Page 26 of Into the Woods

And why.

Why is any of this happening? There has got to be more than meets the eye.

I don’t doubt that my parents fucked up and did it spectacularly. They’ve been doing that my whole life. But this attention from Christophe, his intensity, is unlike anything Icould imagine. It’s got to spring from something different, something deeply rooted and terrifying.

Jesus.

I pause, makeup brush smooshed against my cheek. What the hell am I doing? After all that I’ve been through and as crazy as all of this has been, why am I painting my face fully intent on stepping into a dress that was delivered to my room? My locked room in this damn house?

Stockholm Syndrome is a very real thing, but that doesn’t mean I have to drink willingly from its cup.

Hell no.

I set the high-end products aside, adjust the belt on my robe and glare at the gorgeous gown hanging from the door of the closet. While it hasn’t done anything to me, what it represents has me all kinds of twisted up.

I’ve never really rocked the boat, always did what was expected of me. Toed the line to keep things copacetic and not make waves no matter what sketchy situation my father happily sent me into. Fat lot of good that did me.

Instead of sliding the shimmery red gown on, I dig through the other clothes tucked neatly away in the walk-in closet. If I’m going to be waltzing into the unknown with this dinner, I want my armor to be comfortable.

Tiny black workout shorts that will barely cover my ass. I dig through another drawer and find a fitted t-shirt almost the exact color of the dress. I pull each item on, adding a pair of soft socks that hit just above my knees.

I don’t even bother with the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. I feel cute and comfortable—and totally inappropriate for a formal dinner.

I love it.

There’s a soft knock before the lock clicks and the door swings open. Garrick steps into the suite and clears his throat, glancing around fleetingly. I can only imagine his trepidation.

I enter the sitting room and pull the bedroom door closed behind me. Tru is well and truly out cold and if she stays that way, it’ll make my life so much easier. I’ll be able to concentrate on finding a way out of all of this.

“Miss L’Ourson? Was there a problem with your attire for the evening?” Panic laces the butler’s question, concern marring his features.

His eyes sweep me up and down, taking in my hair, my outfit, my knee socks. I look more like I should be starring in a sorority porno than having dinner in a mansion with a beautifully dangerous specimen of a man.

“Nope, no problems. I decided this is more…me.” I pluck at the hem of my t-shirt, tugging the cropped fabric low enough to reveal the swell of my tits. There’s not much to it, honestly. My choices are flashing under-boob or ample cleavage.

Garrick’s eyes widen the slightest bit before his gaze darts to whatever is over my shoulder. That blank wall must be fascinating with the way he’s focused.

“I see”—he clears his throat and straightens his spine—“Mr. Robicheaux specifically requested you dress.”

“He did. You mentioned that earlier. But here’s the thing, Garrick. I don’t see why I should put in the effort. Why should I go through all the work of doing my hair and makeup? Why should I stuff myself into a dress that may not even fit me?—”

“I assure you, miss, the dress is to your exact measurements.”

“When I am nothing more than a hostage here?” I ignore the fact that someone involved not only picked up the perfect makeup palette but also knows my measurements. That’s just a whole different level of…I’m not sure what.

“Miss, I implore you.” Garrick is the epitome of stoicism as he dutifully avoids actually looking at me. Once again, the blank wall over my shoulder is getting the full weight of his stare. “Mr. Robicheaux is?—”

“Going to have to get over himself,” I tell him with a smirk. “Now, are you escorting me to face my sentence? Or are you going to bring me another charcuterie board and some wine? Because that sounds so much better than whatever Christophe has in store for me. I think I’d much rather hang out with you and Tru, shooting the shit and painting each other’s nails.”

“As delightful an evening as that may be, your presence has been requested in the dining room. And I rather enjoy the state of my being just as it is,” he states, fighting the lift at the corner of his mouth.

Garrick opens the door and ushers me out into the hallway.

Teague looks up from his phone, eyes bright, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

He looks almost pained, holding back his smile as he takes me in. “Shit. I hate that I’m going to miss the boss’s reaction to this.”

I laugh. “You’re not joining us for dinner?”

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