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I loved him. I lost him. And now heβs back.
August Monreaux was a stormy sea of a man, the dark between the stars, an electric chill cutting through a crowded roomβall wrapped into one wicked, beautiful package.
He was also off-limits.
My entire life, I was kept a safe distance from the notoriously virulent Monreauxs, banned from so much as breathing the same air. And like the good daughter I was, I obeyed those rules.
Until the one time I didnβt β¦
Only while I sampled him, he devoured me like the forbidden fruit that I was. And in the blink of an eye, my worst enemy became my first love. His poison became my antidote. His touch, my addiction.
After we severed our ill-fated ties, I thought Iβd never see him again.
Until he crashed back into my life at the worst possible momentβand asked me to marry him.
But it wasnβt that simple.
It never is.
Turns out marrying a wealthy powerhouse of a man comes with a price.
But walking away, could cost me everything.
βDrink up, Rose girl,β he says. βThe night is young.β
Out of politeness, I take a sip. Itβs bitter on my tongue and smells like a more expensive version of the canned beer my father drinks after a weekend overtime shift.
βYou sure you donβt want to go back downstairs?β I ask.
He takes a sip. βPositive.β
βEveryoneβs here to see you, you know.β
He rolls his steel-gray eyes. βTheyβre not here to see me. Theyβre here because they want to know what itβs like to be me β¦ if only for a night.β
βReally?β I tease. βAll of them? Every last person downstairs is here because they want to be you, August?β
βYes. Even if theyβre too stupid to realize it.β He doesnβt flinch, doesnβt miss a beat. Doesnβt seem the least bit amused. βOn the surface, they want free beer and some pictures they can post that makes them look cooler than they are. But deep down, theyβre curious. Maybe a little jealous. Completely unaware that theyβre in the midst of hitting their peak.β
βThatβs no way to talk about your friends.β I take a sip, letting the bubbles play on my tongue.
βFriends? I wouldnβt know. Never had any.β He tosses back a mouthful of beer, holding my gaze captive.
I roll my eyes. βWhatever. Werenβt you, like, prom king at your school or something a couple years back? You canβt tell me you donβt have friends.β
βTheyβre void-fillers. Nothing more, nothing less.β He captures my wrist in his hand, gentle. And his thumb circles my pulse, forcing it to quicken in response.
I pull away.
βAm I supposed to feel sorry for you? Poor little rich guy? Is that your schtick? Is that how you get ass?β I keep my words soft and light, but I very much mean every last one of them.
βLast thing I need is your sympathy. And Iβm definitely not poorβor little. I donβt have a β¦ schtick and even if I did, I wouldnβt need to use it to get ass.β
Without warning, he cups the side of my cheek. A tender move for someone so dark. I rake my teeth over my bottom lipβa protective move because Iβm quite certain heβs seconds from attempting to devour me.
I donβt have a chance to tell him no though, because the second he leans in, the bedroom door flings open and Adriana appears in the doorway.
βOh, my god. Iβve been looking all over for you,β she says, oblivious to what this looks like. βI thought you left or something.ββ
βWhatβs up?β I ask.
August takes a step back, raking his hand through his hair and exhaling.
βThat Isaac guy is a douche. I want to leave.β She pulls out her phone, the screen lighting her face in the dim room. βMy cousin is on her way to get us. Sheβll be here in twenty. You ready?β
August and I lock eyes, and I swear thereβs a silent plea for me to stay. But even if I wanted to, I couldnβt. I came here with Adriana. Iβm leaving with Adriana. But more important than that, I would never so much as think about staying for a Monreaux.
βSheβll meet you out front in a second,β August tells her, though heβs looking at me.
Adriβs dark brows rise, as if sheβs finally realizing we were up here alone together, separated by mere inches before she barged in.
βOh,β she says. βOh. Um, okay β¦β
βIβll be down in a sec,β I promise her. βItβs fine.β
Adriana disappears, closing the door behind her.
βYouβre not actually leaving, are you?β he asks.
βOf course I am β¦β
βI can get you a ride home.β He takes a sip of his beer.
βItβs not about that.β
He releases a hard breath, his stare narrowing and his full mouth pressing flat.
βWell, thatβs too bad,β he says. The moonlight from the window behind me paints soft shadows on his face. In this light, he doesnβt look so intimidating. βWas hoping I could get to know you a little more.β
βReally? You wanted to get to know me?β I laugh, using air quotes and rolling my eyes. βBecause something tells me you were looking to score,β I continue. βAnd you and I both know thatβll never happen in a million years.β
βWhy not?β
βBecause youβre you and Iβm me. I donβt think I need to elaborate.β I place the barely-touched beer bottle on top of a nightstand and head for the door. βItβs nothing personal.β
βDonβt insult my intelligence, Rose girl.β
βIβm just stating the facts. We canβt help the family weβre born into. We have no control over what our parents did or didnβt do.β
βSo why should we suffer the consequences?β he asks.
He has a good question. I pause for a second. βBecause we love our parents. And we respect their wishes.β
I reach for the door knob when he comes closer.
βMust be hell,β he says.
βWhat?β I stop in my tracks.
βLiving by other peopleβs rules all the time. Never doing what you want. What a fucking waste.β He takes a drink, letting his tongue caress the bottle mouth for a split second.
βAdrianaβs waiting.β
βGive me your phone.β
βWhat? Why?β
βGive me your phone, Rose girl.β He holds out his palm.
βIβm sorry, but no. I have no need for your number. I have no reason to ever text you. Iβm flattered by your confidence and your drive to defy authority or whatever youβre going for with this, but this is me kindly passing,β I say.
βFor the shirt,β he says, his words staccatoβd. βIf you could text me when itβs ready, Iβll arrange to pick it up.β
Oh. Right.
βItβs a four hundred dollar Baccarin,β he adds. I canβt help but feel itβs his bruised egoβs way of making me feel like an expensive shirt matters more to him than seeing me again. βAnd Iβd like it back.β
Without another protest, I dig my phone from my bag and hand it over. When he returns it, I discover heβs programmed his name as ENEMY DEAREST.
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When sheβs not writing, sheβs living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.
And if you’d like to be the first to know when a new book is coming out, please sign up for her private mailing list here —>
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