Chapter 7 #2
“Because I’ll be inundated with DM’s, for one,” I falter. “I won’t be able to keep up with the questions, which, by the way, I won’t know how to answer. For another, it’ll look as if I’m keen to ride on your coattails.” I tilt my head. “Forby, why does it matter if I keep my last name?”
His nostrils flare. “You marry me, you take my name, Iona. I ask you to change your profile, and you do it without question. I’ll hire a couple of assistants to help you.”
“No,” I toss back, tightness gathering in my chest. “I’ve built up my early following as Iona De Monroy, and I’ll keep that name.”
A sneer curls his lip. “You now have millions of followers since I came on your booklovers’ program on Tuesday and announced you’re to be my wife. You’re welcome, by the way.”
It’s true, I was an overnight sensation, but not due to anything I did.
My cheeks burn with shame. “I want to succeed under my own steam. If I could keep only those followers who are truly interested in my content and lose the rest, I would.”
He taps his phone. “Shall I post a statement to that effect on my profile?”
“No! God, no.” My heart ricochets against my chest wall.
Cruelty glints in his eyes like a steel skyscraper at noon. “Then you’d do well to obey me. Start by making an announcement on TikTok of a major life change upcoming.”
Full of misgiving, I pull my phone out and follow his orders.
He jerks his chin at my screen. “Show me.”
I angle my screen toward him, shaking with rage. This is my domain, my profession, and my passion. He has no business dictating how I pursue it.
“Why do you even care?” I huff when I’ve finished.
He cups my chin in the crook of his finger and thumb. “I take pleasure in claiming what’s mine. This way everyone knows if they touch you or look at you wrong, they’re dead.”
A spiral of heat swirls downward to my groin.
“I thought you said jealous men are insecure,” I remind him.
He looks at me through half-lidded eyes. “Correct. I can only be jealous of what I don’t possess. I possess you.”
His words stoke the furnace at my center.
“Are you going to force me to change my profile picture too?” I ask breathlessly. “To one of you and me together?”
A smirk teases his lips. “You obviously want to, or you wouldn’t suggest it.”
“I want no such thing,” I snap.
“Then we’ll do it. Come here.”
My heart sinks. I walked right into that one. I should’ve known, sadist that he is, he’d force me into an uncomfortable position. “What, now?”
“No time like the present.”
I set my teeth. “I refuse to have a crappy, flash-spoilt selfie as my profile picture.”
His fingers glide down the column of my throat, giving my pulse points a squeeze. “You have three seconds, Flame. Then I post a crappy, flash-spoilt picture of you looking pissed.”
Reluctantly I slide over next to him, and he pulls me into the crook of his arm and shoulder. Before I can protest, he holds his phone up and snaps a few pictures of us.
“Smile, sweetheart,” he directs.
“It’s hard to, when I’m being blackmailed,” I grate, though his warm solidity acts like a potent drug on my system. Surprisingly, I want to nestle into his chest and breathe in his heavenly scent.
“Then don’t. You look bonnie scared.” He shows me a few of the pictures, sending them to my phone.
I scoff. “None of those is usable.”
“This one.” He brings up a photo in which my eyelids droop but I look deeply content. “I look forward to putting that look on your face often.”
Realizing what he means, I startle and lift up. But he blocks me with his strong arm.
“I won’t do that with you,” I rasp, my voice cracking.
“I assure you, Iona, you will, and you’ll enjoy it.” He traps my throat in his large hand. “You have no alternative.”
Don’t let the memories of That Night flood me again. Not now, not in front of him.
I resist the urge to writhe and twist free of his grip. Instead, I will myself to go limp and ground my senses in the here and now—the smooth hum of the Ferrari, Leith’s fresh outdoor smell, the shadows dancing on the ceiling of the car from the street lamps.
Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I feel more in control of my wayward thoughts.
“Change your photo now, Flame,” Leith drawls. “Your inbox will be teeming with jealous women’s comments.”
“Just what I need to grow my brand,” I grump. Adding the photo, I watch my number of followers impossibly jump by another hundred and a slew of messages pop up in my inbox.
Draven pulls over in front of my building, and Leith releases me.
“Good girl. Don’t forget to tell them whom you belong to.”
* * *
The next day I sit at the breakfast bar in my flat sifting through hundreds of Insta messages and flagging the book-related ones as top priority. Sadly, for every question or comment about a book I get ninety-nine personal remarks that range from inquisitive to invasive.
How did you and Leith meet?
What’s his favorite film?
Why did you both put on an act of not knowing each other in the interview?
Is he good in bed?
Does he have tatts? If so, can you have him wear clothes that show them next time?
You two look HOT in that photo!
I blow out an exasperated breath, not bothering to delete the inappropriate messages. When I have assistants, we can come up with a triage system for all the personal questions. For now, I respond to those who remain bookishly curious.
I make a video of myself thanking everyone for their patience as I navigate through the surging number of followers and interactions.
“After next weekend I should start chipping away at many of your questions. So if you don’t immediately hear from me, know that I appreciate your reaching out and I’ll do the best I can to respond as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I’d love to hear in the comments what kind of content you’d like to see more of here. ”
I make a video comparing and contrasting a couple of male-male romance novels from two different authors.
Then I film myself with bookmail—a pile of new releases sent by authors and publishers for me to tout, fête, and review.
By the time I’ve posted my content on Insta and TikTok and engaged with a few other book influencers’ posts, I’m running late for my meeting at Horizons with Clyde Young, a Scottish historian.
Young and Stennis are waiting in the lobby of Horizons when I arrive. As luck would have it, the heavens break loose, and torrents of rain pound the pavement.
“Have you an umbrella?” asks Young, a tall ruddy-faced man with a bulbous nose and a kindly smile.
“No, but?—”
“I have.” Stennis cracks open his umbrella and loops an arm in mine, leading me out the door.
Suddenly I’m back at the crowded party.
* * *
Grizel laughs at something the man in khaki cargo trousers has said. Until now, I haven’t been paying much attention to him or his friend, who hovers off to the side tipping back a can of Guinness. Both are tall and muscular with pronounced Glaswegian accents.
“Hold on, let me ask her.” Grizel saunters over, the tequila shots already blurring her speech and gait. She presses her lips to my ear, her breath reeking of spirits. “We’re gonna do a scene in the other room. You wanna join?”
Grizel is into consensual non-consent, or CNC, though she usually does it only with men she knows and trusts.
“Are you sure, babes?” I whisper back over the hard-driving metal music. “You’re three sheets to the wind.”
“This way it’s more realistic. I hardly know him, but he said he’s game for it,” she slurs.
“Will he respect your boundaries? Heed your safe word?” I quiz.
“Aye, he’s pure sound.?1 He’s a Celtic fan, and his family used to holiday in Mull—just like mine!” she gushes. “And his pal is hot too, eh?”
I gnaw my lower lip, my gut telling me this is all wrong. But I recognize when Grizel is dead-set on doing something. “All right, I’ll come in with you.”
She throws me a wink. “Mibbe you and Hottie MacHotson can scene too.”
I don’t want to put a damper on her spirits, but I plan to simply act as chaperone. “Mibbe.”
“Brilliant! Let’s go.” She hops over to the guy she’s been talking with and cups a palm against his ear.
He nods and tips his head toward his mate, then at me. His friend swaggers over and takes my arm, leading me toward a pair of double doors. Grizel and the other guy follow directly behind. Unease churns in my belly.
The friend seems to think it’s a given that we’re together and doing what Grizel and her partner are planning to do.
I’ll have to disabuse him of that notion soon. Up close he gives off creepy vibes, and I’m not sure I’m ready to lose my virginity to a total stranger tonight.
* * *
My breaths come quickly and shallowly, and I tear myself from Stennis, stepping away from the refuge of his umbrella into the pelting rain.
“What is wrong with you?” Stennis hisses. “You’ll get soaked!”
At least I’m thoroughly back in the present, thanks to the cold and wet.
I’ll take getting drenched over reliving That Night any day.
A plum Ferrari Purosangue pulls alongside us, and the window rolls down. My first thought is that it looks exactly like Leith’s car.
Draven clears his throat. “Miss, can I take you somewhere?”
Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave. I don’t have to stand near Stennis a minute longer.
“Och, aye, Draven.” I wrench the back door open. “Can they come too? We’re headed to Anselmo’s for lunch.”
“Of course. Hop in.”
Young climbs into the front passenger seat, and Stennis slides in back. I move as far from him as I can and crack open the window for air. While Young and Draven discuss the sudden downpour, Stennis sniffs, staring at me.
Following his line of vision, I realize my nipples protrude obscenely through my soaked dress. My breath catches, and I hug my arms to my body to cover myself.
My thoughts whirl in all directions as I lean forward. “Draven, what brought you here now?”
His gaze tangles with mine in the rear view. “I was in the area and saw you.”
I notice he doesn’t exactly answer my question.
“Hmm. Thank you for rescuing us.” My heart races as I pull out my phone and text Leith. “Are you having me followed?”
Dots bounce. “Draven is temporary. After we’re married, there’ll be two soldiers on you at all times.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Apparently it is. Have him get one of my jackets from the boot to cover your chest.”
I gape at the screen. He must have cameras in the car.
Another message pings in. “That is, assuming you don’t want me to carve out those two men’s eyes and have them delivered to your doorstep.”
Shit. Can he be serious?
“I assure you, I’m quite serious.”
I tap with shaky fingers. “I thought only insecure men got jealous?”
“I’m only protecting what’s mine.”
A slithery warmth glides down my backbone, pooling between my thighs. It’s a foreign sensation that thrills and lulls me at once.
I text back, “Okay.”
“And, Flame, when we’re married, you’ll share your calendar with me.”
“Why, so you can gouge out the eyes of all the men I meet with?” I fire back.
“More or less.”
Somehow, at present, I can’t muster the energy to feel wronged.
1?cool, nice, a good guy