Yes. I know he would. I know it in my bones.
This has nothing to do with me thinking each iteration would do something different. They're the same person, and Enzo's just playing a game.
No, this has to do with Enzo.
Now he's got me here, under lock and key, protecting me, and I know what he did—helping me, guiding, watching. I know the basic rules are the same.
Even in real life.
If I utter the words "Blue Banana," he'll stop.
Cold.
Because he's not a creepy stalker waiting to carve me up. He's someone I've known all my life, someone who has watched over me.
I put the phone down, suddenly nerveless, and I smell the rose.
It's deeply perfumed, and the scent weaves around my senses, but the note is pure kinky boss.
Need a date. Dump the boyfriend for the night, or you'refired. Pick you up in ten.
Ten? As in minutes? Oh, fuck. I need to get ready and find an outfit.
I keep smoothing the baby doll.
The outfit is new, and I found it on the bed, along with the shoes, stockings, and a pretty black clutch.
It should make me mad that he took this step.
But I like it. Dressing me is exactly what the asshole boss I'm fantasy-fucking would do.
I think I look good in it. I hope I look good, more like.
Because he looks really delicious and hot, like he stepped off the pages of the latest fashion magazine for men.
That suit still gives me shivers when I think of him in it.
Lyndall's blasting music from her room, and I pace the foyer, everything on alert as the door opens.
It's not him. There's a moment when my heart slams against my ribs and white-hot terror rips through me.
The fear vanishes because what man hell-bent on taking me would have the numbers to the alarm and the door lock?
And I know him. I've seen him. He's one of the men who watches us.
Rich, I think.
"I'm your chauffeur tonight."
"Thank you."
I follow him out, and I'm hyper-aware of the men posted on the street and in cars.
It's clear when you know what to look for. They are faces I see downstairs at times, or escorting Lyndall to and from her classes.
The only real thing in my bag is the phone he gave me.
I check it, but there's nothing there. No texts. No missed calls.
