“Gemma.”
My name slid oily from his lips. I knew him as one of my brother’s friends—or, I guess, ex-friend. Gray hadn’t been seen with any of his old friends since finding his wife, Story.
This man was old-school. Which meant he had a reputation for harassing and assaulting women, but his bank account still had enough zeros in it. He’d always watched me unabashed and lecherous, but I’d been with Horace. He might not respect a woman, but he respected a man’s claim to her.
“Geoff.” I plastered on a smile.
“Gemma Crowne finally on the market.”
I ignored the nausea in my gut and demurred. “Surprised you’re still on said market.”
Barf.
He grinned at my compliment. “I’ve waited a long time to try such famous pussy.”
I let my smile drop. “Oh dear, my mother is calling for me?—”
He grabbed my arm as I tried to leave.
The smile on his face hadn’t moved, but now his eyes dripped something mean. “You know, I’d be doing you a favor fucking you. Isn’t that what all this is for?” With his free hand, he gestured at the party. “Whore you out so your name means something again?”
That hurricane feeling slid into my veins. America’s Princess is supposed to play dumb at blatant disrespect, bat her eyelashes if a man held his hand up to hit her.
It was getting harder to play the role.
I laughed. “I think you have severely overestimated your dick’s social capital.”
Sharp pain spiraled out from where his fingers pushed white into my skin.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he hissed.
“Geoff!” Kennedy appeared, behind her Blaire. “I didn’t know you were coming.” Geoff let me go, but not before giving an extra-sharp squeeze.
“I haven’t seen you since you totaled the first daughter’s car,” Blaire added. “I thought you were shipped off to some black ops island.” Blaire and Kennedy discreetly stepped between Geoff and me, peppering him with questions.
Bruises had started to form where he’d gripped, purple spots snaking up my arm like a delicate lace sleeve.
The girls eyed my arm out of the corner of their eyes. They didn’t ask what happened—they wouldn’t. He was old-school, after all.
“And was that your Koenigsegg wrapped in fucking pink glitter?” Kennedy asked. Blaire and Kennedy moved closer together, forming a glittery, haute couture wall.
“Yeah,” he said. “Lost a bet.”
As my friends talked to Geoff about simple, plastic things like covering a four-million-dollar car in glitter, I took the opportunity to slip away.
No one was outside, the sky still too black and swollen. Wet wind whipped my hair, and the lingering storm made the tea lights sway on their strings. My mother always insisted on using real candles in imported French votives, which meant the fire had long since been snuffed. All that remained were shadows with edges that shivered like some virile, organic thing.
I walked until waves crashed on the sand. Water kissed the tips of my satin flats before sliding back to the sea. I lit a cigarette, staring at the black void.
With his back to me, he ripped off his soaking black shirt. The Reaper’s emblem, inky and black, shining from the salty ocean water, rippled across his shoulder blades and dripped down his muscles.
A horse.
A skull.
A scythe.
A warning to me—a warning to anyone who saw it. You don’t see a Horseman’s emblem and live to tell the tale.
