28. CHAPTER 28
SAINT LUCIA
MOON
What the fuck am I even doing here. The music slams too loud, trap shit I hate.
Strobes slice across the beach like they’re trying to split my skull open.
Sand under my shoes. Salt and cheap cologne in the air.
Couples grinding. Groups screaming laughter.
Strangers already half-undressed and hunting. Everyone touching like it’s nothing.
I pulled my phone out again. Scrolled. There it was. The Evermourne Academy invitation. Of course I’d already accepted.
Father would never turn it down. He went himself.
The pride in his voice when I told him still sat in my gut.
This is exactly what you need, son. Show them who the House of Moon is.
Win the Patronage Seat your first year. Just like me.
Then two more years to fight for the masked patron role.
The Saint’s Mourning Chair. Knowing him, he’s probably already one of them.
Watching. Even there. Harvard gave me Boston.
A few years outside Manhattan. Away from the constant weight of being Nathaniel Moon’s son.
Mother kept pushing Korea. Family. Another glass cage. No thanks. So when I graduated Harvard, and they asked where I was spending the summer, I said Geneva. Policy fellowship. Three weeks of rich people pretending to save the world. I came to Saint Lucia instead.
“You here alone?”
I killed the screen and looked up. No. Fuck no. Dark hair. Green eyes that shouldn’t look real. Black shirt open at the throat. Ink climbing both arms and up his neck. Thin silver chain with a cross. He’s hot. No. Stop. Tell him you have a girlfriend.
“Uh. Yeah.”
I was supposed to say I wasn’t alone. That my girlfriend was right over there. I pictured some girls in bikinis splashing around, laughing. Point. Done.
Great. He’s sitting down.
The bartender came over.
“What can I get you, mate?” He glanced at my glass. “Another rose martini, sir?”
The tattooed asshole smiled at my drink. Just leave.
“Double whiskey, neat.” He raised an eyebrow at my glass.
“Gold leaf, huh?”
“It’s lychee,” I snapped. Why the fuck did I care what he thought.
“That’s not any better. Most people here slam cheap shit. You’re sipping lychee rose with gold leaf. So yeah. You’re not like the rest of them.” His eyes stayed on me. “I could tell that the second I saw you.”
The bartender slid our drinks in front of us.
I almost downed the whole thing. Wanted to drink fast and disappear. But no. I wasn’t desperate enough for cheap shit. So I sipped slower.
“What’s your name?”
“You’re probably a nice guy, but I’m not interested.”
I turned my stool away. He grabbed it and spun me right back. Our knees brushed. My cock twitched. Fuck. Stay down.
“Fine. Give me a fake name then.”
“I just said I’m not interested. I don’t date guys.”
I tried to twist the stool again. He held it locked in place. It pissed me off.
“Humor me, prince.”
Prince. No. Don’t fucking call me that.
“Betty White. Happy?”
His grin widened. He looked like a fucking maniac.
“…Betty White?”
I shrugged. “She lived forever, said whatever she wanted, and no one questioned her.”
I couldn’t stop myself from talking. That accent. Irish? If I just let this run for one night… What’s the worst that happens? He’s not going to Evermourne. He doesn’t know who I am.
“If I’m Betty White, who are you?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t have met you.”
I reached for the hem of his shirt. Then laughed. Couldn’t fucking help it.
How many drinks? The room tilted. He still looked exactly the same. Steady. Watching me.
“You want to come back to my room? Not far. They’ve got proper drinks. Lavender French 75. Yuzu sake martini. White peach bellini with edible orchid.” His mouth curved. “I still think you’re hot. Even if you drink like somebody’s rich aunt.”
I laughed. Too fucking drunk. Fuck.
“Let’s go. This place is shit. I hate the music.”
I slid off the stool. The room spun. I pitched forward, face planting straight into his chest. My hand landed right on his crotch.
“I’m… fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, prince. I don’t mind your hands on me.”
Too close to his face. I tried to pull back.
Ugh. Fuck. I should’ve stopped drinking hours ago. He pulled out his wallet and paid for both. I was still half in his lap, dignity somewhere on the floor.
“Don’t pay for my drinks. They’re expensive.”
“I have expensive taste.”
What the fuck did that mean.
He hauled me up. We headed for the hotel.
We passed a small private beach. Pitch black. Soft waves against the shore. Salt thicker here. I leaned toward it. “We should go there.”
“Just don’t go swimming. You’re drunk as hell.”
We dropped onto the sand. I fell onto my back. Stars spun overhead. I pointed up.
“Look at all the stars.”
He lay down beside me.
“That’s Orion.” He took my wrist and guided my hand. My eyes followed.
“No, that’s a shopping cart.” I cracked up.
We lay there in silence, staring up. His body heat bled into me. I leaned closer. He smelled good. Whiskey, sunscreen, cedar.
His fingers traced mine. Then locked. We kept staring at the sky.
“Why are you here?”
His hand was warm. Rougher than Vivi’s. A scar crossed the back. I didn’t let go.
“Same reason everyone comes to this island.”
“Vacation?”
“To disappear.”
“Oh.”
I tensed.
“So you’re not okay either.” It slipped out. I dropped his hand and sat up fast.
“Let’s go back to the hotel.” My words slurred. I tugged his sleeve, barely keeping my balance. He stood and steadied me.
Only when we got closer did I notice. Same place I was staying. The rates here were insane. So he had money too.
We stepped into the lobby. The woman at the desk looked up. Me flushed and shitfaced. Him way too steady. I was literally hanging off him.
I was supposed to drink alone, crawl back to my room, and sleep for seven days straight before New York.
“Mr. Ashbourne, and Mo—”
“Ay ay ay.” I waved a finger at her. “I’m Betty White.”
Cillian chuckled and looked at her. “He’s had one too many. Drinks that sound like bath products.”
I swung at the air. Fuck. I thought I was hitting him. He grabbed my wrist and steered me toward the elevator.
The elevator attendant hit the penthouse button. That inked bastard was why I wasn’t in the penthouse. Fucking hell.
We finally reached the top floor.
He dragged me inside and tipped the elevator attendant a stupid amount. Fuck. Was he richer than me? I hated that. It made me feel… emasculated. Emasculated. That was the fucking word.
The balcony opened straight to the ocean. Moonlight on the water. Trap music still thumping from the beach, distant and annoying. Suddenly, he was right in front of me.
God. How long had he been staring?
His arm locked around my waist. Sobering up would make me push him off. Probably.
He pulled me in. His other hand gripped my jaw and his mouth crashed into mine.
I kissed him back before my brain caught up.
Leaning in. Lips soft. Then tongue. I couldn’t breathe.
He devoured me. His hand slid down and palmed my ass.
I opened for him. Let him tongue-fuck my mouth.
Whiskey on his tongue. I probably tasted like fucking bath soap.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard against my mouth.
His eyes locked on mine. “You said you’re not fucking gay.
” His thumb shoved down hard on my bottom lip, forcing my mouth open.
“Look at you. Spoiled little rich boy pretending he’s straight while your cock leaks for a stranger pinning you down.
So be honest, prince…” He smirked. “You really want me to stop?”
I shook my head.
He kissed me again.
We stumbled toward the bedroom. My back hit the mattress.
One second drunk. The next, stone-cold sober. I was drunk in a stranger’s hotel room. I’d never kissed a guy before. Fuck. I needed to leave. Before he could follow I shoved him off and headed for the door.
“I can’t do this.” I slammed straight into the doorframe and grunted. Fuck. When did that get there? Now I was on the floor.
He moved over me. “Careful, prince. Don’t hurt that pretty face.” He reached down. I slapped him hard across the cheek.
“Don’t fucking touch me. I’m not gay.”
He touched his cheek. A smile tugged at his mouth. His pupils widened. Turned on by it. What the fuck was wrong with him.
“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands and backed off. He went to the kitchen, poured himself another drink, then grabbed a glass, filled it with ice and water, and held it out to me.
“Drink this.”
I stared at the glass. Then at him. Still on the floor. I didn’t want to take it.
He shook the glass once. “Come on. It’s just water, prince. Sober you up. Clear your head. Then you can go back to being straight and all that. I’m not drugging you.”
I scoffed and took the water. I downed it in one go and shoved the empty glass at him.
Tried to stand. Everything hazy. The kiss had cut through the alcohol too fast. I wanted to kiss him again.
I didn’t want sex with him. Well. I did.
But I didn’t. Too many questions. He was too fucking confident. It made me feel small.
“You can stay here tonight. You’re already in this hotel. Front desk knew your name… Betty White and all. I want you to stay. I want to know who you are.”
“Fuck no. I’m never telling you who I am. You’re covered in ink and clearly loaded. What, crime?” I spat it. Sometimes my own venom surprised me. His eyes flickered. Then nothing. Why the fuck did I care if I hurt him. I didn’t.
“Ha. So you do want to know who I am. My money, the ink… makes you think criminal?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I don’t care who you are. Couldn’t care less. Never seeing you again would be a fucking win.”
“Okay. Want me to call the elevator for you, prince?”
I glanced toward the elevator. Leave now and then what? I was already done with New York. Not exactly thrilled about Evermourne either. The thought alone stressed me the fuck out.
Wait. Where did he go?
I looked around. The balcony doors stood open. He was already out there. I grabbed the frame to stand. Swayed the whole way over.
He sat staring at the ocean. Strobes flashing behind him, people still wild on the beach. He looked… lonely. I dropped down next to him. Our shoulders bumped.
“Sorry.”
“Already told you. I like your hands on me.”
I stared straight ahead. Looking at him made me feel even drunker. Heat crawled up my neck. Great. Blushing. Not a good look.
We sat in silence. I don’t know how long. A guy like him could’ve overpowered me easy. He didn’t.
Irish. Definitely. Dark hair moving in the breeze. Those green eyes again. Faint freckles across his nose. Fuck. How long had I been staring?
“What are you thinking about, prince?”
He kept staring at the ocean. Did I hurt him?
“I… you.” I shook my head. “I mean, did I hurt you?”
“You could never hurt me, prince.”
“You looked hurt. When I called you a criminal.”
“No. I’m not hurt.”
He wouldn’t look at me. Just the ocean.
“I came here to Saint Lucia because I’m running from my family.
All the responsibilities my father shoves down my throat.
I’m tired. Got accepted to this new school in the fall I don’t even want.
Full of entitled assholes. My whole life is scheduled.
Monday to Sunday. Father’s firm, fencing, galas, foundations, volunteering, full course load.
Eyes on me constantly. Father, mother, her family, press, Harvard peers.
Fake girlfriend since high school. We “broke up” this year so she could actually date.
I love her, she’s my best friend. I wanted to marry her just to shut everyone up.
Now they’re throwing other girls at me. Good optics. Legacy bullshit. That I—”
His hand settled on my knee. Still not looking at me.
“Sorry. Was I rambling?”
“No. You just need to come up for air sometimes, prince.”
He finally looked at me.
“No wonder you ran.”
Moonlight cut across his face, sharpening every masculine line. I kissed him again on instinct. He looked surprised. So was I. I broke it, shoved up fast. The table rattled. His drink sloshed.
“I’m going.”
I bolted for the elevator, jammed the button, and got in. The attendant asked for the floor. I slammed lobby. Doors shut right as the inked bastard rushed after me.
I pressed my back to the wall. Breathing hard.
Why the fuck did I kiss him?
The schedule. The girlfriend. The legacy. I’d told him all of it. A fucking stranger.