Did any of them ever walk into my room and steal the journal?
It couldn’t have been Dame Blanca.
And it definitely wasn’t my stepbrother.
Maybe it was the chef...
My face blooms at the thought of that plump, little man reading my carnal fantasies and I wish I never had written all of that stuff down. But I was bursting with feelings. If I hadn’t put them down on paper I would have exploded like a unicorn piñata all over the place.
Leaning against the desk, I pinch my lips and wonder how the heck I’m supposed to get a hold of 200.000 dollars. I don’t have that kind of money. My stepbrother gives me an allowance every week and I don’t have a savings account at the bank.
Think, think...
And then it hits me.
My designer bags. I’ll sell those. Every single one of them and it should be enough to cover the costs.
Flooding with sudden relief I open up the double doors to my walk-in closet and almost get a heart attack.
The bags...they’re gone.
Everything else is still there but I’ve been robbed of my bags.
And they were the only thing that could have covered the cost!
If I start selling the artwork or the other artsy decorations in the penthouse, my stepbrother will get suspicious. He won’t let me pass under the radar and he’ll demand to be informed on what’s going on. And I’d rather die than let him know the truth.
At the sound of the front door opening, I freeze up.
He’s home. A little earlier than I expected him and my pulse immediately acts up. My body turns into a wound up machine at the slightest hint of my stepbrother being near. I respond to him like a little fiend and its embarrassing and exciting and completely inappropriate.
Thing is, that it’s not just about Dacre Cage being my stepbrother.
It’s about him being as close to a walking, talking terror as humanely possible.
The air constricts whenever Dacre walks into a room and there always seems to be a draft somewhere. He puts people on edge, makes them think of their loved ones and what they’ve done with their life so far.
I’ve never seen Dacre be menacing to anyone but he doesn’t have to be.
People get that Dacre is sort of like barbed-wire. He won’t hurt you as long as you keep your distance. And people do keep their distance.
So do I.
If I had to make a guess, I’d say I roughly exchange twenty sentences with Dacre during a whole week. I don’t even know how to talk to a man like him, what to say, how to behave. Growing up, proper etiquette was drilled into me but all that went out the window the moment Dacre stepped into my life.
He doesn’t care if I properly cross my leg or if I push out the pinky when drinking tea (which is a faux pas by the way) or if I talk while chewing. There are no rights when it comes to Dacre. Only wrongs.
Opening my bedroom door, I stick my head out into the hallway. My lids shudder when I’m hit with weak whiffs of his cologne and it’s enough to make me go numb. He always knows how to get my body to react, knows exactly how to wind me up.
Sneaking out, I silently cross the hallway and my heart pounds. I feel like I’m doing something forbidden and I probably am. Sneaking up on your stepbrother isn’t that normal and yet I can’t stop myself.
I find him out on the balcony. He’s opened up the French windows, causing the evening breeze to fill up our whole place. His hands rest on the banister, his muscular back turned against me and I pinch my lips, wanting deep down for him to notice me.
He seems impatient tonight, on edge. Then again Dacre is always on edge. He’s not the kind who knows how to kick back and relax.
Sometimes I wonder what’s getting him so worked up all the time. Maybe it’s his job. He doesn’t have a girlfriend that I know for sure. It surprises me because Dacre’s young. At the age of twenty-six, you’d think he’d be picking up girls from night clubs but I’ve never witnessed that.
Dacre never parties. He’s always home before midnight.