Want her.
Desire her.
Never in my life have I needed anyone. The very idea is outrageous. Preposterous. Foolish.
I need no one.
I want no one.
Desire does not rule me.
Whatever this is… This thing she is doing to me… This absurd obsession she’s created… I don’t have a name for it. Bartholomew keeps insisting I have feelings for the girl. Ridiculous. I tell myself it’s curiosity. Nothing more. She is unusual. Difficult to categorize. I simply want to understand the anomaly.
That is all. There are no lovesick feelings involved whatsoever.
But still, I crave her presence.
That is why I resorted to this asinine plan in the first place.
Pretending I’m just like all the other men here. Indulging in the best fantasies money can buy.
That, I can accept.
The hostess’s door opens, and just like the first time I watched her enter this room, I forget to breathe.
She is a vision. Effortlessly beautiful. Her soft, sandy-colored waves fall like a magnificent waterfall around her shoulders. The long, flowing silk dress wraps around her slender body, accentuating every feminine curve as she walks. As a whole, the outfit makes her appear like an ethereal being from another realm. Maybe she actually is. There is no other logical explanation for the effect this woman has on me.
For why my dick is harder than granite whenever I’m within fifty feet of her. Why cold showers have become my norm. Why no other woman has been able to hold my interest since my little flower fell into my grasp. And why I can’t get through a single night unplagued by X-rated dreams, starring her.
Her steps are slow, measured, as she is led to the sofa across from me. But unlike every other time since our first encounter, there’s something different in the way she holds herself.
Perhaps it’s in the tilt of her head. She’s looking down at her feet despite not being able to see them. And her hands are fisted. In determination or concern? Strange. My ability to read people’s body language is usually spot on, yet I’m struggling to do so tonight.
My eyes roam across Iris’s face, her body, soaking her in. Silently, I wait for her to begin speaking. Wait for another dose of my drug of choice. Her nearness. Her voice. Her. I’d wield every weapon I have to keep her by my side. Away from any other man who might want to claim or hurt her. I’ve already killed two assholes who tried. And I’ll do it again. And again. If only she knew the true power she has over me, it would terrify her completely.
It’s been a long time since anyone could boast such a hold over me. Such dominion. Since Iallowedsomeone to have such control. Maybe that’s why I’d never confided in good old Barty about these visits with Iris. And I tell that bastard practically everything. He undoubtedly would’ve tried to spin it as more evidence of his harebrained notion that I am in love with her.
Silently, I watch the object of my uncontrollable obsession as she glides further into the room. But instead of sitting on her sofa, she makes her way around the coffee table…
And lowers herself onto the cushion beside me.
“Thank you. For saving me,” I whisper. My voice is surprisingly steady, considering my nerves are going haywire.
The faint scent of clean ocean air surrounds me with the tranquility I seek, the comfort I always find in that calming fragrance. I take a deep breath, then tilt my head to the side until my cheek connects with the soft wool fabric of the suit jacket covering my silent guest’s sinewy frame.
A sharp inhale is the only proof of his proximity as he continues to sit motionless, his body rigid as stone. I think I might have surprised him. I surprised myself with my bold move. Keeping utterly still, too, I wait for a reaction. Is he going to push me away? Or will he lean into my side a bit? The path ahead of us is murky.
Moments pass, and he does neither. Both of us remain unmoving, our bodies brushing against each other in the barest of ways. But that’s okay, too. I relax and keep breathing in that salty scent, relishing being safe, protected, and cared for, which I only experience in this man’s presence.
It took me a while to understand why the stranger who says nothing at all has awoken such strong feelings of security in me.
I’ve lived my entire life in a world with people who can do unspeakable things and rarely face consequences for their actions. Unless, of course, those actions break a set of very specific rules. The unwritten laws of Cosa Nostra.
Even the criminals adhere to certain principles. Without those, chaos would ensue. Anarchy would reign. I don’t even want to imagine what those people…whatanyonewould be capable of doing in a world devoid of rules. Without boundaries, without restraints, powerful individuals will take the inch you give them and run rampant, doing whatever the heck they want. No consequences. No recrimination. The more powerful they are, the worse the atrocities they might commit.
What stands in the face of all that is trust. Can you trust the people around you? Can you give them power over you? And once you do, will they protect that trust or betray you?
I was so naive when I first set foot in the Annex. With time, I realized the truth. Within the walls of this private gentlemen’s club, the boundaries are only an illusion, woven from a thin thread of trust. It’s a place that allows rich men to wield the power they seek. To do whatever they want—no rules, no restraint. To do it in utter anonymity, without their subjects ever knowing their faces, their names. The patrons here are not bound to any principles, while at the same time, they expect perfect obedience and complete control. The color system of the dresses is a nice distraction, giving the girls a false sense of comfort. Baseless reassurance. An untested promise. If anything dreadful happened to any of the women working at the Annex, who would ever know? The establishment would protect its clientele, surely. The rich and the influential. The place itself. The whole thing may be wrapped in silk and luxury, but it can’t hide its dangerous, predatory nature.
