Page 40 of Reckless Hearts

I nod.

“You’reokay though, Dahlia?”

“I’m great.”

“You sure are,ma chérie.”

I flush as I roll my eyes. “Love you, Mom.”

After I hang up, I shower quickly, shave my legs, and blow-dry my hair. I apply make-up in the foggy bathroom mirror, and it’s only when I’m standing in my closet looking in despair at an open drawer at my frankly abysmal collection of anything you could even generously call “lingerie” as opposed to “underwear” that it really hits me.

Jesus Christ.

I’mprimpingfor him. I’m getting dolled up, like I’m going on a freaking date. I mean, I just shaved my legs and bikini line.

You’ll even be my whore, if I ask.

I know—I mean I really, truly know—that he’s not being metaphorical there. I remember Deimos’ reputation at school: there wasn’t a girl on campus who wasn’t ready to worship at his feet for just one wink or flash of that predatory, psychotically beautiful smile. And I’m sure, as he’s gotten older, more powerful, and even moreoutrageouslygorgeous, that his penchant for blowing through random women has only grown.

I know precisely what me going over to his house tonight means. The fucked up thing is, I’m not disgusted by it. I’m not furious, or ill. I’m not appalled that this man has calmly invited me to come over to his house to trade my body for his mercy.

I’m trying to get there, in my head. I’m trying to force myself to feel what I know I should be feeling about all of this.

It’s not working. Nothing I try to remind myself about power imbalances, or sexual slavery, or even the word “prostitution”, does a single thing to force the negative feelings to the surface.

I mean, I could say no. I could just not show up tonight, and ghost Deimos and the whole internship. And there might be consequences to doing that, but they’d only be monetary ones. It’s not like he’d actively hunt me down, tie me up, and force me to have sex with him or something.

At least, I don’t think he would.

But while Icouldsay no to all of this, I know I won’t.

Not when there’s a chance that me doing this saves my mom’s companies and foundation.

In the end, I settle for my only set of matching black lingerie, a knee-length burgundy tartan skirt, a simple black top, and a light blue cardigan. I look put together, but not glamorous. Cute, but not sexy.

Half an hour later, the building security guard at the address on the matte black card is ushering me into the elevator. I rise smoothly to the twelfth floor of the elegant Soho loft building, and when the doors slide open with a discreetding, my eyes almost pop out of my head.

Holy. Shit.

The space is stunning, honoring the building’s heritage as a factory before it was turned into lofts for millionaires. I live in what I consider to be a nice apartment on the Upper West Side, with a decent amount of space for New York City.

But Deimos’ placedwarfsmine.

The sheer square footage is jaw-dropping, with rehabbed original wood floors, brick walls, and exposed beams on the high ceilings. Expanses of old black iron factory windows run the full length of two of the walls, and there’s even a door that leads out to a private patio terrace.

The lighting is dim—almost too dim, because there’s only three lights in the whole place. There’s also barely any furniture in here at all: just one tan leather couch, a matching chair across from it, and a small desk to one side next to a bar cart.

And in one corner, a simplygorgeousgleaming, all-black, baby grand piano.

My bottom lip retreats between my teeth as my eyes linger on the piano, remembering. Deimos wasn’t just Knightsblood’s resident psycho and head of The Reckless. He was also anastoundingpianist. I heard him play, as part of a school concert once.

He was breathtaking. Like seriously jaw-dropping, heart-stopping amazing. Apparently, there was even talk about him going professional. I guess mafia work paid better.

I exhale as I glance around the apartment. It’s not like he’s gotnofurniture. But in a space of this size, it feels very sparse and empty which just those pieces in here. The amount of open floor space is crazy. Like, you could easily ride a bike around this place, or host relay races.

“I believe the aesthetic is called ‘minimalist vintage’.”

I shiver, snapping my head around to see Deimos drifting out of the shadows next to a support column. Jesus Christ, how does he keep doing that? Like a ghost appearing out of nowhere. It scares the shit out of me.

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