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“What?”

“Is that the fucking pigs?”

“Shit.”

Booming footsteps fade out and away from me.

“What the fuck? Someone has to help me bring this bitch back!” Luke calls after them. “Fuck.”

He kneels next to me and presses the tip of the knife into the wound, making me shriek out a weak scream.

“I’m coming back for you, fucking whore,” he snarls before standing up, spitting on my face, and running.

I twist my aching head to the side as blue lights fade in from the distance.

Chapter 39

Camila

Agentle sway wakes me from my slumber. I feel like I’ve slept for sixteen days.

My head is pounding, and my eyes don’t want to open. Letting out a croaky groan, I turn in bed. My right arm is completely dead; I must have slept on it for said sixteen days.

A low hum of Stand By Me carries through the bedroom as my body continues swaying.

Is there an earthquake I’m unaware of?

“I love this song,” I grumble.

“I know.”

My eyes ping open at the sound of Xander’s voice. Black leather is the first thing I see. Realising I’m in a car, I scramble to sit up. Xander’s eyes study me in the mirror, his eyebrows pulling in at the middle.

“Are you okay?”

My breaths come in rapid as I try to remember what happened last night.

The party. Nova. Penelope. Xander fucking me into oblivion on his desk. The studio. The cheque.

The cheque.

My eyes narrow on him. Whipping my head towards the window, I see that we’re surrounded by miles of empty fields and trees.

“Where are we going?” I demand, arms folding across my chest. I’m dressed in a jumper and leggings, but I don’t remember changing into them. “Did you undress me?”

His eyes flicker back to the road as he drives. He nods once.

“Where are we going?” I repeat. His chest rises and falls steadily. I’ve seen Xander in many forms—quiet Xander is not one of them. The air in the vehicle gets tense, something unspoken hovering above us as if a storm cloud is about to break.

“Xander.” I say his name slowly, like approaching a frightened dog.

He doesn’t say anything.

“About the cheque… I’m sorry. I’m grate—”

“You don’t have to apologise. I’m the one that needs to apologise.” My eyes ping to him, while he keeps his gaze focused on the empty country lane. I squint my eyes.

I didn’t mean to react the way I did last night. Everything was overwhelming. I’m not used to this life, and I’m especially not used to a man giving me everything I could possibly dream of. But it feels constricting. Claustrophobic.