The private corridors of the Scarlet Thorn are a labyrinth of hidden passages and secret doors that connect every level of the building, from the legitimate business floors of Redthorne Holdings to the decadent playrooms reserved for our most exclusive members. I know these passages the way I know the back of my own hand, and I navigate them now with the silent efficiency of a predator moving through his own territory.
The wish room sits at the heart of the club’s restricted section, accessible only to members who have paid for the privilege and to the desperate souls willing to risk everything for a chance at salvation. I slip through a concealed panel and emerge in the narrow observation gallery that runs along one wall, hidden behind glass that appears solid from the other side. It’s a useful feature for a man who likes to watch.
And tonight, I very much want to watch.
She enters the room like she’s stepping into a church, hesitant and reverent and aching with need. The white dress that hugs her curves is exquisite in its simplicity, designed to showcase her delicate beauty while maintaining the illusion of innocence. But there’s nothing innocent about the way her aqua eyes sweep the room, cataloging every shadow, every flicker of candlelight, every possible exit. She’s faced danger before. Who has made her feel so unsafe in her young life that she looks for danger instead of leading a carefree life?
She’s been trained to survive in dangerous spaces. I can see it in the way she moves, the way she positions herself near the door, the way her fingers twitch toward her hip as though reaching for a weapon that obviously isn’t there. Her father might keep her on a short leash, but somewhere along the way, someone taught this girl that life is out to get her.
She approaches the wish box at the center of the room and pauses, her brow furrowing as she searches the space for something. Pen and paper, most likely, neither of which is provided for good reason. Our wishes must be written in the wisher’s own hand, on their own materials, with ink that carries something of themselves. It weeds out the impulsive and the half-hearted, leaves only those desperate enough to find a way.
I watch her face transform as understanding dawns, followed swiftly by frustration and then something darker. Determination. Defiance. She reaches down and grips the hem of her dress with both hands, and the sound of silk tearing echoes through the candlelit chamber like a declaration of war.
I shake my head. If I’m ever lucky enough to have a daughter, she’ll know how to drop the enemy at fifty paces by the time she’s twelve. Take that promise to the bank. By eighteen she’ll be a lethal weapon.
Persia spreads the torn fabric across the lid of the wish box and produces a tube of red lip liner from somewhere. The cosmetic is clearly doing the job and I find myself captivated by the image she creates as she bends over the box, writing out her wish.
I feel like I’m witnessing a princess tearing apart her own gilded cage to pen a desperate plea for freedom in the only ink she has available.
I cannot read the words from this angle, but I don’t need to. The tears streaming down her cheeks tell me everything I need to know about the depth of her desperation. The trembling of her hands tells me she’s afraid of what she’s doing. And the fierce set of her jaw tells me she’s going to do it anyway.
A different kind of heat flows through me. This woman is magnificent.
She finishes writing and stares at her words for a long moment, her expression crumbling into something raw and wounded. I watch her lift the silk to her lips as though she wants to kiss it goodbye, then carefully fold it and slip it through the slot of the wish box.
I leave the observation gallery through another hidden panel and circle around to the main entrance of the wish room, pausing just inside the threshold to drink in the sight of her. She’s standing with her palm pressed flat against the surface of the wish box, head bowed, shoulders shaking with silent sobs she’s trying desperately to suppress.
Up close, she’s even more stunning than the security footage suggested. Delicate features dusted with freckles across the bridge of her nose. Violet hair that catches the candlelight like something from a fever dream. A body made for worship wrapped in white silk that pools at her feet like liquid moonlight.
And those eyes. When she spins to face me, startled by my deliberate question, her aqua gaze hits me like a physical blow to the chest.
“What has such a beautiful woman crying?”
I keep my voice soft, gentle even, the tone I reserve for… actually no one. I’m not known for being gentle nor soft.
She stares at me with wide eyes that shimmer with unshed tears and a wariness that speaks to a lifetime of learning that men cannot be trusted.
She’s right about that. But she doesn’t know yet that I’m about to become the exception.
“Please tell me, little dove.”
I step close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. “Tell me, and I’ll bring you the heart of the person who has caused your tears.”
I know my offer sounds like a line, but I mean every last one of them. I will cut the heart out of anyone who has hurt this delicatecreature. She only needs to whisper the name in my ear and the deed is done.
“That’s quite an offer,” she manages after I promise to bring her the heart of whoever has caused her pain, and I feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite my best efforts to maintain composure. She has fire, this one. Even drowning in tears with her dress in tatters, she’s not going to make this easy for me.
Good. Easy bores me.
We dance around each other with words, each of us testing the other’s defenses, probing for weaknesses, cataloging strengths. She’s clever and quick despite her obvious distress, deflecting my advances with a practiced ease that tells me she’s had plenty of experience handling unwanted male attention.
But I’m not unwanted. I can see it in the flush that spreads across her cheeks when I step closer, feel it in the way her breath catches when my scent reaches her, hear it in the slight waver of her voice when she tells me she wishes she knew who I was.
“I wish… I wish I knew who you are,” she breathes, and the want in her voice makes something possessive twist in my chest. “Give me your name and I’ll give you one in return. Might be mine, might be the name of the man who made me cry."
Brave. So fucking brave.
“Careful, little dove,” I murmur, reaching up to brush a tear from her cheek with a gentleness that contradicts everything about me.“Wishes have a way of coming true around here. And some prices are higher than others.”
