Milo perks up, clearly relieved at the possibility of escaping. “Yeah, meeting some friends.” He’s already foldinghis napkin. My brother stands and leans down to brush a kiss on Mom’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.”
Dad waves him off with a small smile. “Be back by midnight. And take Jason with you.” At that, I notice one of the ever-present security men hovering by the dining room doorway nod once. Milo sighs dramatically.
“Yes, Dad,” he drawls, shooting me a look of commiseration. Then he saunters out, twirling his keys around his finger.
I sit quietly through the last few minutes of dinner, barely hearing Mom and Dad’s continued chatter about poll numbers and speech drafts. My mind is elsewhere, churning with frustration. By the time Dad finally dabs his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and declares dinner’s over, I’m holding myself together by a thread.
“May I be excused?” I ask curtly, already halfway up from my chair.
Mom frowns slightly. “Don’t you want dessert, honey? Rosa made tiramisu…”
“I’m okay. Just tired,” I say. It’s not a lie; I’m exhausted, but not from anything physical. It’s the mental strain of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. “Good night.”
Without waiting for further protest, I slip away from the table. I hear Mom quietly say, “Let her go, dear,” as I stride out. My cheeks burn, partly from anger, partly from the prickle of guilt at my rudeness, but I need to be alone.
I climb the sweeping staircase to the second floor two steps at a time, heels clicking on polished marble. The moment I reach my bedroom, I shut the door firmly and flick the lock. Safe, in the only way I can be right now—away from prying eyes.
My room in my parents’ house is a picture of luxury: all creamy white furniture, silk drapes, and a crystal chandelier. It’s beautiful and completely suffocating. I toe off my heels and rip out the pins holding my hair in that prim twist Mom styled for dinner. With a groan, I flop backward onto the king-sized canopy bed.
The ceiling above me is painted with little, gold constellations, leftover from when I was a starry-eyed kid obsessed with space. Now, I just feel small beneath them. I lie there in my stocking-covered feet and cocktail dress, trying to calm the storm of frustration in my chest.
Dad’s words keep echoing in my head. “You’re a target.”I press my palms over my face. God, how did my life turn into this? A few weeks ago, I was worrying about midterms and dorm gossip, not murderers and secret organizations. Not being locked down, under guard, because someone out there might want to hurt me to get at my father.
I’m scared—more than I let on at dinner—but I’m also angry. Angry that Dad refuses to tell me more about what’s going on. Angry that I’m being kept in the dark “for my own good.” And angry… that beneath all that fear and anger, something else is simmering.Someoneelse.
Dredyn. The memory of his hands on me sends a hot shiver through my body that I have no right feeling. It’s like my traitorous brain has the scene on replay—the press of his body, the rough scrape of his fingers along my thigh, his breath hot at my ear as he growls things that make my knees weak.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as if I could block it out, but it’s no use. I can practically feel the ghost of his touch on my skin right now. My breathing hitches, heart thumping dully against my ribs.
Stop it. Don’t think about them.I roll onto my side, curling inward, trying to will away the heat pooling in my belly. I hate that I want more. Dredyn, Talon, Jasper . . . all of them. They crashed into my life at AGU like a thunderstorm, and I swore I wouldn’t get swept up.
Yet, here I am, the memory of their touches and taunts creeping into my most private thoughts, making my body respond in ways I wish it wouldn’t. A frustrated groan escapes my throat. I’m so damn weak.
I sit up abruptly and swing my legs over the side of the bed.My pulse is skittering as if I’ve run miles, but I’m just lying here, drowning in longing.
My hand moves before my mind has fully caught up. I snatch my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up, illuminating my shaky fingers.
I bite my lip, hovering over Zane’s name. If I text him—if I do this—there’s no going back.
Me:
Tell Dredyn I’ll be there in 30 minutes.
I jump to my feet and hurry to my closet, stripping off the restrictive dinner dress. In its place, I yank on a pair of black jeans and a simple gray sweater, hands trembling with urgency. Sneakers instead of heels. If I’m sneaking out, I need to blend in with the night.
Sneaking out… A hysterical little laugh bubbles in my throat. The daughter of a would-be president, climbing out of her bedroom window like a rebellious teenager? Except, I’m not a kid. I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman and I refuse to be caged.
I pause by the door and crack it open an inch, peering into the hallway—dim and empty. Most of the household staff have likely retired for the night. Downstairs I can hear the faint murmur of Dad’s voice—probably on a call in his study—and the clink of dishes as the housekeeper, Rosa, tidies up from dinner. No sign of security in the hall, but I know there are at least two guards doing rounds outside, and one stationed by the front entry.
My best bet is the garage—Milo’s second car. I ease out of my room, keeping to the carpet runner to muffle my steps. The house is silent enough that I swear I can hear my own heartbeat. At the top of the staircase I pause, listening. Dad’s voice carries from behind his closed office door downstairs, but no one else seems around. I creep down the back stairs toward the garage, sticking to the shadows.
In the small alcove by the garage entrance, I spot exactly what I need: Milo’s keys, dangling from the decorative hook where healways leaves them. Bless my careless brother. I snatch the keys and press the button to unlock the garage door. With a soft mechanical whir, it opens, revealing the sleek midnight-blue Mercedes inside. The car gleams under the low light—a curved, predatory shape just waiting to roar.
My pulse thrums in my ears as I slip into the driver’s seat. The leather hugs me like a glove, and I run my fingers over the steering wheel, the silver Mercedes emblem catching a glint of light. Here goes nothing.
I push the start button, and the engine purrs to life, quiet and smooth—too quiet. I was expecting a roar that would surely alert the whole house. But of course, high-end engineering has its perks. This beast could probably do 90 mph and still sound like a contented cat.
I press the button to open the outer garage door. It begins to lift, revealing a slice of the driveway and the iron gates beyond. Beyond those gates: freedom. Or something like it.
