Page 89 of Coveted

I hate how the gesture makes me think about him threading my hair with his fingers as he pushed into my throat.

“You can rebel against me all you want,” he says. “I promised to protect you and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

I tilt my head. “Whether I like it or not?”

“You’re finally getting it,” he says.

“You missed my sarcasm.”

Lucan leans down. “I don’t miss a fucking thing. Keep that in mind the next time you’re fake-giggling with some lesser version of me.”

“Lesser version of you?” My mouth drops open in disbelief. “Your confidence truly knows no limits.”

“Why wouldn’t I be confident?” He shrugs at the crowd. “None of them have done what I’ve done.” His eyes fall to my mouth. “Or been where I’ve been.”

Shame seethes deep in my gut. I swear, making me squirm with discomfort is a sport to him.

“What makes you think my laughter was fake?” I ask, changing the subject.

A smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth. “You have a tell.”

“What is it?” I demand.

The thought of Lucan having that kind of knowledge about me is worrying. Fake laughter is harmless enough, but I have other, bigger secrets to keep. What if he figures them out? I’m screwed.

“I’ll take that information to my grave,” he says.

“Don’t tempt me into putting you there,” I say.

“As if you could.”

Before he sends me over the edge and I hit him or kiss him or some horrible combination of the two, I slip alone through the knots of people.

I need to get away from him, I need to breathe. It’s so hot in here.

Passing security personnel at a velvet rope, I enter the labyrinthine corridors of the museum. Within a few corners, I’m engulfed by sweet silence. I walk as far and fast as possible, while cool air ripples the silky fabric of my gown and skims my legs.

I purchased the dress shortly after I started my brief stint at community college, despite money being incredibly tight. Mom talked me into it because I never bought anything for myself except notebooks and pens. I hoped the dress would make me feel like a normal young woman with a life, but I’m beginning to realize no piece of clothing can do that.

And normal is overrated anyway. Lucan’s right about that, I guess.

My heels click over the stone floors, and lanterns cast pools of shivering amber light. An autumn chill presses at the windows, clouding the corners of the glass panes. Since the calendar clicked over into October during the weekend, every night has become distinctly colder than the last.

The more distance I put between Lucan and me, the slower my heart beats. All I need is a minute where he’s not looking at me like he knows everything about me.

He’s like a virus. A tall, menacing, fever-inducing contagion that enters your bloodstream and tries to take you over.

Deep in the museum, I find a gallery where a traveling exhibition lies quiet and dark for the night. I feel like a rule-breaker when I go inside, even though I’m just looking at medieval statues and suits of armor. Metal from the armor catches the filtered moonlight, throwing it over the shadowed room in dull, fractured glints.

“You don’t come alive at night, do you?” I ask a spear-bearing stone warrior as I pass.

Placing my beaded bag on the edge of a display case, I inspect my reflection in the shiny black glass of an exhibit piece.

My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are too bright, and a lock of hair has come loose.

“Pull it together,” I mutter to myself.

I came tonight knowing Lucan would be here. If I’m going to survive him, I need to find a way not to let him throw me off-kilter with his every look and action. By provoking him just now, I played into his desire to bring me close.