“I think half my father’s guests might have heard that,” he says softly.

“Is that why you did it, then? To cause another scene? Get back at your father?” That thought makes me feel less than special. If I’m honest, it makes me feel suddenly very vulnerable, very sick. Rebel grazes his fingertips across my collarbone and down over my breasts, still able to make me react to him. “No, sugar. I did that because I’ve been desperate to ever since I laid eyes on you. I did it because it’s all I’ve been able to think about for fucking days. It was going to happen eventually. You know that as well as I do.”

And he’s right. He’s telling the truth. Reaching down in between my legs, he traces his fingers lightly over my pussy, growling deep and low in his chest. I know I’m wet from him, slick with my own orgasm. He seems to take great pleasure in rubbing his fingers through my wetness, sliding them up inside me, even sliding them further back, circling his finger around my ass, coating me with myself there, too. No one has ever touched me there before. A spark of embarrassment, coupled with excitement charges through me.

“You’re mine, now, Soph. For as long as you want to be, you’re mine. And I’m yours,” he tells me. “That okay with you?”

I feel paralyzed. I know what I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to part with the words. I’m not ready to. I don’t know why I feel so strongly for him, and that scares the living crap out of me. If I say it, if I tell him yes, it will feel like I’m walking blindly into something I have absolutely no control over.

He grins at me, watching me intently, and I just know that he can tell what I’m thinking. He opens his mouth, is about to say something, but the moment is stolen away by a horrified scream, tearing through the house. For a second I think we’ve been busted, but the scream doesn’t come from the hallway. It comes from somewhere beyond, toward what must be the kitchen.

“Fuck.” Rebel snatches up our clothes and grabs me, pulling me to one side, into what turns out to be a closet containing a fuse box and a stack of sealed cardboard boxes. We’re barely concealed before the door leading to the party opens and people start to pour into the hallway. A second later and we would have been found for sure. Rebel holds out my dress to me, eyes flashing cold fury. “Hurry. Something’s not right.”

Another scream echoes through the house—fear and panic combined. I wriggle into the dress, not worrying about my bra or panties. Rebel finishes dressing moments after I do, fastening the top button of his shirt and smoothing back his dark hair.

“Come on.” Taking my hand, he leads me out of the closet, ignoring the curious looks of the men and women now loitering in the hallway. The Texan from earlier is standing to one side, a champagne flute still clutched in his meaty hand.

“What’s going on?” Rebel asks him.

“A body. Someone found a body in the kitchen. Some hired help or something. Blood everywhere, apparently.”

Rebel’s expression turns to tempered steel. My arm nearly comes out of the socket as he pulls me after him, pushing and shoving his way through the crowds. He stops in his tracks when he reaches the kitchen. On the floor, just as the Texan said, a body lies in a pool of blood. It’s the girl who came to my room, Rebel’s friend, Leah. Her eyes are wide, starting to cloud over; her throat lays wide open, slit from ear to ear.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “That’s—”

“Yeah.” Rebel lets go of my hand, dropping into a crouch, covering his mouth with his hands. Devastation sweeps across his face. He’s turned sheet-white.

I go to comfort him. I take a step forward, wanting to place my hand on his back, to say something to let him know I’m there, but something stops me. Or rather someone. Across the other side of the room, talking to Louis Aubertin, a man I recognize all too well catches my eye. He has the fucking audacity to smile. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Hector Ramirez.

Dressed in an expensive-looking suit and holding a cut glass tumbler of what looks like whiskey in his hand, it’s obvious he’s here for Louis’ fundraiser. And from the cold, evil smile he sends my way, it’s obvious that he’s responsible for the dead girl lying on the floor.

Rebel must see him at the same time I do. Slowly, shakily, he gets to his feet. The man I was naked with, so caught up in only ten minutes ago, is completely gone. It’s like he never even existed. “Motherfucker,” Rebel snarls. “He should never have come here. He should never have known. I am going to fucking destroy him.”

Right there, in front of everyone, Hector raises his glass and smiles at Rebel. If the message he’s sending with the dead girl on the floor isn’t enough, the one in his eyes is crystal clear:

Bring it on, Rebel. Do your fucking worst.