Page 11 of Bought (BOUGHT TRILOGY #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lucian

I drape the blanket around her shoulders and pull it snug. My fingers linger at the nape of her neck. She’s trembling, not just from what I’ve done to her, but from what I’ve made her admit.

I feel her chest rise against mine as I press the glass of water to her lips. She obeys, swallowing until it’s empty. I set it back down on the nightstand.

Good girl.

I should leave it at that—discipline delivered, lesson learned, appetite satisfied. But I can’t. Not when she looks at me like this. Not when she’s still curled into my side, trusting me with her weight.

Her gaze drifts lower, down the open collar of my shirt to the twisted marks that stretch over my chest. The ones she politely ignored the first night we were together. When we took turns taking off our clothes.

My body stiffens before her fingers even move, but then she does it.

She brushes her hand over the ridged line of scar tissue.

I don’t pull away.

“What happened?” she whispers.

My jaw locks. The memory snaps like a whip. Shouts, smoke, screaming orders, I can’t give fast enough. The weight of bodies I pulled from the floor.

Blood I’ll never wash from my hands.

The scars are survivor’s guilt, stitched into my skin.

“Nothing worth talking about,” I growl, harsher than I intend. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull back. I drag my hand down her thigh and hold. “Sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You want to know me?” I ask. “Let’s start with dinner.”

Not this.

“Dinner? Like a date?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I rise, hauling her up with me. “Come.”

We put ourselves back together, I wrap her up in her coat and I’m driving my car, stunned by how good it feels to have her in the passenger seat as we ride through the city.

My hand is on the gearshift, but I want it back on her thigh.

I valet the car, unsure if I should hold her hand as we walk into Valentine’s. It feels too intimate somehow, even after having my tongue between her thighs.

I opt for sliding my arm around her lower back.

I want it clear to every man with eyes that she’s with me.

We skip the line, and the hostess greets me by first name before leading us to a dark corner, a private table for two. She slips into the chair across from me, the coat wrapped around her shoulders, like she’s wearing my last name.

Fuck. Where did that come from?

Clearing my throat, I stare down at the menu on my phone. “Everything is good here.”

“We don’t know each other’s likes, do we?” Her nose crinkles.

She’s adorable. And she’s right. That’s why I asked her here tonight. “I like steak. Mooing. And all forms of root vegetables. You?”

“Chicken or fish,” she says. “Green veg. Loads of chocolate, of course.”

“Is it true you Brits drink tea and eat sweets every day?”

“Three pm. It’s snack time.”

“But you call it tea?”

She shakes her head. “Not where I come from. In the North, tea is dinner.”

Suddenly she looks away, as if she’s given up too much.

I wonder why.

I order her the spinach-stuffed chicken and the steak for myself. Water for both of us. A bottle of chilled white wine if she feels inclined.

For the first time all night, the tension shifts. The silence isn’t about sex. It’s companionship.

Dangerous.

“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair, watching her toy with her glass. “Tell me something real, Erin. Something about home.”

“There’s not much to tell,” she says, looking away. “I come from a quiet place. Farms, green pastures, sheep.”

I want to ask her the name of her town, but she’d have offered it if she wanted me to know. Besides, I can find out easily enough.

“Go on,” I encourage.

She hesitates, then gives me a small smile. “New York is so different from where I grew up. I don’t love the city. I get lost a lot. But I love the noise. It makes me feel… less alone. I hated how quiet it was.”

“I was born here. I live for the noise,” I admit. “Without it, I can’t sleep.”

Her eyes brighten. A shared truth. A piece of common ground.

We go back and forth, sharing small details, fragments of who we are beneath the surface. Childhood poverty is the only thing we have in common. My wealth quadrupled when I joined the Bachmans.

Besides the generous payday from me, she’s still waiting for her luck to change.

She doesn’t drink much. She won’t say why. My people love nothing more than a great party with plenty of alcohol. I love a good whiskey, smoky and bold. Her idea of a great night is staying in with a good book.

She’s forever optimistic. The library book currently taking up residence on the nightstand is about asking what you want from the universe.I think that’s garbage, and I tell her so. A man makes his own destiny.

My last read was a car magazine. Six months ago. It was mostly pretty pictures with a few short articles.

I skipped those. But I did scan the captions.

About halfway into the conversation, I realized she’s way smarter than I am. And college-educated. I calm my bruised ego by reminding myself that knowing how to get rid of a body is an important life skill.

Right?

Peering at me, she says, “Did you send the Aston Martin because you knew I’d know it from home?”

“Maybe.” I steal the vague answer she’s given me before.

She laughs genuinely, not the nervous kind, and I feel the sound. “That car costs more than a house back home!”

We take bites during the rare pauses in conversation. The food gets cold, but neither of us minds. The talk flows easily, but it’s challenging in its own way.

Opening up feels riskier than putting my mouth between her thighs.

Her lips part. Silence stretches. And her gaze drops again to my chest, to the scars hidden under my shirt.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

The space between us tightens. My jaw tightens. I could lie. I could push her away.

Surprisingly, I don’t.

“Men died,” I say flatly. “Because I made the wrong call.”

I don’t tell her about the girl who died. I can’t.

She doesn’t flinch. She should. It’s not a pretty truth. It’s not the kind of confession you share over dinner and untouched wine. She doesn’t tell me it’s not my fault. Or that it’s fine.

It’s not.

“That must tear you up inside,” she says softly.

She speaks as if she knows how it feels, as if she understands me on a deeper level. Her words hang in the air. I can’t answer. I don’t want to.

If I let her keep peeling me open, I’ll have nothing left.

We’ve gone way past a line I swore not to cross.

“Tell me something real.”

She frowns. “Real?”

“No lies,” I warn. “Something about Erin.”

Her eyes drift to her glass. For a moment, I think she’ll shut down, but then she whispers, “I’m in over my head.”

It’s not what I expected. Concern grips me. “What do you mean?”

She almost answers but swallows her words instead and bites her lip. I want to rip the information from her.“Erin,” I lean in, placing my hand on her forearm. “Are you in trouble?”

Her lip quivers.

Again, I say her name. “Erin. Tell me. Now.”

When she’s finally ready to speak, the tremor in her voice makes the hair on my arm stand. Her pretty blue eyes meet mine as she says, “We all are.”