A full minute passes.
Roman:The police cannot be involved. Stay brave. All will be righted in time.
“Oh my God,” I whisper at the screen. When Connor explained about the Order, my intuition told me he was telling the truth, but reading confirmation from Roman, knowing it’s all true, is something else. It hits me in the stomach. I feel alone. Desperately alone. Like the entire world I thought I knew is false and I can’t trust anyone. Then I remember that there is one person who might understand like no other.
Me:What happened to Vivian? She’s not answering my messages.
Roman:She’s with me. We’re keeping her safe until we have you back.
Keeping her safe? By not allowing her to answer her messages? By not allowing her access to her socials or the press?
Me:Let me message her. I need to speak to Vivian.
He never responds. I open a new chat window andtry Vivian again. There’s no answer. I email her and get an out-of-office message. If Vivian is being denied access to any form of communication with the outside world, which she is if she hasn’t reported me missing, she isn’t being kept safe—she’s being held prisoner. He’s definitely holding her against her will, most likely to keep her quiet.
“What the hell?” I whisper. Who are the bad guys in this scenario? Are there any good guys?
I close my laptop, bury my face in my hands, and weep. My brain feels like a pumpkin that’s been kicked down the street. Eventually though, all my tears turn to fire. A star is imploding inside me, hot and bright and angry.
This is all very much like the secret societies I write about.
The implications are chilling. Why was Roman interested in me if he couldn’t even share the truth about who he was? And on the flip side, why is Connor? He says I’m his mate, and I witnessed a very real metaphysical bond between us. But isn’t it a little convenient for him given his war with Roman? Am I some kind of prize for whoever wins this test of wills?
Alex pops into my head, dressed entirely in black like she’s ready for a mission. Stop being a baby, Fiona! she yells.Quit obsessing about the men in your life and do what you do best. Write my story!
I open my laptop, click on the word-processing app’s icon, and dive back intoThe Milkmaid.
I can counton one hand how many times I’ve stayed up all night writing over the years. My creative energy usually gives out after a few hours. But tonight it’s like Alex is talking as fast as she can, narrating what’s happening to her as she learns the cult is trafficking women and forms a plan to free them. By morning, I lean back in my chair, crack my knuckles, and realize I’ve written an additional twenty thousand words. I’m more than halfway throughMilkmaid, and the only thing stopping me from continuing is that my body is giving out. My fingers are cramping and achy, and I can’t keep my eyes open.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I climb from the chair and roll into bed in the wee hours of the morning. I’m asleep as soon as my eyes close.
The dream opens in a pink version of the room I’m in. That’s how I know I’m dreaming, the pink. All the Black Watch plaid has turned to rose velvet, pink satin sheets, and billowy blush-colored curtains that float like clouds from around the open window. Birds are singing. A warm summer breeze flits through the room.
The door to the bathroom opens and Connor emerges, totally naked, wings out. Now I’m sure this is a dream. He looks at me like I’m his next meal, stalks toward me. His eyes sparkle as he prowls up the bed, all golden skin and lean, corded muscle. What have I done to attract the attention of this god, of this dragon?
“What do you want from me?” I ask him. “Really? Tell me the truth.”
“I want you. Just you,” he says. “You are my mate. Our being together was written in the stars.”
“Now I know you’re lying. You can’t want me for me. You could do so much better.” I touch my scar, expecting my fingers to connect with the shirt I wore to bed, but they hit rough and thickened skin. I’m naked. My fingertips coast over the dreadful, discolored ridge that spans my torso.
He kneels on the bed near my feet, his insanely large cock hard and jutting toward me. I remember wrapping my hand around it in his pants. The size is almost overwhelming. He grabs me by the knees and pulls me toward him. I slide along the silk sheets until the back of my thighs meet the front of his. He’s hovering over me, that massive erection extending to my belly button.
“Say you’re mine, Fiona,” he demands.
God, my entire body aches for him to the point it’s almost painful. I reach between my legs and stroke myself. He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away. I squirm, needing release.
“Say it, Fiona. Say you’re mine.”
“I can’t. I am no one’s but my own.” I won’t give in to him. I can’t. I can’t trust another person to be there for me, not after my sister. Not after Roman. Not after Connor wasn’t completely honest with me. The only person I can trust, the only one who will ever be there for me, is me.
“You’re wrong about that,” he says, reading my mind again.
“Please,” I beg, lifting my hips, wanting him in me.
He reaches between us, starts rubbing me just the way I like it. “I’ve got you,” he says in that same growly voice he used before.
Knock, knock, knock. I come awake with my hand between my legs, soaking wet and near orgasm. I’m back in the blue room. I yank my hand away and glance over to the leather chair, but Connor didn’t sleep in here last night. I locked the door. I’m alone.
