Because he belongs here, and I’m the stranger.
“Yes. Please," I whisper, seeking permission.
From him. From the air itself.
“It’s okay to be Lost,” he murmurs, still unmoving behind me.
Heat warms my waist, but no hands contact my body through my silk jumpsuit. “Are we lost?” I stare at the house that glows softly, lit from within as we wait outside. There’s something in that, but I don’t know what it means just yet.
Drake’s breath brushes the back of my neck. “Welcome to Lost Mountain, Cha Cha. I only come here when I don't want to be found.”
I want to twist and look up at him, seek some reassurance in his face, but I don't. Maybe here, solace isn’t something I need. I open my eyes and stare forward instead, accepting my fate, for now. “So we are lost?”
“Yep.” A rough hand slides through mine. Without another word Drake strides past me, toward the house, my bag in his grip.
I trot in his wake, trying to keep up with his longer, steadier strides. Back at the arena, I didn’t take the time to assess my new companion for the foreseeable future. Maybe I should have.
Drake—no last name, Bodyguard will do—wears his suit as though it's a second skin that sits uncomfortably across his shoulders like he can’t wait to shed it. Dark hair that’s neither too short nor too long covers his head. His body moves smoothly in a cadence I recognize. My new bodyguard might not be a dancer, but he has the grace of a hunter. A shiver ripples over me. As though sensing the change, his hand tightens on mine a fraction, though his grip isn’t painful. Just firm. It never occurs to me to pull away.
Because this man has instantly become my safe zone. It’s just his driving that sucks.
Residual light from the house reaches us, the black of his suit jacket warming a little in the yellow light, mine still in shadow. I tug back, unsure why I can’t keep going.
Drake freezes, and glances back at me. “Cha Cha?”
For the few times I’ve sassed him out about calling meprincessalready, I could do with one of those snarky endearments right now. I’m not even sure why.
“I just—” I stare up at the house, over his shoulder. It’s a long way up.
He’s taller than me, by a lot. That's not hard. At five feet, three inches, most people are taller than me. Even in heels. I’m pretty sure Drake doesn’t wear those. He’ll have to duck beneath the lintel to get inside, and it looks like it’s regular height.
He faces me in full, and my heart pounds. “Tell me.”
I yank my hand free. “You want me to go inside, so let’s go inside.”
I know I’m being contrary, but isn’t that the character I'm meant to play? She slips out so easily to cover the discomfort of being the sole spotlight of someone else’s attention.
Weirdly, I'm not used to someone looking directly at me. They’re always too busy seeking someone else’s attention, and that suits me just fine. Interviewers, media…even fans want to preen and talk about themselves.Theyare the ones before the camera.Theyare who want to be on film. I’m simply the byproduct who got them there. Even the sasaeng—at least, my version of the obsessed fans who follow me around like custom dressed mini mes—want tobe me, not actually talk to me.
Kind of an ego drop.
Once, I wanted that. Back when Helium3 was first created, and the media smashed into me and my bandmates, being the spotlightmattered. Rankings, social media…it was so important. And fans. Oh, the fans. I never understood what being a K-pop star meant until then. Sure, I worked through the system, spent years training and not sleeping and studying, all to be selected… but at the end of it all, the fans were who made it for me.
Once the media smash hit us, I breathed it in. a little too much, maybe. Then, I was exactly what Drake accused me of being. Now?
The princess act is exactly that.
“I only like being touched with permission.” I stare him straight in the eye, focus wide, and stalk past him.
A skill perfected on the stage that means I don’t fall on my ass when the lights go down. Good thing, too, because Drake, the master engineer that he is, does exactly that.
The garden lights turn off as the house blacks out. All at the touch of a button presumably on his phone, the same way he set everything off when we arrived.
I freeze. One misstep and I really will end up on my butt. Because this isn’t a flat stage, it was a freaking garden path, uneven and wobbly. I still wear the platform wedges that I walked out of the stadium wearing after finding my dressing room more totaled than when I left it before the show.
By design. Not mine.
“Back here, princess,” Drake murmurs without ever raising his voice.
