A pause. Then:
I granted a wish. Your wish stated you would do anything. If my payment is you in my penthouse until I say, then so be it.
Nine
Persia
Shit.
I stare at the words until they blur, the reality of my situation crashing over me like a wave. I made a deal with the devil, and now I'm learning the terms were never what I thought they were.
He is right and I hate that he is right. I think about calling Calla and Kiara, about having them pick me up so I can formulate a plan that isn’t living day to day but I need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like cedar and smoke and Rafael fucking Milano.
But I have honor, damn it. I made a promise, and even if it's killing me slowly, I won't be the one to break it first. I gave my word and unlike the people who raised me, my word means something.
I hate being a good girl. Lesson number five.
I step out of the bedroom and head for the elevator. The second I round the corner I freeze.
Drake Moses is leaning against the wall opposite the elevator, his silver hair perfectly groomed and his steel-gray eyes watching me with an expression that's equal parts amusement and assessment.
We haven’t formally been introduced. I’ve just picked up names here and there. Marta mainly telling me snippets about each man. Drake Moses is Rafael’s BFF, a silver fox with impeccable taste in suits. He’s broad across the shoulders and looks like he enjoys going rounds on the punching bag. Or people. Probably the latter given his profession. He’s about an inch shorter than Rafael but commands attention of any rooms he’s in.
“Morning. Going somewhere, baby girl?” His smile is equal parts charm and warning.
My shoulders slump. “I was hoping for some fresh air.” I cross my arms over my chest and try not to let my disappointment show. “Let me guess. Rafael sent you to babysit me.”
“Sent is a strong word. Rafael asked me to keep you company.” His smile is warm but his eyes miss nothing. “There’s a difference.”
My brows raise. “Is there? We might have to agree to disagree.”
He pushes off the wall and crosses to where I'm standing, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that's nothing like Rafael's scent. He gathers my hand in his. “Look, I get it. You’re frustrated. You’re confused. You’re stuck in a penthouse with a man who runs hot and cold and won't give you a straight answer about anything. But he’s trying, Persia. In his own fucked-up way, he’s trying.”
The use of my real name instead of some patronizing nickname makes me soften slightly. “Trying to what?”
He gives my hand a soft, friendly squeeze before withdrawing. “That's not my story to tell.” He nods toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I make a mean omelet.”
I shake my head, but an idea is already forming in my mind. “Actually, Marta's off today, and I was thinking of cooking dinner.”
Drake's eyebrows rise. “You cook?”
“It was all part of the grooming of making me a good wife, so said my mother.” I move toward the kitchen and start pulling items from the refrigerator, mentally cataloging what I have to work with. Fresh herbs, tomatoes, a whole chicken, lemons, garlic, cream. “I don’t have everything, but I guess I can make do with what there is.”
“If you’re going to be here, you might as well help,” I say, tossing a stalk of celery in his direction.
He catches it one-handed. “Help with what?”
“A gratitude dinner. For Rafael. He saved me from Magnus Sterling, as you know. In my head that deserves a proper meal.” And it might make him actually want to have that conversation.
Drake slips off his jacket and rolls his sleeves higher. He picks up a knife and for a while we work in comfortable silence. Then he says, “So you wrote a wish on a piece of your dress with lip liner and dropped it in our box.” His smile is knowing.
“Yeah.”
“You know, most girls would have just fucked him.”
The knife in my hand pauses mid-chop. The words hit like a slap across my face, and I go still with my hand wrapped arounda stalk of celery. Drake must see something in my expression because he immediately straightens, his face softening with regret.
Drake catches it immediately. “Damn it. That came out wrong. I meant you are different. I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
