Page 13 of Voyage with the Reclusive Billionaire

She raises her brows at me, curiosity glinting in her dark green eyes. “To talk?”

“Just to talk,” I say firmly. “I swear.”

She stares for a long moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Please, Eliza.”

She debates for a long moment, reading my pleading expression and, if the look in her eyes is any sign, reading every emotion I try to keep hidden.

She’s gotten good at that today. I’ve been having a hard time keeping any of my true feelings to myself—even the most mundane of them.

She says again slowly, as if still not completely believing me, “You only want to talk?”

No. Of course not. Of course I want to do so much more with her. There’s a connection between us that feels ancient and new, a connection that gets stronger with every heartbeat I spend in her presence.

And something tells me she feels it, too. It’s in the way she looks at me when I’m not supposed to notice—but of course I notice. I notice everything about her in every moment we’re together. Whether that’s because of my raven blood or my human blood, I don’t know. I don’t particularly care, either. All that really matters is how I feel about her, how she feels about me—and how she would feel about my… heritage.

Which doesn’t give me hope. Not after how the world reacted when the article about my shifter blood came out. There were the people who thought it was bullshit, of course—those that didn’t believe or know about shifters. But then there were the others. The ones who did believe, or did know, and suddenly felt that I was untrustworthy because of who I am and what I can do.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it if that’s how Eliza reacts.

I need to tell her. I need to tell her who I am and what I am and how I feel about her. Or maybe just the first two. Because if telling her I can take the form of a raven doesn’t run her off, then telling her that I have ever-deepening feelings for her, the kind that I can’t explain, sure fucking will.

“Yes,” I say. “Just talk.”

A look I can’t quite decipher flashes across her face before she shrugs. “Okay, then. Come on.” Eliza uses her keycard to unlock the door, then opens it swiftly. “It’s a little messy,” she mutters as she steps inside. I follow in after her, closing it behind me before turning to see her pick clothes up off the floor. She launches them into the closet and yanks the doors closed before turning to me with warmed cheeks.

Our rooms contain the same furniture, but it’s arranged differently. Her unmade bed, which I can’t look at too long without imagining hot and dirty things, is backed against a pale blue wall that mimics the color of the ocean that is visible outside the large glass sliding doors and the balcony on the other side of them.

The same whitewashed headboard, dresser, and armoire sit flush against the walls. The lightly stained oak floors are accented by a creamy white and navy blue rug that mimics old Persian designs in a simpler way.

All of those things are secondary to her. They’re what I make myself look at to avoid staring at her, to avoid focusing on the tension that snapped into place between us just as quickly as the door locked behind me.

Eliza says quietly, “Corey? Look, I know I already asked, but are you sure you’re okay? You seem—”

— “My name isn’t Corey.” The words are out before I can stop them, before I can think them through.

A long, long pause fills the room. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I mean, it’s not not Corey,” I say. “But that’s just a nickname. Not my real one.” I finally turn my gaze to hers, desperate to see how she feels.

But her gaze is unreadable, beyond the obvious confusion. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird? Because you told me a lie that’s not even really a lie?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve been acting weird because of why I didn’t tell you my real name. Because I was worried that if I told you my real name, you’d figure out who I was.”

“Not likely,” she says, trying to laugh but failing as she sits primly on the edge of her messy bed. “I’ve spent the last five years either aggressively studying to get my doctorate or researching my ass off at the lab. I haven’t had much time for anything pop culture.” Eliza looks down at her hands, and then back up at me. “So those people we had dinner with—Ryker and Sylvie—they did recognize you?”

I let out a shaky breath and nod. “Yes. Or possibly, anyway.”

“And who are you?”

“Corvan Thorn.” I answer easily, because my true name isn’t the thing I’ve been trying to keep from her. It’s everything that my name is now associated with.

But Eliza just frowns and shakes her head. “Yeah—no. Doesn’t ring a bell. Like I said, doctorates take up a lot of time.”

I try to smile, but I can’t hold it long. “Look—I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone. That, when this all came out a few years ago, I denied with my every breath and disappeared off the face of the earth for three years in hopes that people would forget about me.” I pause. “This is my first time in years being around people again. I just wanted to see if it was possible that everyone had forgotten about me, if I could just blend into the background and slowly work my way back into my company. Clearly I jumped the gun a little.”

“I didn’t recognize you,” Eliza points out.

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