Page 8 of Gilded

MALIA

S leep didn’t come easily with words like bondage and submission floating around my brain, or the heat of his kiss rumbling through my body, still simmering now even after twenty-four hours.

I’ve been skimming book spines in my father’s library most of the day, urgently searching for something to help me cope with the new burden on my shoulders.

I’ve learned a lot about the world I’m not allowed to live in through these books, but it’s not exactly an easy place to find a particular book.

Shelves stretch to the very top of the cathedral ceiling, with narrow, spiral staircases and sliding ladders providing access to all the books. Their subjects range from psychology to nuclear war, but for my purposes, today’s search has been a bust.

I haven’t found anything teaching me how to live with a domineering father, escape an arranged marriage, or successfully navigate a group of men as wicked and well-versed as the Italian Mafia.

But more importantly, I can’t find anything about sex either. A topic that’s never particularly interested me, but which I find I urgently need to learn more about.

I scan the lowest shelves along the east wall, feeling defeated in a dozen different ways.

Then I catch sight of the word Fearless on a spine, and my heart skips with excitement.

This is a book that I skimmed years ago.

The topic didn’t hold any interest for me at the time, but it could be a real lifesaver now.

“Copy.” James’s voice draws my attention before I can open the book. The guards are all such a constant presence, I think of them as pieces of furniture. James was close with Yari, and he hates me with a passion. I can’t blame him. I hate myself too.

Then Luka walks in. Luka in all his confident swagger, dragging me from my depression straight into anxiety.

My pulse picks up, and my cheeks heat. I knew he’d be back, but I’m still not prepared.

I didn’t hear his helicopter overhead either.

But the library is on the other side of the house, and I was lost in the books.

I hastily hide Fearless behind me, blindly searching for a hiding place—the very opposite of fearless—and end up laying the book horizontally on whatever shelf I can reach without moving.

He pauses inside the door, his gaze sharp on me. Curious. Then he glances up the walls and across shelves. After a moment, he turns to James and says, “Leave us.”

Instead of the pissing contest I expect, James leaves without question.

“That’s interesting,” I say. “The guards obey no one but my father. Even when he leaves town, they do as he’s instructed.”

Luka’s gaze sweeps over the bookcases again. “This is impressive.”

I translate that into, We’re not going to talk about my status here, but yes, I’m even more powerful than Soren.

“Is it all for show?” he asks.

I’m confused. “Show?”

He wanders my direction, more casual today in a black suit, white shirt, and a smirk. But it doesn’t look arrogant or condescending like the ones Soren wears. It’s more…playful.

“Show,” he repeats. “To portray intelligence.”

“One of my nannies told me my father believes you can teach yourself anything by reading, but to be honest, I’ve never seen him read a book in my life. So, yeah, I guess it’s for show.”

“What about you?” Luka asks.

“I’ve gotten through about a third of them. They help me live within these walls.”

“How many books are here?”

“Thirty-thousand one hundred and sixty-two.” When his head tilts, I add, “Yes, I’ve counted.”

“You’ve read ten thousand of these books? In, what? Fifteen years?”

“Twelve-thousand eight hundred and one.”

“That’s…” I see him trying to work the numbers in his head.

“About two books a day. But there have been days when I’ve read up to five.”

He starts forward, and as he nears, my temperature rises. My nerves coil. “What are you looking for today?”

I lift a shoulder and scan the books again, purposely standing in front of the shelf where I’ve replaced Fearless . “Nothing appeals right now.”

“What would appeal?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a suspense or thriller or literary fiction. Something to take me into another world. But those kinds of books don’t live here.”

“Why not?”

I look at him again, searching for sincerity in the question. “Because my father doesn’t give a shit about what I want.”

His brows shoot toward his hairline. “No?”

“Soren is your buddy. You should know that. It’s no secret.”

His jaw hardens. “Soren is not, and will never be, my friend.”

“I guess it’s true, then. There really is no honor among thieves.”

I tense, prepared for his backhand. Almost looking forward to it. No one has ever been honest with me here. Luka’s assertion that he doesn’t hit women was surely a ploy to get me to let my guard down.

But instead of hitting me, he smirks. “How did you spend your day?”

“Here. Browsing.”

“No work today?”

“Contrary to your assumption, I don’t do much for my father. I’m just the face at his galas. I tell guests about the charities, and they tell me about their lives. On site at the organizations, I work with the directors to plan for upgrades. Everything else is handled by others.”

“Others?”

“Attorneys, accountants, secretaries, admins.”

He’s skeptical. “Really.”

“Really.”

“From what I understand, you’re the director. Directors do more than show their pretty face. Or did your father give you that title as an ego boost?”

“You’ve only been here two minutes, and you’ve already managed to annoy me.”

His grin grows. “It’s a gift.”

Dammit, I wish he’d just hit me. At least then I’d know what I’m dealing with. How sick is that? “I used to have more responsibilities, but they’ve been taken away, like everything else.”

Luka takes my chin in his hand, and my belly flutters as I anticipate a kiss, but he turns my head away and skims his thumb over my cut. “That’s looking better.”

“Amazing what can happen when people stop hitting you.”

His gaze returns to mine. “Did you think about me last night?”

I give him my gala grin, the one I can pull up in the worst situations if it means getting donations. I wonder where I’ll get that smile at the next event. “Not even a little.”

Instead of getting angry, he laughs, and his knuckles skim my jaw before his hand drops. “Is your father back from his trip?”

“Not yet.”

“Where did he go?”

“No one ever tells me where they go or when they’ll be back. They just leave.” I’m surprised I don’t feel that rock-hard resistance I had to Luka last night. I guess I’ve found a way to accept it. But then I have lots of practice accepting a life I don’t want.

“And Soren?” he asks.

“He’s in the city. Seems to spend most of his time in bars or clubs, which totally works for me.”

“When is your next gala?”

“Four weeks.” The day after which I’m scheduled to marry Soren. It’s all happening so damn fast.

“Are you looking forward to it?”

Put that fundraising smile on, Malia. I need Soren to believe I love doing it, because if he thinks I’ll rebel, I am of no value. And if I’m of no value, I’m dead.

“Yes, I am,” I say, but look away. Even though I used to enjoy them, I can’t look anyone in the face and lie about it now.

He nods and scans my dress, one far more modest than the one I was wearing when we met. “I’m guessing this isn’t one of Soren’s choices.”

There’s a familiar heat in his eyes, and I know his thoughts have shifted. Sexual tension slides in, and I find it amazing that I understand the feeling. It must be based on instinct.

We both know why he’s here. I know what I’m expected to do, at least in a general sense.

Last night, I found myself searching my mind for sexual knowledge.

I was able to pull up a few situations I’ve walked in on at the galas.

Couples kissing, touching, and more, though I never knew what that more was.

Still, I can remember the way their bodies moved, and I absolutely cannot envision myself doing those things. Especially not with Soren.

“Definitely not his favorite,” I say, sliding my hands down the skirt of the pink knee-length wraparound dress with small white flowers.

“Well, it’s one of mine. That color looks great on you.”

When I lift my head, I’m surprised to see he looks sincere. The only time I’m ever complimented is at the galas, and it’s always about my dress or my hair or something equally as meaningless. Somehow, this compliment hits differently.

“I suppose we should go to the pool house,” I say, sighing in resignation. “I know you’re a busy man.”

Instead of heading toward the door, his hands close on my arms. “As soon as I find out what you’re trying so hard to hide.”

He reaches behind me, pulling the book from the shelf and bringing his body so close, his scent invades my head again. My stomach lifts and flutters.

“What’s this?” he asks, glancing at the cover.

I grab the book back. An impulsive move that is far too aggressive for the situation and one that only piques his curiosity. I’d clearly never make it as a spy.

“Just a collection of stories. Like an anthology.”

His smile grows. He knows I’m lying. I know he knows I’m lying. And he knows I know he knows I’m lying.

“Princess.” He reaches behind me, bringing our bodies close, and pulls the book gently but firmly from my hands. “You look a little flushed.”

I stare at his chest.

“ Fearless ,” he reads, casting a look at me before flipping the book over. “A collection of stories from women who have not only survived…”

He stops, lips parted to continue reading, but glances at me without moving his head, while I chew on the inside of my cheek.

His gaze returns to the book. “…who have not only survived…sexual exploitation…but have overcome their traumatic past and moved on as beacons of hope.”