossed off his shirt and shorts. I swallowed as his lightly tanned body came into perfect view. Then he removed his boxers, and I felt my cheeks flush as he moved fully before the mirror, totally bared, running a towel through his dark hair.

My breathing came heavy, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was tall and ripped and tattooed and more than well-endowed. Arthur wiped the lenses of his glasses on a cloth and placed them back on his face. Before I could avert my eyes, his gaze found mine in the mirror. I wanted to turn away.

But I couldn’t.

I clutched the towel tighter around me and stayed transfixed as Arthur dried himself, never taking his eyes off me, moving the towel over every inch of his skin—skin that was scarred in multiple places. But the scars couldn’t take anything away from his rugged beauty.

Drops of water slid down his muscles. I wanted to feel them underneath my hands. I wanted to thread my fingers through his damp hair and feel his full lips against my own. Arthur was nothing like Hugo. In fact, he was the polar opposite in every way. I had never longed for Hugo. I’d never wanted him to possess me, own me and make me forget the very essence of who I was.

Arthur came back through to the bedroom, his towel tied around his waist. From his wardrobe, he pulled out a long t-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. He threw them on the bed beside me. “For you.”

“Thank you,” I said. He took a pair of black pyjama shorts out for himself, putting them on under his towel.

Arthur tipped his head back and sighed. I wondered what he was thinking. If he was regretting me being here. When he lowered his head, he said, “Get dressed. We need to ice your cheek.”

We. The thrill that word inspired was pathetic, but nonetheless real.

I quickly dressed in the clothes he gave me. They smelled of him. Of tobacco and fresh water and whatever laundry detergent the staff on the yacht used.

When I was done, he wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me from his room. His body was hard and strong beside mine, his hand splayed on my stomach to keep me steady.

His closeness left me breathless, light-headed and skin burning.

In the main living room, he helped me down to the couch. He filled a clean tea towel with ice from the freezer and brought it to me. “Thank you.” I held the towel to my cheek, hissing at the sting.

Arthur busied himself at the bar, his back muscles flexing with every movement he made. He came back to me with a glass of whisky, and a straight gin with ice for himself. He leaned against the bar and looked out of the bifold doors at the dark sky and glittering lights of Marbella’s pretty marina.

“Arthur,” I said, needing to hear something from him, anything. He barely spoke, and it was driving me insane. He turned to me. “Thank you.” He nodded as if what he had done was nothing. As if killing four men wasn’t a huge deal, just an everyday part of his life.

Judging by the rumours about his firm, that might have been true.

I took a sip of my whisky, feeling the heat from the spirit coat my throat. It also gave me the courage to say, “You killed those men.” Arthur didn’t react to my words; they rolled off him as breezily as if I’d mentioned it was warm outside. “You killed them, Arthur … and what you did to the last man, with the glass …”

Arthur watched me carefully and said, his voice neutral, “I’ve done worse, princess.”

Princess …

Despite the endearment, blood drained from my face. “No, I don’t believe that …” Arthur walked over and crouched in front me. His blue eyes searched mine. They were a dark kind of blue, almost navy, a unique colour that suited his dark, mysterious personality. Like the sky at dusk before the darkness came and smothered it with the black of night.

“Believe it, princess.” He studied my face, lifting the ice pack back to my cheek. I hissed at the cold, but he held my hand in place regardless. He licked his lips, and I couldn’t help but trace the movement with my eyes. He’d licked his lips at my house five years ago, a silly habit of his I’d always remembered. I was as transfixed by it now as I was then.

Arthur took a sip of his gin. “Everything you’ve heard about me and my men will probably be true.” His lip curled a fraction—a flicker of amusement, or maybe pride. “What you’ve heard about my entire family will also no doubt be true. In fact …” He tilted his head to the side as he pushed a strand of hair back from my face. I held my breath at the action. “We’ve done worse than you’ve imagined.” Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “A lot fucking worse.”

“You’re only eighteen, like me,” I said, dumbly, as if that would somehow make him innocent. I shook my head, trying to sort my thoughts into what I wanted to say, what I wanted to know. “I mean, you’re too young. And those men tonight … it was easy for you. Killing them.” His blank expression only confirmed that to be true. “And the last man. What you made him do to himself …”

Arthur released my hand holding the ice pack and smudged his thumb over my cheek, dragging my skin downwards. The feel of his hand on my face caused my temperature to spike to ungodly degrees. “So innocent,” he said, his warm breath ghosting across my cheek. “A true little princess in an ivory tower.”

I licked my lips. Arthur’s attention snapped to the movement. His addictive scent surrounded me, drowning me, pulling me down to whatever level of hell he resided in. I grew hot, Arthur’s clothes suddenly feeling like a blanket of fire.

My gaze dropped to Arthur’s body, to the skyline of the gothic London Town tattooed across his chest and abdominals. I lifted my hand to his chest; his nose flared as my fingers brushed over his hard pecs. He put his gin down on the floor beside us and placed his hands on either side of me on the sofa.

He was here, before me, cocooning me with his tall, muscled body, a cage of flesh and bone. I trailed my hand off his pecs and down to his abs. Arthur was as calm as he had been in the alley. I had never known anyone be able to mask their responses and feelings as well as he could. No reaction. Nothing seemed to shake him.

I wanted to see him crack.

I wanted to be the one to mine through whatever invisible shield he wore around him.

“Arthur,” I whispered, my hand dipping lower, toward his narrow hips. I saw him harden under his pyjamas. I felt him pressing against my inner thigh as he leaned in even closer. I fought to steady my breathing, wanting to feel every part of him without clothes. Wanting to feel him pushing inside me, his chest pressing against mine as he made me fall apart …

Then my phone rang, breaking the tension pulsing between us. When it was on its fifth ring, Arthur stood and took my phone from my bag. His eyes flared at the screen, and he handed it to me.

I looked at the screen. Ollie. Ollie Lawson was calling. “Ollie?” I said when I answered. A dark storm broke out over Arthur’s features.

It was the first crack in his armour I had witnessed.

“Freya said you’re at your yacht,” he said. “I’m coming over.”

“No!” I turned my head away from Arthur. “I’m already in bed. I’m going to sleep. I have a headache. I’ll … I’ll just see you tomorrow or something.”

Ollie paused for so long I thought he’d disconnected. Then he said, “But you’re okay? You just left the club without telling anyone. I searched for you. I thought you must have gone outside, but the alley was deserted.” I turned to Arthur, who was looking out of the glass doors at the marina, a cigarette in his hand.

The alley was already clear? Arthur’s men worked fast.

“Ollie. I’m fine. Please, just enjoy your night.”

“But you’re not hurt? Nothing happened?” A slither of unease sild along my skin at his persistent questions.

“No. Why? Why would you think I’m hurt?”

I heard someone speak to Ollie in the background but couldn’t make out the words. “Then fucking check again,” he snapped to whoever he was conversing with.

Shaking my head in frustration, I said, “I’ve got to go, Ollie.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said after a long, stretched-out pause. His words sounded more of a threat than a caring promise. I hung up and walked to Arthur, confused about Ollie’s strange behaviour.

My stomach was still sore as I took steady steps, but the initial pain was easing some after my shower and the pain meds that the doctor had given me.

“You know Ollie Lawson?” Arthur asked casually when I stopped beside him. He kept his eyes on the glittering lights of the marina.

“Yes.” I studied Arthur for another reaction. I didn’t know why I bothered. I was learning that Arthur gave absolutely nothing away unless he wanted to—I imagined that was almost never. “From school.” I felt a sudden chill in the room, so I wrapped my arms around me. “I went to an all-girls boarding school. Private, of course. Hugo was at the boys’ side of the school. Ollie went there for sixth form as a day student. I’ve only known him a couple of years. We have mutual friends.”

“Hugo,” Arthur said. “Hugo Harrington. Your boyfriend.”

I hated hearing the word “boyfriend” from Arthur’s lips in relation to Hugo.

“Yes,” I said. Arthur drank the rest of his gin in one go. He stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray and immediately lit up another one.

“Let’s get you home, princess,” he said, and my stomach fell to the floor. I had bought us some more time with my friends. I wanted to stay with Arthur a while longer. But mostly, I didn’t want to go home. I’d been attacked. I wasn’t safe on my own. I knew I’d be safe with him.

“What if they find me again tonight?” I said, my frayed nerves seeping into my words.

“I’ve already got men watching your yacht. They’ve been on board and done a search. No one is there, and no one is getting to you. I can guarantee you that.”

I blinked in surprise. “Thank you,” I said, taken aback by his generosity.

Arthur walked back to the sofa and picked up my clutch, then passed me and opened the doors that led to the back deck.

Disappointment accompanying my every step, I followed Arthur off the boat and to mine. I turned to face him. “Thank you, again,” I said. He handed me back my clutch.

A cloud of tobacco washed over my face as Arthur exhaled. “Night, princess.” He walked back to his yacht without another glance. I jumped on seeing a couple of men in black suits move close by. My heart kicked into a heady, nervous beat, until they nodded at me in greeting and I realised they were Arthur’s men who he had ordered to protect me.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I climbed onto my boat and made my way to my bedroom. As I curled up on my bed, I smelled Arthur’s aftershave on my borrowed clothes and closed my eyes, letting it wrap around me. My stomach rolled when I thought back over the events of the night, at the attackers, but more at Arthur killing them so efficiently, so coldly, so brutally.

I didn’t know what kind of person it made me, but as I replayed the scene over and over in my head, all I could think was that he’d saved me. He’d killed to save me, not a single ounce of remorse in his dark soul.

I stared down at my hands, the hands that had run over his pecs, his abs and his hips. Despite knowing it was fucked up and wrong, I wanted to feel him like that again. Only this time I didn’t want him to hold back. I didn’t want him to keep his distance. I wanted him smothering me and making me forget my name. Maybe then I could shake myself of this obsession with him once and for all.

Maybe.

* * *

The music sailed through the yacht’s speakers, and the few glasses of sangria I’d had made me feel loose and free. My eyes travelled to the people dancing on the sun deck, the sun setting on the horizon casting a warm, orange glow. Arabella and Freya came over to me as I leaned against the rail of the yacht.

“Are you feeling okay?” Arabella asked.

I touched my face, letting my fingers graze down my neck. The swelling had reduced a little, but the bruising left an ugly shadow of purple on my cheek and red finger marks around my throat. My foundation and concealer covered them well enough that people couldn’t tell. I’d told Arabella and Freya that I had taken a bad fall in my room. I wasn’t sure if they believed me, but neither of them had questioned me further. In our circles, lots of questions remained unasked. No one wanted to taint our seemingly perfect lives with a trivial thing like the truth.

I glanced across to the Adley yacht beside us. I hadn’t seen Arthur last night or today at all. Hugo returned tomorrow, and we were scheduled to set sail for Ibiza. I looked at the people dancing on the sun deck. Mainly acquaintances of Arabella and Freya, some we knew from our social circles in Chelsea. Although some of our acquaintances were absent.

Ollie Lawson had come to see me yesterday as promised. I had made sure it was off the yacht and in a restaurant with my friends. After the other night, a heavy feeling settled in my gut whenever I thought about Ollie. Something had seemed off about him. Something I could only describe as dark had seemed to linger in his eyes. However, he was his usual charming and attentive self at the restaurant. He had left Marbella now, called back to London by his father. That left tonight. One night without Hugo, without Ollie watching me closely.

The sound of voices from the Adley yacht drew my attention.

“You boring twat!” Eric Mason shouted to someone inside the living quarters as he walked out in shorts and a white linen shirt, his hair swept over to one side as always.

Freddie Williams was on his heels, slapping Eric around the back of the head. “He has business he’s got to get done, arsehole,” he said. “Or do you want to ring Alfie and tell him his son’s fucking off his work so we can go and get pissed instead?”

“Good point,” Eric said after pretending to think for a few seconds, and they left the yacht and headed toward the bars of the main strip.

“Ugh. At least they haven’t tried to get on board here tonight,” Freya said. She stood straighter when Benedict Shaw came over and took her hand, leading her to the makeshift dancefloor without a word.

“She’s so cock-whipped,” Arabella said, then practically fell to her knees when Cassius Lock came up to her too. She quickly turned her back and downed her margarita. When I smiled and lifted a questioning brow, she flicked her middle finger at me. “Dutch courage, okay? Don’t judge me.”

“Arabella?” Cassius said. He nudged his head in the direction of the bar inside. “You want to grab a drink?”

Arabella smiled widely at me as Cassius led her inside the yacht. I watched people we knew from home get gradually drunker. People paired off, and the sky grew dark.

“Come on, old boy,” a voice said from the Adley yacht. Charlie Adley and Vinnie Edwards were leaving the boat. Vinnie bounced as he walked, as if he’d been injected with pure adrenaline and his muscles had no choice but to move. Charlie, his arm around Vinnie’s shoulders, led him into a waiting car. They sped off, the taillights of the car disappearing into the distance.

I drank the rest of my sangria as the DJ cranked up the music some more. The people on our yacht all gravitated to the dancefloor, pills and shots immediately being passed around. I saw Freya near the bar and Arabella leading Cassius toward her room.

I stared at the people in front of me. Every one of them was wealthy. Every one spoke with received pronunciation like I did. Every one had attended a private school, and not just any—the best England had to offer. We all frequently lunched at the Bluebird in Chelsea—and we were all destined to marry into the same circles. Suitable “society” families.

I was no different.

And it was completely suffocating.

Placing my glass on a nearby table, I left the lights and pounding dance music of the sun deck and made my way to the back of the yacht. The music quietened as I leaned over the back of the boat and stared unseeing at the restaurants behind us.

The familiar smell of cigarette smoke cut through my reverie. Even in the darkness of the dock, I glimpsed the sight of a cigarette’s burning end, the orange flicker of tobacco morphing into ashes before it dropped to the ground.

Arthur.

I stood, seeing Arthur’s face illuminated as he took another drag. His yacht was in near darkness, barely a light in sight. But I saw the moment he caught me in his peripheral vision. His head cocked to the side, and his blue eyes ran down the length of my dress. It was purple and cut in a deep V to my belly button, the sides of my breasts peeking through the gauzy fabric. It flowed to my feet. My long dark hair was held back off my neck with a few well-placed grips.

I swallowed down my nerves as he drank me in. His hand remained in his pocket, his posture the epitome of calm. I tried to mirror his frame, but inside, my heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

The people on this yacht were the furthest thing from Arthur they could possibly be. Arthur may have been richer than sin, but he was brought up in the East End of London. He didn’t attend the best schools, or holiday in exotic countries like we all had. He was down-and-dirty Bethnal Green, with the trademark thick cockney accent to match. He had his rivals’ blood underneath his fingernails, and fragments of their bones locked away in the cage that was his dark heart.

Yet here I was, following my feet as they left my yacht and took the few short steps to where he stood. Arthur was still smoking, still keeping one hand in his pocket. But he watched me approach like a lion watches a gazelle, the reflection of me flickering on the black-rimmed glasses he always wore. My chest felt as though it was being pressed down upon by a demon as I climbed the steps to the back of his yacht. The rich wooden floor creaked as I straightened and faced the man who had possessed my every thought lately. My dress blew in the warm Spanish breeze, the slits on the skirt exposing my bare legs.

Arthur flicked his cigarette overboard, then turned and walked through the glass doors to the living quarters. I ran my hand over my chest to be sure my heart hadn’t leapt free of my ribcage. Every part of me screamed at me to leave, to stop this foolishness. Yet something inside me, something raw and savage and sadistic, forced me to stay. I saw Arthur move to the bar, the only light in the room sneaking in from the bars and restaurants outside.

I glanced over at my yacht. Saw people dancing. Heard them laughing and drinking and having a good time. I should have turned around and left this boat. I should have gone back to Freya and Arabella and had a good time, looking forward to Hugo returning tomorrow and to living my steady, blessed life.

I rubbed my arms, not to stave off the cold but to send blood to my brain, to wake myself up and avoid the temptation trying to lure me in. Because wanting someone like Arthur Adley was only acceptable in my fantasies. Not in real life. And never in my social circle.

I closed my eyes, deciding it was time to go. To leave this pathetic obsession with him in the past. It was a stupid secondary-school crush on the bad boy from across town. I took a long deep breath and opened my eyes, set on doing the right thing. But when my vision focused, all my good intentions seeped out of me. Arthur stood in my line of sight, dead centre of the living room, his forbidden deep blue gaze fixed on me. He had a drink in his hand, a cigarette balancing on his bottom lip, and with his defined muscles clearly visible under his shirt, I knew I was staying. He had me in his snare, and I threw all logic away with the Spanish wind and was willingly drawn in.

With trembling hands, I forced myself to tune out the sounds from my yacht and walked through the darkness, over the threshold to Arthur. Turning, I shut the doors behind me, sealing us inside and blocking out the real world. All noise from outside was expelled by the expensive soundproof doors. I was in a vacuum. A vacuum filled with temptation and sin and the forbidden object of my obsession.

Arthur took a drag of his cigarette and pulled it from his mouth, the smoke clouding around us. Apart from when I was smoking them myself, I usually disliked the smell of cigarettes. But not when it came from Arthur. Never then. From him, it smelled like heaven itself.

“You shouldn’t be here, princess,” Arthur said, his deep voice wrapping around me as tightly as the serpent from the Garden of Eden. He stepped closer to me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end merely at his wickedly addictive presence. My mind tried to warn me to leave, showing me highlights of the night in the alley. Of Arthur cutting down men twice his age in cold blood. Of him ordering my attacker to castrate himself, no expression on his perfect face, no remorse in his corrupt soul.

But he saved you, the newly acquired depraved side of me argued, overriding my brain. He saved your life.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I edged forward and stopped right before him. Arthur downed his gin; a half-empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire was on the bar behind him—his brand of choice. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar. The wash of midnight stubble on his jaw and cheeks only made him look more rugged and severe.

Arthur met my eyes. Then he licked his lips, and I felt my cheeks blaze. “Run,” he said, voice thick with warning. Lifting his index finger, he placed it on my jaw. He moved it, light as a feather, down my neck, over the front of my throat and down the centre of my chest between my breasts. My breathing was laboured and my nipples hardened, sending heat flooding between my thighs. “Run, princess. Run far away, back to your ivory castle and the valiant knights that protect you.”

I wasn’t thinking. I was purely acting on instinct. As his finger lifted from my chest, I caught it in my hand and brought it to my mouth. Following a rebel side of me I didn’t even know existed, I took his finger between my teeth and bit down hard.

Arthur’s eyes flared, a napalm firestorm igniting in their sapphire depths. He didn’t make a sound as my teeth met his flesh. I wasn’t a delicate little princess. Right now, I wanted to be anything but perfect or good or someone Arthur didn’t want to corrupt.

He acted quickly. In a flash, he pressed his hand to my face, his index finger still in my mouth, and pushed me against a wide breakfast bar. My back hit the marble countertop with a thud. I was numb to anything but Arthur and the godless look in his eyes. His spare fingers were splayed on my cheeks. His eyes were molten as they bored into mine. I bit down harder on his finger until I tasted blood. Arthur hissed, pressing his chest against my breasts, dragging a moan from my lips.

He liked it.

He liked that I caused him pain.

Arthur pulled his finger back from my mouth. It was too dark to see, but I knew there’d be teeth marks embedded into his broken skin. I ran my tongue along my teeth, the tinny taste of blood trickling down my throat.

His blood. Arthur’s devilish blood that, to my tongue, tasted like manna from the gods.

Arthur towered above me, his hard, muscled body pressed flush against mine, his ally of darkness wrapping around us. The tip of his nose ran over my cheek. He still held me in his grip, his warm breath lapping at my flushed and wanting skin. He moved back an inch and dragged his thumb over my bottom lip, no doubt smearing my bright red lipstick.

“I’m going to fucking wreck you,” he warned softly, darkly, truthfully. My back arched at his depraved promise. My clit throbbed and my muscles ached just waiting for what came next. His thumb smudged over and over my lips until I felt them begin to swell. He pushed his thumb into my mouth and waited. I knew what he wanted, and bit down hard until my teeth broke through flesh. Arthur’s jaw clenched and his hips thrust toward me, his cock hardening against my hip.

I swirled my tongue around his thumb as if it were his dick, the mix of his blood and my saliva bursting like vintage Cristal on my taste buds. The muscles in Arthur’s neck strained, and he pulled his thumb from my mouth. I barely had time to take a breath before he dragged me across the room by my shoulders to the dining table and slammed me down on top of it. I cried out at the impact of my back hitting wood, but before my voice could even carry into the air, Arthur ripped my dress in two and yanked down my thong.

He tossed it aside and, with a murderous intent in his gaze, pushed my legs apart. I was completely bared to his eyes, a naked offering. His hands ran down my thighs, locking them apart, and he lowered his head and sucked on my clit. I screamed out loud as my back arched off the table, white-hot pleasure ripping through me, devouring me down to my soul. Arthur never let up. He sucked and licked along my clit and slit with a maddening intensity, so intense that I didn’t think I could take it. His hands were steel traps keeping my legs wrenched apart, immobilising me. I blinked into the heavy darkness, the lights from the marina glinting off Arthur’s dark hair and the frames of his glasses.

Desperately needing to touch him, I reached down and ran my hands through the ebony strands. His hair was like silk between my fingers, and I tried to be gentle. But when Arthur exchanged his relentless tongue for his teeth, he bit down on my clit, and stars burst before my eyes at the addictive cocktail of hedonism and pain.

His fingers bit into my thighs, and I yanked on his hair. A sharp, sex-fuelled grunt slipped from Arthur’s lips, evidence of his need sneaking through his impenetrable walls. That sound … that slip of the shield he seemed to forever wear was like a match to petrol. I pulled on his hair as his tongue slid inside me, pushing, licking, swirling. I moaned, unable to take it, take his tongue and all the things I’d never felt before. Arthur pushed a finger inside me and bit down on my clit again. That was all it took for me to splinter apart.

My skin was a furnace, and I had just reached the height of my orgasm when Arthur stood and pulled his cock from his shorts. My breasts ached to be touched, and I squeezed my nipples as my pussy clenched, holding on to the remnants of pleasure.

My eyes widened when I saw his cock—he was thick and long and bigger than I’d ever had before. Arthur threw his shirt to the floor and stroked his cock before caging me in with his arms and fixing his gaze on mine. His nostrils flared, and just as I reached up to lay my palm on his stubbled cheek, he slammed inside me. My lips parted and I cried out at the intrusion, at the fullness and the slight pain that came with taking someone so big. I was far from a virgin, but I felt as though this man, Arthur Adley, the apparent devil himself, had just torn through my innocence and shredded the memory of all past lovers.

It was him and me and the pulsating darkness. Arthur wasn’t soft or slow. He fucked me. Hard. He fucked me like the living demon he was rumoured to be—rough and wild and with unmerciful intent.

“Arthur,” I whispered. As soon as I spoke, he moved a hand to my throat and wrapped it around my neck so I couldn’t speak again. A light sparked in his eyes as he squeezed. I felt all his incredible strength in that single grip. There was a sinful gleam in his gaze as he held me at his mercy, perched precariously between fucking me and killing me if he desired.

He squeezed tighter until I could only breathe a little, but I didn’t fear him. I wanted him to push me as far as I could go; I wanted every fucked-up part of this man. If this was the only night I would ever have Arthur, I wanted him in all his raw entirety. I wanted the devilry, I wanted the sadism, and I wanted this man, the man who had made a grown man cut off his own dick, to fuck me with equal amounts of depraved ease.

I arched, tilting my head back, offering him my neck. I wanted him to have it—I wanted him to push me to my limits and fuck me like I was the last pussy he would ever have. A low, feral groan tore from Arthur’s mouth, and his free hand took my throat too. He pounded into me harder, as if he was exorcising the good from me.

I would be sore. The way he slammed inside me promised bruises and discomfort, but right now, in this suspended, surreal moment, he filled me like no one before, hard flesh scraping against my G-spot, making me lose my mind.

Arthur moved his face closer to mine, his nose brushing my nose. His eyes were locked on mine as he held my neck like it was his possession, like it was his right to break me if he so wished. Beads of sweat built on his forehead, a lock of his onyx hair falling in front of his eyes. I trailed my hands up his toned bare thighs, needing to touch him. His fingers flexed on my neck as my hands travelled higher, but didn’t tighten. My eyes fluttered at the deep feelings accosting my body, but I fought to keep them open. I didn’t want to miss a second of being with Arthur, of being taken like this—so brutally, so thoroughly, so perversely.

I felt my channel clench as his thrusts became faster. I was going to come. I ran my hands over the backs of his thighs and to his firm behind, pulling him closer to me. Not believing it was even possible, I felt Arthur push into me deeper, and I cried out at the too-full feeling, at the mix of pain and ecstasy, of being held and controlled.

“I’m going to come,” I whispered, his hands on my neck inhibiting the volume of my voice. “Arthur, I’m coming …” I moaned, and I burst. I broke apart, my body blistering in heat and sensation, the euphoric orgasm taking me in its sharp-clawed hold.

Then Arthur’s hands tightened just enough to momentarily stop my breathing. The action only heightened the sensation, sending me soaring, head spinning, coming out of my skin. Then his hold loosened and I began to fall. I plummeted back into my body, breathing deeply, just to be flipped onto my front.

Arthur pushed me onto the table and slammed into me from behind. His hand wrapped around my hair, pulling the grips free, and his chest lay flush against my back. I was unable to move, locked in place, as Arthur fucked me. He did more than fuck me; he consumed me, owned me. He wrecked me. He’d told me he would.

No, he’d promised.

And he delivered.

Arthur thrust into me so hard that I felt a second orgasm building. I couldn’t stave it off, I couldn’t make it last. Arthur pulled the final ounce of pleasure from me as I lay paralysed beneath him. As my pussy milked his dick, he pulled on my hair and, with a savage growl, came inside me. He pushed into me a few more times, savouring the end of his orgasm. I sucked in a much-needed breath, head spinning with what had just transpired.

Arthur’s breathing was heavy, but he kept his hand in my hair, a silent warning to me not to move. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to break this moment. I had never been taken like that. Had no idea sex could be like that. Any expectation or fantasy I might have had about Arthur had just been obliterated.

How would anyone ever compare to him?

My palms were flat on the table beneath me, my cheek resting on the cold wooden surface. My hands were shaking, too much adrenaline running through my veins. After a few silent minutes, Arthur shifted, and I winced. He slipped out from inside of me, and wetness slipped down my thighs. I closed my eyes and thanked God that I was on the pill. I pushed away any other panic over the fact he had taken me unprotected and tried to stay in the here and now.

Then I felt a soft kiss on the centre of my spine. I froze.

For a second I believed I had dreamed it. Dreamed that the man who had just taken me so savagely was kissing me so softly. So affectionately. It was in such stark contrast to how he had treated me so far.

I held my breath, eyes non-blinking and fixed on the window of the yacht, waiting to see if he would do it again. His breathing was deep, his body heat like a heavy blanket above me. I didn’t take a single breath, just waiting, needing, searching … then he kissed the top of my spine, and I exhaled a shaky breath. Arthur’s hand was still in my hair. He pulled the long strands aside and kissed the pulse on my neck. My heart burst into a sprint as goosebumps raced over me.

I risked a glance at him, turning my body just a fraction so I could see his face. His cheeks were flushed. He was devastatingly handsome. Even when I was thirteen, I had found him so. And more so now that I had slept with him.

I swallowed back nerves, not knowing if he would order me from the yacht or coldly move from me, no more affection to be had. But behind the protection of his lenses, I saw deep blue eyes soften a little. Arthur dragged his thumb over my lips just as before.

“I want to ruin you,” he said, his deep gravelled voice rolling over my body with the headiness of a summer electric storm. His hard chest was still slick against my back, but he shifted enough that he could lean down to my mouth. And he took it. He kissed my lips, then plunged his tongue inside. His fingers drifted between my legs and pushed inside me. I gasped at the tenderness, the sensitivity from being taken so hard.

Arthur broke from my mouth. “I want to degrade you.” I couldn’t breathe, my body shuddering as his fingers pushed past my G-spot again. I moaned and saw his eyes flare. “I want to mess you the fuck up.” He gripped my cheeks and forced me to meet his eyes. “I want to break you, princess.” I froze at his harsh words, but my body sparked to life like a live wire, pulsing with static at his dark desires. Because I wanted it too. My God, I craved his heavy hand. I needed more of what he had just given me. I didn’t know what that said about me, but being here, underneath him, I didn’t care.

My eyes fluttered shut as his fingers inside me moved faster. “I don’t know if I can take any more,” I whispered, my core aching.

“You can,” he said and pressed against my G-spot until my thighs started to shake. Arthur’s teeth scraped along my jaw and over my lips. I fought to breathe as I felt another orgasm building. His chest pinned me down, the muscles cut and defined.

He bit along my neck and down to my breasts. As his mouth wrapped around my nipple, his tongue lashing back and forth, I came. I cried, tears building in my eyes as the orgasm tore through me like a raging fire. It was too much, too much to take after what Arthur had already given me.

My body was wrecked and ruined, exhausted, but so alive as I breathed through the crest of pleasure. My eyelids were heavy, but I felt Arthur move his fingers from inside me and watched him bring them to his lips and suck the evidence of us into his mouth.

And I knew I was done.

I knew that no one could ever compare to him tonight, to Arthur and his wicked presence and the maelstrom of feelings that came with it. Arthur reached to the table and grabbed a cigarette. He lit the end and inhaled, exhaling a cloud of white into the air. I rolled slowly onto my back, letting my eyes rove down his naked body. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to spend an entire night exploring him, no rush, no barriers between us. But I knew it was impossible. This night was all we’d ever get. In no world did we belong together.

Arthur’s eyes fixed back on mine. I saw his dick twitch as he moved his gaze down my body before finding my eyes again. He took another drag of his cigarette, then crawled over me as I remained lying back on the table. His face hovered above mine, and he gripped my jaw and opened my mouth. Leaning down, he exhaled, and the smoke from his cigarette entered my lungs. I closed my eyes as the nicotine flooded my body. I tentatively ran my hands up Arthur’s arms on either side of my head. His muscles flexed. I studied his body. Scars were scattered up and down his skin. I looked up into his eyes to find him watching me. His lips were slightly parted, and his eyebrows were pulled down, as if he couldn’t understand why he was letting me touch him so affectionately.

“Arthur,” I tried to say, but he schooled his expression, then took another drag of his cigarette and breathed it into my mouth like before, cutting off my words. He repeated the action until the cigarette was finished and I was utterly spent.

He stubbed it out in the ashtray further up the table. Then he dipped down and kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me until I was starved of air. I didn’t care. I could happily die this way. Lips bruised and body depleted.

Arthur finally pulled away. He put his hands under my arms and lifted me from the table to stand before him. My dress hung at my sides, exposing my naked body. I wrapped the dress around me using a torn strand as a tie around my waist.

Arthur pulled on his shorts, leaving the zip and button undone. I could still see the top of his cock and the defined V that only made me crave him more. He moved to the bar and poured himself a gin. When he turned, he held out a glass for me too. I took it and sipped. Arthur was leaning against the bar, watching me.

“We leave tomorrow,” I said, needing to slice through the pulsing heavy tension that had built between us.

Arthur sipped at his gin. “Boyfriend coming back, huh?” he said. My stomach dropped at Hugo being brought into this moment. I had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who my father adored. And I’d just cheated on him. I had just fucked Arthur Adley, of the infamous Adley firm.

And I couldn’t muster one ounce of regret.

“We’re going to Ibiza.” I downed the gin, and Arthur casually topped it up. His body was stiff, and his eyes kept darting outside toward my yacht. I guessed he wasn’t usually the chatting-after-sex type. Sadness sprouted in my chest. This, whatever the hell it was, was clearly over.

“I’ll go.” I placed my now-full glass of Bombay Sapphire on the table Arthur had just taken me on. I had just opened the door to leave when I felt Arthur’s hand thread through mine. I whipped my head to face him in shock. His eyes were locked on his hand in mine. His jaw clenched and his hand tightened around my fingers. “Arthur?” I whispered, heart thudding.

“Are you staying in London now sixth form is done?” he asked.

I frowned in confusion but wanted so desperately to stay in the moment with him. “I go to Oxford in September. Business Studies.”

Arthur lifted his head, and the ghost of a smirk on his lips made my legs weak. “Clever fucker, eh?”

I laughed, and warmth filled my bones as Arthur’s hand squeezed mine harder. At the sound of my name being called, I looked over to my yacht. I peered through the window and saw Arabella on the sun deck, clearly searching for me.

This time, I had to go. None of my friends could ever know about this.

Turning back to Arthur, I spotted a pen on the bar. I took the hand that been holding mine and wrote my mobile number across his palm. I was under no illusions. I didn’t expect Arthur to call me. And I knew it was the stupidest thing I had ever done.

But, right now, I didn’t give a damn.

As I wrote the last digit, I pressed a slow, soft kiss to his fingertips, inhaling his scent and vowing to commit it to memory. I released Arthur’s hand and found him studying me. “Just in case you’re ever in Oxford,” I said and edged forward. Arthur watched me approach him. I placed my hands on his cheeks, unsure if he would push such affection away. When he didn’t move, I pressed a single kiss to his lips. “Goodbye, Arthur Adley.” I hurried from his yacht, never once looking back.

I crept onto my yacht and headed straight to my room. I locked myself inside, immediately going into the bathroom. I was breathing hard, the implications of what I’d just done finally hitting home. I switched on the vanity mirror light and looked at my reflection. I looked depraved. My red lipstick was smudged all over my mouth, my mascara had run under my eyes, and I had red marks on my skin from where Arthur had gripped me by my neck, from where he had held me down and fucked me.

A disbelieving laugh slipped from my swollen lips. Arthur had come through on his promise. He had ruined me. He had spoiled me for all others.

And he had well and truly wrecked me.