Page 19 of Gilded

MALIA

I stare at my reflection with all kinds of mixed emotions whipping up inside me, as turbulent as the weather.

The wind has picked up, and it catches the rain, tossing it at the house and filling my room with a thrashing sound and horrible memories. The weather hasn’t been this bad since the night I tried to escape.

I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, a simple, minimal slip of silky black fabric with tiny white flowers. Then I tug on one of the curls I put into my hair, while my heart and mind fight to separate what I feel when I’m with Luka from what I know of him.

The monstrous engagement ring glimmers in the mirror, dragging my mind to Soren, reminding me that one thing is certain: Luka was honest when he said he’s not like Soren.

He’s kinder, more attentive, and more interested in my life.

More everything, but in good ways. He may not be a good man, but he’s not as bad as the men I live with.

He’s introduced me to a new concept—degrees of “bad.”

I do my best to rationalize the physical feelings he creates. A kind of edgy need I’ve never felt but heard others talk about.

The rumble of thunder shoots a streak of terror through me. It’s distant, but it still kicks my heart rate higher.

When the rumble subsides, I open the door to my room with unease trilling along my nerves, but the scent of dinner distracts me. A deep, rich, flavorful smell that makes my stomach rumble.

The house is unusually quiet, allowing the storm sounds to fill the space. I’m wondering how many of the guards are left here when I spot Toby sitting on a sofa in the living room, looking at his phone. He glances up as I pass.

I acknowledge him with a neutral “Toby.”

“Ma’am,” he answers, his gaze burning into me as I pass. He’s the youngest of the guards, beefy and quiet. And from the moment we met, he’s off-gassed resentment.

This house is toxic.

But when I step into the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts.

Luka is at the stove, still wearing the clothes he had on at the pool, though probably no underwear, considering he swam in it.

His hair is messy, falling all over the place, and a kitchen towel rests on one shoulder.

His shirt is unbuttoned, and his feet are still bare.

Despite the raging storm, the sight lightens my emotional load, and I realize I feel safe when I’m with him.

Logically, that idea blazes naivety, but emotionally, it feels good to have a safe place to rest, even if it is an illusion.

I never realized that keeping barriers up was so exhausting. “It smells good in here.”

“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Do you want something with your steak? Rice? Salad?”

The first flash of lightning illuminates the big windows. I brace for the thunder that follows just seconds later, but it still snakes through my body, leaving an ugly film.

“Made it out of the pool just in time,” he says.

I wander toward him. “What are you having with your steak?”

“Nothing, just steak. I’m carnivore.”

I stop beside the stove and watch him braise two beautifully seared steaks in butter and thyme. But I can’t get my mind to turn away from the sounds of the storm. “Carnivore?”

“I eat mostly meat. How do you like your steak?”

“Medium, but I’m not picky.”

His movements are practiced and efficient. “I’d like to make it the way you love it so I can see you eat more than a few bites of food at a time.”

“Do you like cooking?”

“I do.”

“How long have you been carnivore?”

“A few years. One of my guys turned me onto it. It’s really cleaned up the health issues I used to have.”

“It’s hard to imagine you having any problems. How many ‘guys’ do you have?”

“A dozen or so closest to me.”

From dinner conversation the night before, I know he employs thousands.

He slides a thermometer into the meat. Satisfied, he turns off the stove and sets the steaks on a platter.

“They need to rest.” He sets two wineglasses on the counter and uncorks a red. “In the meantime…”

He fills both glasses, then grips my waist and lifts me to the counter. I squeak in surprise. He hands me one glass, then pushes on my knee until he’s standing between my legs, one hand sliding along my thigh and under my skirt.

My whole body lights up. My nerves catch fire.

Then he says, “Let’s talk about the dock.”

And everything fizzles. “Why?”

“Because it’s clear I don’t understand what’s going on beneath the surface around here, and in my position, that could be deadly.”

I lower my gaze to his chest. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“I did. All Soren would say is that you tried to leave the island. I get the impression that if I dig, I’m just going to put them both on edge, and I already feel like I’m walking on quicksand around them.”

My stomach coils into a knot.

“You trusted me with your life just an hour ago,” he says. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t talk to me about this.”

“Are you married?” I’ve been curious from the beginning, but the answer has become an obsession for a variety of reasons.

He tilts his head. “Where did that come from?”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m not the marrying kind.”

“Why do you say that?”

“My life is intense. There’s no room for a relationship, let alone marriage.” He pauses. “Why?”

I toy with a button on his shirt and push the words out before they stick in my throat.

“I’m wondering if there’s any way I could marry you instead of Soren.

” I meet his gaze, the idea cementing as I speak.

“I’ll still do the charity work and give the money to Soren.

I can do even more and give that income to you.

I swear I’d be a good wife. I’d leave you alone so you could work.

I wouldn’t care if you’re gone or even had other women in your life.

I’d do whatever you want in the bedroom, and I’d learn to cook for you. I?—”

He leans in and kisses me, but when he pulls back, I know the answer is no. I can feel the resistance inside him. And that unexpectedly hurts.

“Never mind,” I say, unable to take the blow that hearing his rejection would deliver. “I don’t even know where the thought came from.” I glance past him. “Are the steaks ready?”

He turns my head back toward him, and I hate the pity in his expression. “Any man would be lucky to have you.”

“Except you.” Anger rises to combat the pain, and I struggle to control it. “Even my own father never wanted me. You’d think I’d get the message after twenty years. I’m hungry. Can we eat and talk about something else?”

He exhales, his gaze searching mine.

“Please?” I say, wishing so badly I’d kept that random thought inside.

Before he can answer, lightning strikes so close, it flashes through the kitchen, blinding me.

The thunder comes almost instantly and rages through the house, making everything vibrate.

The power flickers out, and for a long second, my lungs won’t inflate.

It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.

“We’re safe here.” Luka’s words drag me back, and I find myself on my feet and in his arms without remembering how I got there.

The storm’s fury continues to rocket rain and debris against the house, banging on the windows, howling across the ocean.

“This house is more secure than Fort Knox.” He holds me tight, his mouth against my hair. “Nothing nature throws at us will change that.”

As soon as he stops speaking, the lights flicker back on again.

I press my face to Luka’s chest and wrap my arms around his body, dragging air into my lungs.

My defenses aren’t just down, they’re shattered.

Stress and fear and anger have drained my energy and left me emotionally weak.

Add to that a lifetime of next to no physical affection and it’s no wonder I don’t want to let him go.

“I…I can’t eat right now,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. The steaks will keep. I’ll warm them up later.”

Another strike of lightning hits, along with a roaring growl of thunder.

“You’re shaking.” He pulls away to look at me and runs his hand over my hair. “Let’s go to your room. We can ride out the storm there.”

“Yeah.” I like the thought of being somewhere familiar. “That would be good.”

He slides the platter into the fridge and wraps his arm tight around me as we pass through the hall to my room. Toby’s no longer in the living room. In fact, I don’t see any of the staff.

“Did you send everyone home?” I ask.

“Just the chef and the housekeepers. This place is like a hive. I hate it.”

At my room, he opens the door and guides me through before closing it behind him. The trees outside still thrash. The rain still hammers.

“Jesus.” I wander to the middle of the living room, arms crossed tightly over my middle. “Is this a hurricane? I knew it was going to rain, but this isn’t just rain.”

“It’s what they call a bomb cyclone.” He comes up behind me and wraps a throw blanket around my shoulders. “It’s when warm and cold air collides. Probably exploded because we’ve had such early spring weather.”

He secures his arms around me, pulls me against him, and rests his chin on my head. We stay like that for several long moments just watching the storm. Despite being part of this awful business, he feels warm and safe.

My mind tells me I only see him as compassionate because I’m comparing him to everyone else in my life. But my heart says what I feel from him is what he’s made of on the inside. That the kindness he’s shown me over the last few hours is the real man.

“You’re not like them,” I say, voice barely audible above the storm. “I don’t know how or why, but I know you’re not like them.”

He sighs and squeezes me. “Let’s lie down.”

My insides tighten, but I follow him as he takes my hand and wanders into the bedroom. He scoots back on the bed until he’s propped up with pillows and opens one arm in invitation. “Come here.”