Page 62 of SNOB

Mac looks back at the building he calls home, then he looks at me. “I got you something.”

“Besides this expensive getup and years of stress?”

“Besides my cock in your mouth.”

I frown. He smirks, reaching into his pocket. My eyes widen at the black velvet box he pulls out.

This is not a date. This is not a date. This is not a date.

“A reminder.” He hands me the soft box. “We’re a team tonight. Thought you might have doubts.”

“Do you blame me?”

“Just open the fuckin’ box, Everett.”

When I do, a shiny gold necklace sits inside on black silk. Two ends have butterflies on them, one smaller than the other. Mac brings his wrist into view and it’s only then I notice his cufflinks. Gold butterflies.

My cheeks heat. Mac contains so many sides to him but this gesture floors me. “Mac, I?—”

“Whether we like it or not, we’re in this together.” Taking the necklace from its resting place, he moves behind me, removing my locket from my neck.

“Wait,” I reach for it as he drops it into his pocket.

“You’ll get it back.”

“I don’t… I’ve never taken it off.”

“Well, tonight’s different.” The cold of the gold does nothing to quell the heat on my skin. It doesn’t need a clasp, he just pulls the smaller butterfly through the other. “I need you to remember that tonight.” His words land against my ear, and I can feel him against my ass. “Is that clear?”

“Ye-yes,” I say, the softness in my voice surprising me.

He pulls on one butterfly. The end of the necklace gets longer as the necklace tightens on my neck, like a choker. A leash. “Come on then.”

“Mac, are you joking?” I ask as he chuckles. “I’m not your dog.”

“No,” he says, tugging harder on it. As it tightens some more, it reminds me of his hand around my throat and my tummy flips. “Tonight you belong to me.”

EIGHTEEN

EMBER

Tonight you belong to me.

Lightning fires up my spine, his words lingering. As he tugs on the necklace, he leads me towards the mansion.

Gothic architecture pairs with modern features. Like an upgraded home for the Adams Family. When we reach the bottom of the steps, he holds out a hand again, and I take it. “Don’t let me down, McKinsley.”

“If you go down, I go down,” he says, helping me to the top of the steps.

Two men with white gloves open big glass doors framed by shiny wood. Beyond them reveals a gothic fairytale. Checkered marble greets my new heels, a chandelier dripping in crystal above. A swirling grand staircase frames the space, iron railings as shiny as Mac’s eyes. White-gloved servers hold golden platters raised high on their palms. Champagne and fancy appetizers I don’t recognize. They circle guests who mingle between art on easels, small tables with sheets of paper next to them.

Guests greet Mac as we pass, but no one gives me that evil eye. They smile. Nod. For once, I fit in. Still, my grip on my sketchpad tightens when I think about talking to anyone in the room. How would I relate? What would I say?

“I’ll take that.” Someone in white gloves pulls my sketchpad from my hand. “Enjoy your evening.”

When I turn around to grab it, a familiar face catches my eye, blocking the server with my sketchpad. “Looking good, Ember.” Gray stands in a white suit with black floral embroidery. He looks like a luxurious tablecloth but somehow pulls it off. Even his white hair compliments his choice. “Real good.”

“Whitney,” Mac greets his friend with a nod. “Don’t you have a whore stupid enough to sleep with you to entertain?”

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