Page 39 of The Wicked

“We can change that.” His gaze settled over me like a weighted blanket. Oddly comforting. “You always play things safe, don’t you?”

“It’s the only way I can live.”

“Are you really living? Or just existing?”

How did this man, this virtual stranger, distil me down into my essence in a few short minutes? He saw me. Sawthroughme. And maybe he was the first person ever to do so.

He couldn’t be part of the monster’s world, could he? I mean, if he’d wanted to harm me, he could have carried me off along the beach last Saturday, the two of us embraced by darkness, and delivered me into the ocean’s foamy grasp. I would have been powerless to stop him, just as I was powerless now.

“Most days, I can barely breathe,” I whispered.

“Then we’ll get you some air.”

I stared at his hand, and instinct told me that if I took it, my life would be turned on its head. But would that really be such a bad thing? What would another sixteen years ofexistingdo to me? Sometimes, death felt like the better option, but what if there was another way? Perhaps Charming would ruin me, but the thought of running terrified me too.

I put my hand in his.

As he led me out of the break room, I felt the crushing weight of the status quo lift, replaced by a new burden: fear of the unknown. But there was also a jolt of something else.

Excitement.

“Where are you going?” Paulo asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Ooh, fun. Hey, Prince Charming, if you hurt her, I’ll turn you into a human pincushion.”

Garrett snorted softly. “Understood.”

“Don’t forget your purse, hun.” Darla thrust it into my hand as I stumbled past. “Text if you need anything.”

Text? I couldn’t even think. A steady drizzle fell as Garrett towed me across the parking lot and half lifted me into an SUV. Hurrah, my breakdown was complete. My life was officially out of control, and all I could do was hang on for the ride.

13

GARRETT

What the fuck was wrong with me?

First, I’d found my mystery woman, and then I’d practically abducted her from her art class. I didn’t do impulsive. Last year, theNew York Timeshad described me as a control freak, a label I didn’t particularly appreciate, mainly because it was accurate. I stayed healthy, I worked, I did my damn best to protect my family, and when I dated, the women were carefully selected to be as uncomplicated and as obedient as possible. They got background-checked. They signed NDAs. They moaned in all the right places as I fucked them into submission.

So why was I driving toward North Bend at five miles over the speed limit with a silent Sara in the passenger seat of my Porsche?

Because not one of those women had ever made my blood run hot the way she did.

Iburnedfor this brunette.

Why was she so quiet? She hadn’t uttered a word since we left Baldwin’s Shore. Although, quite frankly, I was afraid of what she might have to say. The flash of fear in her eyes at the mention of the Peninsula, that had been my undoing. I’d put the worry there—I wasn’t quite sure how—and now I had to fix it.

She didn’t snatch her hand away from mine, at least. That was a plus point. I ran a thumb over her knuckles, and she gave a delicate shiver and carried on looking out the window.

Sara, Sara, Sara.I didn’t know anything about her, not even her surname, but I knew she’d spent an entire evening with me, just me, without being aware of who I was, without being in it for the money or the kudos of saying she was dancing with Oregon’s most eligible bachelor. No, I wasn’t kidding when I said that. Two years ago, much to my irritation, thousands of readers ofImaginemagazine had awarded me the dubious honour, probably because some journalist—and I use that term loosely—had included details of my family’s net worth and a picture of me in my dress uniform alongside the poll.

I was nothing special.

But maybe the woman beside me was?

I’d driven away from the craft store with no decorum and no idea where I was going, and I needed to come up with a plan fast. Should I take Sara to a quiet bar, invite her to share her troubles? My English grandma had always said a problem shared was a problem halved, but she’d caused a good number of the problems, and she hadn’t appreciated me telling her that. And Sara didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who liked to talk anyway. She hid a thousand secrets behind those hazel eyes of hers.

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