The living room is a mess, but the couch still faces the television, so I slide the remote over to Mac. “You can wait in here if you want.”
“Thanks.” He takes the remote, turning the TV on, and settling in after he finds a hockey game to watch.
Pretending the sight of a mafia guard stretched out on my tiny sofa is normal, I retreat into my bedroom, closing the door. Once inside, I take a few minutes to regroup before turning to face my dresser.
What does one wear as the newly minted property of a mob boss?
The selection is admittedly lacking. These days, I practically live in dance clothes. The Conservatory has a strict dress code for dancers, so—while I own plenty of black and pink leotards andtights—aside from a handful of shorts, sweats, and sports bras, there isn’t much else…
I have a couple of outfits I wear to bartend—tight jeans, corset tops—but somehow I don’t think that’s what Koen’s looking for.
My gaze slides to my bed, it’s unmade, a mess of tangled-up blankets, and it takes everything in me not to climb inside and hide from the rest of the world.
I’m in way over my head, and I know it.
There’s no room for mistakes. The same rules as Wonderland applies: I need to keep my head down, mouth shut, and eyes open.
And maybe I’ll survive this.
I hear the apartment’s front door open.Did I forget to lock it?
Quickly, I pop my head out to check.
Koen stands there. His eyes travel between me in my bedroom doorway and Mac on the couch.
“You’re supposed to be watching the door,” Koen growls at Mac, and I’m instantly defensive of my new… guard? Lookout? I don’t know…
“He’s fine where he is.”
Koen’s gaze ticks slowly back over to me, and I fight the urge to swallow the growing lump in my throat. Picking his battles, he decides to let this one go in favor of my outfit.
“You’re not ready.”
I follow his gaze down to my own body. “What? Yes I am.”
“You’re not wearing that.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“I think she looks great,” Mac adds, unsolicited, and Koen’s glare is sharp enough to cut. Though, Mac’s answering smile shows he’s undeterred. I get the feeling Mac loves to bust Koen’s chops and it makes me smile. I think he and I are going to get along just fine.
“No,” he says, like that’s just the end of the discussion.
I put my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes at him. “You said to wear one of my little ‘stripper outfits,’ remember? Well, here it is!” My hands travel the length of me, showcasing myself for him.
His face doesn’t change; cool ambivalence stares back at me.
“Put this on.” He hands over a black garment bag I hadn’t noticed he was holding.
He bought me an outfit?
“No.” There’s really no need to be a pain in the ass, but I’m still mad about being locked inside all day and this is where I’m choosing to draw the line.
“Briar Rose,” Koen warns, but I’m shaking my head and crossing my arms over my chest.
“No. I’m not wearing whatever that is,” I argue, gesturing to the bag. I haven’t set eyes on it yet but… No. Fuck that, and fuck him, too.
“Mac, could you give us a moment please?” I feel myself pale. Koen’s eyes don’t leave mine as I watch Mac leave. I have an overwhelming urge to go with him. Still, I hold my ground when the Irish King closes the space between us. My entire body going tense.
