2. Liv
CHAPTER TWO
LIV
“ A hhh. Arghhhh!”
I grunt as I let myself into the shoebox apartment.
It’s three in the morning and I’d hoped to be able to crash, but of course, that’s too much to ask on a Saturday night. Or is it Sunday morning?
“Oh, Willem!” one of my roommates shrills.
Across the narrow corridor, the second responds with a, “Harder, Pete!”
Then the thumping commences.
Needless to say, we have thin walls.
I drag myself into the kitchen, and heat up a Cup Noodles, before making my way to my bedroom, yawning.
I’m not hungry, but I know better than to go to bed without something in my stomach; if I do, I’ll be up in three or four hours, irritated and starving.
Alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling while I wait for my roommates to finish their fuck fest, I find my thoughts drifting back to my stranger, the one who always watches in silence.
I’ve never seen him from close enough to actually make out all his features but from a distance, he seems incredibly beautiful. Dark, tousled hair. Penetrating eyes that don’t shift from the object of their attention—namely, my legs.
I try not to feel weird or guilty as my fingers slide between my legs. After all, he’s been watching me for a month, and I’m pretty sure at one point or another, he must have thought back to my bends and my splits in the shower, his hand around his cock. The difference is I’m not paying for the privilege of using his pretty face.
It’s rather sad that I have no one else to fantasize about, but such is my life. At school, the pretty guys lost their appeal the moment they opened their mouths, and I’m too superficial to go for nice personalities blessed with zits. The simple reality is that I’ve never so much as had a crush.
I could probably just think about Henry Cavill like your average girl, but my stranger’s my choice tonight.
I make myself come to the sound of my roommates’ fun, finishing after them, and I manage to fall asleep almost immediately.
I wake to a sunny afternoon. I shoot a text to Tricks, knowing she’s likely too busy with rehearsals to hang out with me. She joined the corps at the Royal Anderian Ballet last month. She’s free most evenings, but that’s when I work. Her twin, Jinx, isn’t as close a friend—she’s a little shy and bookish, and I’m introverted, so when we’re alone, the conversation is just scintillating. Not.
Both replies come fast: no, they aren’t free.
I sigh, and resolve to visit my third, and sadly, final friend: a swan with a broken wing I’ve fed at the park for the last couple of years.
Grabbing my ebook reader, I take an inventory of all the things I need to buy for the coming week, planning to stop for groceries on the way in, so I can pick up some spinach and peas for Aurore. I called him that before one of the park rangers informed me that he was a he.
Half an hour later, I’m crouched by the lake, chatting with Aurore as he nibbles his treats, sipping my coffee, when I hear him.
“There’s a Don’t Feed the Ducks sign, you know.”
I turn, because the low rumble is too suave not to wonder who it comes from, though I don’t expect him to be addressing me.
There are a fair few people in the park today, given that it’s so nice out, but they all fade into the background.
A few paces away, leaning back on a stone picnic table, stands my stranger.
He doesn’t quite belong in broad daylight in my mind, likely because I’ve always seen him in the dim club, but there’s no denying that it’s him. And he’s definitely talking to me.
I stand slowly, at loss for words.
“Well?” he prompts, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Should I get you arrested?”
I blink. “Arrested?”
“You’re not supposed to feed it, you know.”
And you’re not supposed to stalk girls to their favorite swans , my mind shoots back.
But of course, he’s not stalking me. It’s a complete coincidence that we’re meeting here. He doesn’t know I’m Nala. How could he?
In all likelihood, he spotted me on his walk and decided to stop, either in defense of the swan, or because he decided I reminded him of someone.
Still, I run the statistics of my meeting him out here by chance in my head. In a city of millions, what are the odds?
“He’s not a duck,” I retort dumbly.
I could explain that I’ve actually chatted with the wildlife guide here, and was told that giving him swan-appropriate things was just fine; the sign is meant to deter people from stuffing them with bread. But that would require more words than I’m currently capable of enunciating, so he gets “Me Jane. You Tarzan. No duck.”
“So I see.” His smirk broadens. “So, legalities are dependent on the exact wording to you?”
I shiver. It’s a very pointed question to ask a stranger in the park. Again, saying so would require the full use of my vocal capacities, so I settle on, “I guess.”
“Interesting.”
What’s interesting is the fact that he’s crossing the narrow path separating us, until he’s more than near, standing right next to me.
From up close, he’s not what I expected. He’s far worse .
Strong jaw, with a bit of stubble. Straight nose. Clear gray eyes, as intense as when I feel them on me in the dark.
I redirect my eyes to Aurore rather than bear the weight of their scrutiny, feeling my cheeks explode.
Oh my god, I fingered myself thinking of him not even half a day ago. How fucking embarrassing. And I feel like it could be plastered on my face; if he looks too hard, he’ll see it.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I glance back. It’s a perfectly normal question, objectively, but made incongruous by circumstances. Why would he care about the name of some chick in the park? Unless he knows…but he can’t, right?
“Unless you’re actually called Nala.”
My heart stops.
Oh .
I stand, staring at the stranger as my pulse flies.
“I’m a Lion King fan.”
He nods. “Figured as much. That still doesn’t tell me your name.”
Somewhere at the back of my mind, an alarm bell rings. I tell myself I should be concerned. But I’m not.
I’ve heard about some of the girls getting followed, and worse, but if he wanted to harm me, he wouldn’t have chosen to do so at four o’clock on a sunny afternoon, in a park full of families and ducks.
“What’s yours?” I counter, to highlight the awkwardness of the question.
I doubt he’d give me his real name, either. Men might enjoy watching pretty things dance in barely there clothing, but that doesn’t mean they want their indulgence to have any impact in the real world.
Usually.
If he gives me his name, I could find him, blackmail him by offering to tell his wife where he spends his nights, or whatever other methods I’ve heard of in the changing room. I wouldn’t, but I could .
I find myself glancing to his left hand. No ring. No hint of one recently removed either.
No wife. His girlfriend, then. Someone who looks like him can’t possibly be unattached.
“Callum Noble,” he replies without hesitation. “At your service.”
My lips part in surprise.
Before I tell him I don’t believe him, he retrieves a card wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulls one out, handing it to me.
I blink at it. If he’s lying, he’s certainly well prepared.
My eyes widen at the crest above his name on the black card. Wings to either side of a shield, with crossed blades in the background.
The emblem of the house of Noble. Every kid in the country knows it.
Holy fuck.
“What do you want?” I barely recognize my voice, trembling, weak.
Now, I have the sense to be a little afraid.
The Nobles are some of the most powerful aristocrats in this kingdom. And one of them is standing right next to me. That can’t be good.
“For now, a name would do, darling.”
He doesn’t want my name.
He already has it.
I’m certain of it.
“You tell me,” I challenge, lifting my chin.
He smiles, those gray eyes still cool. “I wasn’t certain whether you favored Olivia or Liv.”
The fact that he’s not lying to me gives me a little courage. “Liv. And what do you want now , Callum?”
I should say Mr. Noble, or sir, and probably curtsy, but I’m sure my breach of etiquette can be forgiven given the fact that he’s stalked me.
I don’t know what I expect of him next.
“I have a problem I believe you can fix,” he tells me.
“How?”
“By spreading those delectable legs, of course. What else could I possibly need you for, darling?”
Okay, I’m not surprised. I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”
I start to walk away.
“You haven’t heard about your compensation yet.”
“Still not a whore, but thanks,” I call back without turning.
I seriously hope he’s not following me.
But of course he is, and his much larger strides let him catch up in no time. “That’s a judgmental word. You didn’t strike me as judgmental.”
I’m not, most of the time.
“Shows how well you know me.”
“Not as well as I will soon, I grant, but?—”
“Look, Romeo,” I interrupt. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Pick up any other girl at the club—or on the street. I’m sure they’ll be happy to…help with your little problem.”
I can’t help lowering my gaze to his crotch.
“That’s hardly little ,” Callum replies. “And as it so happens, no other girl will do for this specific issue.”
“And I’m still not interested.” I shrug. “I’ve never even had sex, and I won’t start by selling it.”
He pauses, tilting his head. “Even better.”
I groan, feeling like a parrot as I repeat, “I’m not int?—”
“A hundred thousand euros for one night.”
Now I stop.
And then I turn, slowly.
“You’re actually insane.”
Callum scoffs. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“No. I—no. I’m not fucking you for money. Sorry.”
Anyone willing to spend that much on something others would give for free is bad news. He doesn’t want sex; he wants to tear me apart, and probably leave me dead in the morning so he doesn’t need to pay up.
Callum Noble is majorly bad news. I’m going to google him as soon as I go up; I bet I find a trail of disappearances of pretty girls he meets, and equally troubling things.
“Who said you’d be fucking me?” he asks, shocking me again .
What?