Chapter 9

Joshua led her into a living room that looked more like a museum gallery. His parents, William and Catherine Stanley, were seated on a silk sofa, their expressions carved from ice.

The meeting was brief and brutal. Joshua announced their engagement with a defiant pride that was clearly for his father's benefit. William's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. Catherine's smile became a thin, brittle line of disappointment.

Avery played her part, a nervous but determined girl from the wrong side of the tracks, all while her senses were screaming, scanning every shadow for Brodie.

He never appeared.

When the excruciating interview was over, Joshua decided to drive his point home. In front of his disapproving parents and the silent staff, he swept Avery up into his arms.

She let out a small gasp of surprise.

"Part of the show," he whispered against her ear, his breath warm. His arms were like steel bands around her.

He carried her up the sweeping grand staircase as if she weighed nothing, his face a perfect mask of a man in love.

He pushed open the door to a lavish guest suite and gently deposited her on the king-sized bed. The mattress was so soft she sank into it.

"You'll stay here tonight. My room is next door. Call if you need anything."

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving her in a silence that was more deafening than the family's arguments.

Avery collapsed back onto the pillows, her body trembling with delayed shock. The last few hours felt like a lifetime.

She pushed herself off the bed and surveyed her gilded cage. Her gaze swept past the ornate furniture and landed on a set of French doors leading to a small, private balcony. One of the doors was slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of the cool night air. She chalked it up to careless housekeeping and turned her attention to the en-suite bathroom, a vision of white marble and gold fixtures.

She needed a shower. She needed to wash the entire day off of her. Wash him off of her.

She walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, but didn't bother to lock it. She was alone, finally.

She turned on the hot water, and steam quickly filled the room, fogging the mirrors. She shed her dress, letting it pool on the floor, and was about to step into the glass-walled shower.

Click.

It was a small sound. The distinct, final sound of a lock turning in the bathroom door.

Avery's heart seized. A cold fist of terror clenched in her gut. She spun around.

He was leaning against the now-locked door, a tall, dark silhouette in the steam. A ghost conjured from her worst nightmares.

Brodie.

His eyes were black holes, bottomless pits of a cold, simmering rage.

"You can't run from me, Avery," he rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper that scraped against her raw nerves.

She scrambled backward, her bare feet slipping on the slick marble, until her back hit the cold glass of the shower wall. There was nowhere else to go.

She crossed her arms over her naked body, a futile gesture of defense. "How... how did you get in here?" she stammered.

A cold, dead smile touched his lips. "You think I left? That little tantrum on the lawn? That was just for show. A little misdirection to make my little brother think I was gone. To make you let your guard down."

He pushed off the door, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her.

"The moment you set foot in this house, you were my prey."

He advanced on her, and the steamy, enclosed space of the bathroom seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. His presence was suffocating, a physical pressure against her skin.

She tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat, strangled by fear.

He stopped directly in front of her. His hand shot out, not to hit her, but to wrap around her throat. His fingers were cold, his grip not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to be a promise. An assertion of absolute, terrifying control.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dead eyes boring into hers.

"Tell me," he whispered, his voice a venomous caress. "How did it feel to kiss my brother?"