CHAPTER 27
EDEN
Istepped out of Jagger’s room wearing the shirt I’d had on yesterday and a pair of black leggings that had mysteriously appeared on the bed while I was in the shower.
Jagger was waiting for me in the hallway, fully dressed, thankfully. He wasn’t wearing a suit for once, but the dark jeans, black Henley, and boot combo he had on were just as devastating.
If trouble ever decided to take human form, it would look exactly like him.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice sounding hoarse as he stared at me hungrily, as though I was wearing lingerie instead of a basic tee and leggings.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To get you new clothes.”
“I don’t need—”
Jagger closed the distance before I could finish arguing and cupped my jaw, kissing me and shutting down any more of my protest. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against mine. “You do,” he murmured.
Not giving me time to think, he laced his fingers through mine and started walking, tugging me gently down the hall and into his private elevator. Instead of heading down to his garage, though, we ended up on the casino floor . . . where I worked.
I kept my head down, my cheeks burning as some of my coworkers stared at us as we passed. I didn’t blame them for looking at us. My hair was still wet, I didn’t have any makeup on, and I was holding hands with the hottest man alive—who also happened to own the place where we worked.
A fact that I’m sure some of them knew because most people were not as oblivious as me.
Jagger didn’t seem to notice all the stares . . . or maybe he was just used to them and didn’t care.
“Eden!”
The voice cut through the low hum of slots and chatter.
I looked up and saw Leigh weaving through a row of blackjack tables, a tray tucked under one arm, and her eyes wide.
She broke into a jog the last few steps, stopping short when she saw Jagger.
Her gaze darted between us, then landed on our joined hands.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathed. “I heard what happened. The fire at your place. Are you okay?”
I blinked. Right. I’d had to text a supervisor about my uniform last night because it had burned in the fire.
I’d tried to keep it vague . . . but apparently vague didn’t travel far in a place like this.
With Ryan’s death just happening and then my apartment .
. . I was sure I was keeping everyone talking.
I could only imagine what they would be saying after today.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”
Leigh stepped closer, ignoring Jagger completely now. “Listen, I just wanted to say . . . my roommates and I have an opening if you need somewhere to stay. The rent’s cheap. Like actually cheap. We’ve got an extra room, and it’s nothing fancy. No pressure, just . . . if you need somewhere to go.”
The offer hit me like a lifeline and a brick at the same time. Cheap rent. Roommates. A way out of this glittering cage Jagger was beginning to build around me.
I looked up at him just as I opened my mouth to answer.
Jagger hadn’t said a word yet; he hadn’t even tightened his grip on my hand. But he had gone perfectly still except for his thumb, which was brushing over my knuckles like he was warning me.
And I knew, knew, that if I said yes to Leigh, he would cut in and make sure that I never left.
The thing was . . . I didn’t want to leave him. It was absolutely insane, not to mention wildly inappropriate, but—
I wanted this.
I wanted him.
Leigh was still watching me expectantly, and I swallowed and finally answered her. “I already found a place,” I said carefully. “But thank you. That’s really sweet.”
Her eyes flicked to Jagger, then back to me, and understanding dawned across her face. “Oh,” she said softly. “Okay.” She gave me a small, knowing smile. “If you change your mind—”
“She won’t,” Jagger finally cut in.
“Thank you,” I told her, shooting him a look.
Leigh squeezed my arm once, then glanced at Jagger hesitantly before walking away and disappearing into the crowd. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Jagger turned to me, his thumb brushing slow circles over my wrist as he leaned forward so his breath ghosted across my cheek.
“Good girl,” he murmured . . . and I shivered.
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
His mouth brushed my temple, then drifted lower, grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear. “And I’m going to make sure you never regret it,” he said, so quietly it was almost lost in the casino din.
Jagger’s fingers tightened around mine just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me I’d made a choice. And then he guided me forward again, like there had never been another option.
We stepped out the side exit into the bright morning light, and he steered me toward the row of high-end boutiques that lined the casino’s luxury wing. I’d always walked past them before, their glass fronts filled with mannequins draped in outfits that probably cost more than my rent.
When he’d said shopping, I’d imagined going to a Target or Walmart . . . somewhere practical. But I’d obviously been a fool and should have known better.
He stopped in front of L’étoile, a store I’d never dared step inside. It had sleek black doors and a single black dress in the window that was draped on a faceless mannequin.
“Jagger,” I said, tugging on his hand. “This isn’t—”
As usual, he didn’t let me finish. He just opened the door and pulled me inside.
The air was cool and scented with something that smelled expensive. Soft music was playing, and a woman in a tailored black suit smiled at us like we were royalty.
“Mr. Thatcher,” she said smoothly. “I have everything ready. Right this way.”
I dug my heels in as she disappeared behind a curtain. “Jagger,” I hissed. “I thought we were going to . . . I don’t know, a regular store. I need jeans. Underwear. A toothbrush. Not”—I gestured wildly at the racks of silk and satin and things that looked like they belonged on red carpets—“this.”
He turned to face me fully, still holding my hand. “You need clothes,” he murmured so only I could hear. “Real clothes. Not whatever you can grab off a rack. You’re not scraping by anymore, Eden. You’re mine.”
My throat closed. “I’m not . . . I don’t need you to—”
“I know what you need.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the doorframe just enough that I felt the heat of him again. “You lost everything, and I’m giving it all back. But better.”
I stared up at him, heart hammering.
“You want to fight me on this?” he asked. “Fine. Fight. It will just make the sex better later. But you’re still walking out of here with bags. You’re still coming home with me. And you’re still wearing whatever the fuck they sell in this store.”
My breath hitched.
He leaned in. “Or I can carry you through this store over my shoulder. Pick everything myself. You want that instead?”
I shook my head quickly, and he pulled back, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Let’s go.”
The saleswoman was waiting for us behind the curtain, and she smiled widely, leading us deeper into the store—past racks of dresses and lingerie and shoe displays that made my feet hurt just looking at them.
I was such an imposter right now; I was just waiting for Jagger to realize it.
“That one,” he said to the saleswoman, nodding at a black dress with thin straps and a slit up the thigh that looked like it might show my vagina. “And the red. The silk one.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and he shot me a pointed look. Right . . . I wasn’t supposed to be arguing.
The saleswoman grabbed the dresses and nodded toward another curtained area. “I have tons of clothes waiting for you. Should we try them on?”
“Okay,” I choked out, and followed her after a soft push from Jagger.
The dressing room was behind a heavy velvet curtain.
The space was larger than my entire living room used to be, and there were mirrors on three walls, a plush bench, and lighting that made you look like a model instead of a dying peasant.
There were racks of clothes lining one wall, each piece more stunning than the last.
I just won’t look at the tags . . .
I stood there awkwardly, staring at everything in shock.
How the fuck had I gotten here?
“Shall we start with this?” she asked, pulling a pretty blue jumpsuit from the rack.
I nodded mutely. What else was I supposed to do?
As I slipped out of my shirt and leggings, she hovered nearby with professional discretion, adjusting a hanger here, smoothing a seam there. I pulled the jumpsuit on carefully, half expecting it to reject me on principle.
It didn’t. The fabric slid over my skin like it had been waiting for me.
As I smoothed it down over my hips, she spoke casually, “How long have you known Mr. Thatcher?”
I hesitated just a fraction. “A while.” Which was technically true if you stretched the definition of a while into something unrecognizable.
She made a small humming sound, stepping closer to adjust the strap at my shoulder. “Ah.”
Her accent shifted just slightly on the word—so subtle I almost missed it. The polished, neutral cadence slipped, and something Irish-sounding curled underneath it.
“You must be very . . . brave,” she said.
I frowned at my reflection. “‘Brave’?”
She met my eyes in the mirror, her tone still pleasant. “Mr. Thatcher is . . . ambitious.” The Irish lilt surfaced again on the word, soft but unmistakable.
“I’ve dressed many women who stand beside powerful men,” she continued, stepping back to assess me. “It takes a certain disposition.”
I blinked at her reflection.
“I work at the casino,” I said slowly. “I know he owns it.”
Her smile didn’t change.
“Yes,” she said.
She stepped closer again, smoothing the fabric at my waist with careful fingers. “Has he told you,” she asked lightly, that faint Irish cadence threading back in, “about all the other things he and his friends own?”
There was something in the way she said it—something that felt like it held more weight than it should have.
My pulse skipped. “‘Other things’?”
Her eyes held mine in the mirror.