Chapter 12
RAIDEN
Ilean against the wall, trying to get myself under control.
First, that rubbish with Julian, then that goddamn dare.
Aurora walks into the hallway, her dress highlighting her mouthwatering cleavage and ample hips. It’s a shining silver color, matching the details on her mask.
“What the hell was that?” she asks. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I grunt.
“You’ve been in a bad mood ever since that guy came to our room.”
“That guy is my cousin, and he stabbed me in the goddamn back,” I growl, oversharing, not meaning to but somehow unable to stop.
“Oh,” she mutters. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She raises her hand, holds it still, as if debating whether touching me is appropriate.
“No one’s watching,” I grunt.
She purses her lips with pure defiance and then places her hand on mine. “Tell me what the dare said.”
“He dared me to trade you with one of the other guests and fuck the other guest’s girl as he fucked you.” I laugh in disbelief. “I’m not letting that happen.”
“Because if your grandma found out, she’d doubt that we’re real,” Aurora mutters.
“Sure,” I grunt.
Let’s go with that.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, actually,” she says.
“We’ll go to the dining area. It’s the most normal part about this place.”
She takes my arm. “Then lead the way, sir.”
That lifts my mood despite everything. We walk through the dance hall, turn down a corridor lined with suits of armor and mounted weaponry, then emerge into the restaurant. A masked greeter leads us to a candlelit table in the corner.
“Your grandma pulls out all the stops,” Aurora says when I pull out her seat. “Thank you.”
I sit opposite. “Yep.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you can be very grumpy?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Yes, in fact.”
“Don’t worry.” She lowers her voice and leans forward. “That dare doesn’t mean anything. I know I’m just your purchase.”
I don’t laugh at that.
“Being reminded of the transactional nature of this, again and again, wasn’t in the damn contract.”
“Okay, jeez.”
A long, awkward pause follows. I’m about to speak when the waiter brings two menus. Outside, wind rushes against the window, and something makes a loud crashing noise. Lightning maybe, or a statue toppling over.
“Sorry,” I finally say. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s not my place to judge you or take offense or anything, really.”
“I shouldn’t have snapped,” I reiterate. “Accept the damn apology.”
She sighs and looks around the room. Her mouth isn’t as sassy as it normally is. No pout. No sarcastic twitch in her lip. She seems hurt by my tone, and I can’t blame her.
“Your wish is my command. Or have I got that the other way around?”
My command is your wish. That was what I told her when we first met. The more time I spend with her, the truer the words seem. She pretends not to enjoy the attention, to resent my command. But she can’t mask her moans or the heat in her body.
“Maybe it’s my job as your loyal, loving girlfriend to drag you out of this bad mood,” Aurora says.
“Oh yeah? How’d you plan on doing that?”
“First, by accepting your apology, even if it was the grumpiest apology I’ve ever heard. And secondly, by changing the subject. Tell me who you are, Raiden, behind the mask.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a masquerade ball?”
“I’m not talking about this.” She leans over the table and prods my mask. “I mean the mask you wear even when you’re not wearing a mask.”
I shrug. “I was a Marine. I saved my cash. I went into real estate and made a terrible deal, and lost almost all of it.”
A man walks past us, turns, and looks at Aurora as if checking her out. Under the table, my hands curl into a fist. My possessiveness is supposed to just be for show, but it’s rearing its head and pissing me off. I don’t enjoy not being in control.
“Do you read? Paint? Watch movies? Don’t make this feel like an interrogation.”
We’re interrupted by the waiter.
“We’ll take two sparkling waters,” I say. “And two steaks, with fries. How do you like your steak cooked?”
Aurora makes a point of closing her menu. “Medium, please.” When the waiter leaves, she says, “You enjoy bossing me around, huh?”
“Guilty as charged,” I tell her with a wink. “But I can think of better places to do it.”
She shakes her head. The pout is back, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. “No one can hear us. We’re just two people talking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t need to say things like that; this isn’t part of the show.”
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.
“My favorite movies are Halloween flicks,” I tell her.
“Really?” She sounds hopeful, excited. But also doubtful, as if she expects everything to have a second meaning, a punchline behind the exterior facade.
“Really,” I tell her. “You feel the same?”
“I love Halloween movies. I love horror. I love dark escapism, even in books.” She talks breathlessly, her enthusiasm making me smile. “Horror movies are the best. What’s your all-time, could-watch-a-hundred-times horror movies?”
“There are so many,” I mutter. “The Descent, I love that one. Not technically a ‘Halloween’ movie though.”
“But horror, yeah, I love that one. Terrifying. Is ‘love’ a strange word in this context?”
“Strange or not, it fits,” I say.
She pauses, as if silently acknowledging that what I just said could work for us too, not just for movies.
“The Shining. Of course, Halloween.”
“What about Misery?” she asks, with a note of hope in her voice. “I know it’s not as gruesome as some of the others—”
“If I had to choose a favorite, that would be it.”
She stares at me for a few moments. Even with the mask on, it’s like I can read her expression, can hear her thinking, Is he serious or is he telling me what he thinks I want to hear?
“Really?” she says.
“Something about it has always appealed to me. I first watched it when I was a kid, and I’d just learned what it meant to be a Blackwell.
Before that, I felt like a regular boy. Sure, richer than most, but regular, just a kid living his life.
Then I learned how important the Blackwell name was, and I felt… ”
“Trapped,” she mutters. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. That’s what I was going to say.”
“Trapped like Paul,” she murmurs. “Forced to write a story based on someone else’s outline.”
“You know something about that?” I ask.
“It’s a nasty thing to think, let alone say.”
I squeeze her hand. I haven’t removed it the whole time. It will be good for people to see us being so casually intimate together… but I like it too. That’s the unavoidable truth.
“You can tell me,” I say. “This is what the Retreat is all about. No judgment.”
She swallows, then mutters, “After my parents died, I felt trapped with Grandma. Not in a bad way. I love her. But she can be flaky and erratic, always has been, and I saw it as my duty to keep her level so that social services would let me stay with her.”
“You grew up fast. You put her story ahead of yours.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Losing your parents is damn hard,” I say. “I know the feeling. The void it leaves inside. The emptiness, the pain, the doubt about your identity.”
“I lost them in a car crash because of crappy driving conditions, but when I watch the crash scene in Misery, it doesn’t hurt me like it should.”
“The make-believe is easier to handle,” I say.
“The thing about writing someone else’s story is, it’s comfortable,” she mutters. “It meant, for a long time, I don’t have to think about my story.”
She’s getting choked up. I squeeze her hand again, offering her comfort. “Aurora, you’re at fashion school. You’re kicking ass. Cut yourself some slack.”
She sniffles and nods. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“It’s good for us to share some stuff, anyway.” She pulls her hand away. “It makes all of this more convincing.”
A darkness clouds descends over me at her words, joined by a thick layer of doubt.
Does that mean all this was an act?
Perhaps she’s scared of getting too close. She’s already made it clear that this has a clear endpoint. She doesn’t want anything real.
I lean back in my chair. Whatever. I need to settle down. We chatted about a movie.
Big goddamn deal. It doesn’t mean anything.