Devoured

“You can’t go,” I say, my voice deep.

But she gives me a guilty, almost sad, smile.

“Sorry, Sienna, but this one’s between the two of you. I’ll be the one to take you home, though.” She reaches out her fingers to give my hand an encouraging pat but I knock them away. The sharp edge of one of the bronze skull rings she’s wearing nicks the tip of my thumb and I press it between my teeth.

“Thanks.” I say to Kylie, the word muffled. Not that it matters because I don’t mean it.

Lucas clears his throat, and she ducks her head, shimmying out of the booth. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. She glances back once, before she disappears from sight, but I pretend not to see her. I know it’s childish but being an adult has gotten me nowhere in this situation.

“God, you look like sin,” Lucas says as I pull my thumb from my mouth.

The edge in his voice sends a cold thrill racing through me, from the toes of my black pumps, to the top of my head, where I’d styled my long red hair into a messy up-do. My eyes flutter shut and silently, I countdown from 20.

It won’t take much to walk away. No, it won’t take anything. I can call a cab, or God forbid, Seth. I shouldn’t stay here with Lucas because he’s about as bad for my mental health as I am for his music.

17, 16, 15 . . .

But if I just leave without hearing him out, I’ll seem weak. He’ll know I can’t take being around him. He’ll figure out how big that part of me that can’t resist him really is. And I want to think that he can’t use that against me, but he can. Lucas is the type who will exploit any weakness to get what he wants.

7, 6, 5 . . .

No, I won’t leave. Not until I find out—

His fingertips tangle into my hair, sending hairpins flying to the tabletop and onto the seat in a quick, gentle motion. My red hair spills into my face, around my shoulders, and both of us suck in our breaths at the same time.

“Your f**king hair . . .”

“What do want from me?” I ask

“Everything,” he whispers, turning his head so that his lips touch my temple. He inhales the scent of me in before speaking again. When he does, he almost sounds intoxicated. “But for now . . . I want you to work for me.”

He draws back and puts a—dare I say—professional amount of room between us. I’m stunned to realize that the cheese and vegetables have been cleared away and now there’s a salad sitting in front of us. I was so wrapped up in the moment with Lucas that I hadn’t noticed the server’s return.

Damn Lucas for driving me to distraction over and over and over again.

And f**k myself for letting him. Why do I do this to myself?

Lucas spears a fork into his salad and takes a bite. I study the way he chews—slow, deliberate movements. Tiny flicks of his tongue that causes my body to burn. He turns eating, something that is so basic, into a seductive art. I catch myself sinking my teeth into my own lip as I imagine him drawing it in between his teeth.

“I’m offering you Ms. Previn’s home in exchange for your . . . services. Ten days. My rules. And you have to cater to my every need. Then, I’ll personally sign over the deed to your grandmother’s home.”

I let his words sink into my brain sluggishly, like spoiled molasses. Let the shame wash over me. “I’m not like that,” I whisper, turning my face away from him so he doesn’t see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks and ruin the makeup I so carefully applied.

He catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. To face him. He gives me a sarcastic, pouty expression and I clench my fingers into the fabric of my dress so I don’t try to smack it right off. “I never said you were. Just took you for the type who likes to work for the things she wants.”

What he’s just said—it takes everything cruel comment Preston ever made to me when we were dating, adds them together, and multiplies them. “I’m not going to f**k you for money, Lucas.”

He doesn’t try to stop me as I stiffly maneuver my way out of the booth.

I’m three steps away from the table, and struggling with the bitter urge to just break down bawling, when he says, “There’s no f**king involved.” His voice is so soft and cold, it makes me shiver, like a gust of wind has just swept through the room.

Warily, I take a peek over my right shoulder. He’s pushed his salad away, and has his arm draped over the back of the booth, expecting me to sit back down. But what’s surprising is his face. The sardonic look is gone, and is replaced by one that’s apologetic—a look that’s earnest.

“What?”

“Sit and we’ll talk.”

Another order, but he has my attention. He knows there’s no way in hell I’m exiting this restaurant without finishing this conversation now. Quietly, I climb into the booth, sitting in a way that we’re facing each other. I can feel his eyes blistering into me as I play with my fork, twirling it between my fingers while I wait for him to explain himself.

He lets me sweat for a couple minutes—allows me to think of so many scenarios that I’m squirming in my seat. I tap the toe of my shoes on the hard floor, beating out a staccato rhythm. He takes a breath and then, at last, he speaks.

“Kylie’s going on vacation to New Orleans and I need a personal assistant while she’s away.”

“A personal assistant,” I repeat, and he bows his head, smiling at me so politely I’m sure it hurts his face. Polite on Lucas Wolfe is about the same as aggressive on me—outright awkward.