Prologue #3
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Well? Why are you calling then?”
Why, indeed. Squeezing my eyes shut to block out the bedroom in front of me, I whisper, “King dragged me onto his tour bus and says he’s taking me home with him tomorrow.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. If you’re on a tour bus, you’re not at his last day of tour party anymore. Get an autograph for me. I’m hanging up now. My show’s about to come on. Be home as quickly as you can. You know your father hates a messy kitchen.”
“Mom, please.” My voice wobbles. “I’m not joking.
I-I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he’s planning to do with me.
He’s pushed me into his room and told me to get ready for bed.
” Tears well. “I don’t know if I should call the police or if it’ll even help.
It’s so loud outside, I don’t think I can scream, and—”
“Clara. Shut up, honey.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“You’re telling me that you don’t know what to do if King, a known millionaire and world-renowned musical artist, has shoved you into his bedroom and wants to take you home?”
“Y-yes?”
“Don’t be an idiot, sweetheart. What you do is whatever he wants, whatever he says, whatever he makes you. You shut your pretty mouth and milk the attention for all it’s worth, putting my good genetics to great use.”
I don’t…understand. Aren’t men evil?
“If my pretty figure really gained a rich man’s attention while you’ve been busy fumbling around with it, I’d be proud of you for not screwing that up, and I’d tell you convince him you’re on birth control so you can get pregnant.
A baby scandal would do us all nicely for the rest of our lives, even when he inevitably gets bored of you.
” She snorts. “Anyway, that’s what you’d do if you weren’t being an idiot and tormenting your poor mother with cruel jokes.
See you in, what? An hour? Two. Try and hurry. Lov—oh, that’s my show. Bye.”
Click.
Stone still, I stare at the carpet in front of me, feel my phone slip from my fingers. It hits the ground with a dull thud—right after my heart.
She…doesn’t believe me.
Worse, if she did…I think she was being serious concerning what she’d want me to do.
Nausea rises up the back of my throat, then a knock sends me leaping away from the door. Lukas calls, “Are you ready yet, cupcake?”
I look down at my work uniform, whip my attention toward the drawers beneath the bed then toward the bathroom, and stammer, “S-sorry! One more minute.”
“Okay, cutie pie. No rush. You’re okay, promise.”
My skin crawls with a mix of terror and apprehension.
“Our treats for the trip tomorrow just got here, so it’ll take me a minute to wrap them up, then I’ll be in to join you.”
One minute.
I have one minute.
One minute…and then he’s joining me.
Rummaging through his drawers, I find a shirt, peel my work clothes off, and shakingly shove it over my head.
It falls tight against my chest, looser around my middle, then hugs my hips in a way that makes me unbelievably queasy.
After a few more panicked moments, I find a new toothbrush and am violently scrubbing my teeth by the time Lukas knocks again.
“Are you ready now?” he calls.
I muffle something like almost around the foam.
He mishears it as confirmation to open up the door.
Whirling toward him, I still. My heart smacks against my ribs as his dual-colored eyes trace up the trail of my shed clothes to find me. Once they have, they go massive.
His hand rises, and hunger fills him. Cutting his fingers into his hair, he locks the dark strands in his grip and mutters a coarse swear. “This is worse than I thought. You actually changed for me…”
Was I…not actually supposed to?
Kicking my phone aside with the toe of his boot, he stalks toward me, stops, and braces an arm against the narrow bathroom arch—filling the entryway like a wall and shrinking the already cramped room into nothingness.
Shakingly aware of him watching me, I spit foam into the sink and rinse my mouth out.
“My clothes look good on you,” he murmurs.
Ashamed, I whisper, “Th-thank you.”
Wasting no time, he strips off his on-brand trench coat, baring every glorious inch of his bare chest. I swallow the sight down, in a desperate effort to get myself okay with this, with what’s inevitably about to happen.
As my eyes skate over the tattoos painted across his flesh, I repeat this is fine in my skull, over and over.
He’s literally so hot, and I’m literally super attracted to him, aren’t I? He’s made of dreams and beauty. He’s ethereal. Any woman would want this. Many would beg for it.
I’m so not sure about getting pregnant, but if Mom thinks it’s stupid not to do what he says, then I’ll cope. I’ll obey. I’ll—
He drops his trench coat on my shoulders, pulling the fabric around me and covering my body down to my ankles in a massive hug of dark leather. “Scoot over, cupcake,” he says, absently grazing the top of my head with his fingers when I do as I’m told and let him in to the miniscule space with me.
He pulls his toothbrush out of its holder, then begins to…small talk. “I can’t wait to get home tomorrow.”
I watch him squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles of his brush and try to follow the attempt at a conversation that doesn’t seem to lead me into his bed quite so fast. I say, “It…must be nice to get home after so long.”
“Mm,” he mumbles. “I miss my brothers.”
His brothers. The Bachelors. Some of the most powerful men in the world.
Together, the four Bachelor brothers have cornered the market on media, from Viktor, the author; to Zakery, the artist; to Kyran, the internet sensation; to Lukas…
the popstar who somehow keeps managing to top charts with every new release.
His music isn’t just catchy; it’s addictive, relatable, soul-changing. And him? He’s…distinct.
It is, after all, hard to forget a dark angel.
I lose myself tracing the ink on his skin. Across his breast, phoenix wings beat flames. Around his waist, dragon scales claw. The etchings are beautiful, adding to his overall enigmatic appeal.
While I’m lost in my thoughts, he spits in the sink. “You like my tattoos?” he asks.
“Y-yes?” Stomach curdling, I wring my hands together and meet his eyes in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. One is so dark it appears black. The other is so gray and pale in contrast, it may as well be white.
He is…beautiful. Haunting.
I probably could have done worse—when it comes to being harangued into heinous acts of intimacy without much notice, at any rate.
Eyeing me back in the glass, Lukas brushes the waves of his long black hair, then he murmurs, “What’s wrong, cupcake?”
Wrong? He’s not serious, right? Surely he knows exactly what’s wrong. The egregious lack of consent is what’s wrong. Nevertheless, reedy and oblivious, I echo, “Wrong?”
“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
In this coat? Don’t be ridiculous. His body heat’s still wicking into my veins from it.
“Poor thing.” He sighs, turning to face me directly. Genuine pity almost seems to fill his face with sadness. Except, of course, then he says, “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”
This is it. My stomach swirls as he escorts me out of the bathroom and toward his bed. I tremble as he helps his coat off my shoulders then hangs it up. I’m debating informing him that I don’t know what at all it is he expects of me when he peels back the sheets and motions for me to climb in.
I do as I’m told, and he covers me with the blankets.
Bracing myself for the worst, I stare up at him, gripping the fluffy comforter as he looms there.
Just.
Looms.
Arms folded, he doesn’t touch me as he tucks the blankets around my chin.
“You’re gonna love it in Sunset,” he murmurs, voice soothingly deep.
He touches me. I flinch, squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s just his fingers against my hair again, caressing the straight blonde locks gently.
“We have, like, eight kitchens. You can pick whichever is your favorite. And I’ll buy you whatever you need to stock it. ”
That…sounds amazing. I could make macaroons without sobbing over the price of almond flour.
Wait. No. Stop. This is a kidnapping. I’m in a man’s bed. Against my will and all that.
He lowers himself, bracing an elbow against the bed as he kneels, and strokes my widow’s peak, and watches me as though he’s calming a frightened cat. “Can you make chocolate muffins for breakfast in two days?”
My stupid wants-to-be-a-baker heart flutters. “Chocolate muffins? Yes…? I should be able to.”
The pleased sound that leaves him makes me almost wish he were touching me, which is lunacy at its finest—yaaay for mentally unwell Clara…
Breath escapes my chest as I dwell on the way his fingers comb, and comb, and settle my heart. By all means, this is an interesting way to woo a woman and media sure didn’t set me up to expect it, but I’m grateful for the ability to regulate my system.
“I can’t wait to be home.” His eyes close, and his hand stills.
“It’s warm, and safe, and you can do whatever you want, pretty much.
No one judges you. No one tells you you’re wrong…
except Viktor. Sometimes. He’s got this whole eldest complex, but it’s just because he loves you.
” His eyes open again, reminding me I shouldn’t fall into this daze of pretty promises.
“It’s loving,” he says, and I…fall into the daze of pretty promises.
“You’ll love it. You won’t need to worry about a thing, okay?
It’s all going to be okay. I’ll take care of you, cupcake. ”
I have no delusions that I’ll be able to reach a state of zen tonight concerning whatever is happening, but at least that sentiment is…sweet. “Clara,” I whisper.
“Hm?”
“My name is Clara Field.”
He smiles and offers me his hand above the blankets. “Lukas Bachelor, known to many as King.”
For some strange reason, I nearly smile at that introduction and his proffered hand. Reaching out of the blankets, I shake. “It’s very nice to formally meet you, King.”
He chuckles. “Formalities aren’t exactly my forte. But, man, you have a—” he cusses, “—beautiful name. It’s like music and poetry. Clara Field.” His fingers slip from mine, returning to brace his chin in his palm. “Maybe I’ll write songs about you while you make muffins.”
There’s a phrase that feels surreal coming from a man like Lukas.
Rising, he stretches and turns toward the…door. “Goodnight, Clara.” Hand over the lightswitch, he looks back at me, readying to leave. “Sleep well.”
Relieved beyond the measure of confusion that I am also experiencing, I say, “Good…night?”
The light turns off, and the last thing I see is the way his white eye glows in the darkness before he exits.
I then spend the entire night deliberating on if a man who is willing to buy me ingredients for chocolate muffins is also willing to pay for therapy.
Clearly, I desperately need some.