I hold my breath as I jump off the wall.

The walls around my father’s estate aren’t high, and below is a spongy strand of grass that will buffer my fall. I know this because my younger sister Cece sneaks out when she visits. She’s the crazy one. The fun one. The one who moved to California with Mom after the divorce 4 years ago. The regular teenager who gets to go to a normal coed school and go on dates.

Me? I’m the well-behaved daughter. The oldest. The good example, the protective one.

And yet, Dad still doesn’t trust me.

He still made a point to stop me on my way to school this morning—my all girls’ school because god forbid he trusts me to attend high school where there might be boys or alcohol or parties or anything he deems even vaguely “inappropriate”—and he told me that I need to stay in tonight. No going out after school, not even to watch my best friend Lace’s soccer game, which I promised her I’d be able to make.

Worse, he didn’t even explain why I’m suddenly being punished.

Screw him, I think as I land hard on the grass and roll to break my fall. I’m breathing hard even though sneaking out wasn’t that difficult, barely involved more than shimmying out my window, scaling the ivy lattice on the roof outside it, and then climbing a ladder get up this wall, my last hurdle. It’s probably just that this is the first time I’ve ever done something like this. It’s exhilarating.

Disobeyed my father.

He had it coming, I remind myself. I dust off the legs of my tight black jeans and adjust the crop top I put on especially for tonight. Lace has been texting me about this party for weeks, knowing that there was only a snowball’s chance in hell I’d ever show. But it’s not often that St. Augustine’s, the boys’ Catholic high school a few towns over, hosts big parties like this one. One of the guys’ parents is out of town, and he lives on some epic estate, probably almost as big as my father’s, so he invited everyone from his school and ours. Lace went to the last one he threw, five months ago, and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

When I texted her this afternoon to say I was in, I’m pretty sure she nearly had a stroke, she was so shocked. But it’s my birthday in 5 days; I’ll be 17, and it’s time I started acting like it. Hell, I’ve never even danced in the same room as a boy, let alone kissed one. I could stand to get a little life experience.

I take off down the road following the GPS on my phone. It’s not too far, just a 20 minute walk, though I’ve never walked the roads of our upstate New York town this late at night. Or alone.

I shiver a little, wrapping my arms around my exposed stomach and wishing I’d thought to bring a jacket. It’s late summer, almost fall, and chilly enough to raise goosebumps along my arms and chest and stomach. The crop top I’m wearing is brand new and cost a fortune. The only way I managed to sneak it into the shopping cart was by pretending it was a bra, not an actual shirt. The jeans are designer too, and hug my curves perfectly. Paired with my high heeled Manolo Blahniks, I’m looking sexy as hell tonight, I must admit.

Not that I’d know the first thing about how to actually be sexy, but still. I’ve got the internet, and Dad’s “inappropriate content” blockers can only filter out so much.

At least I’m not the only one pissed at him, I remind myself as I reach the outskirts of town and saunter onto the sidewalk. I’ve heard his meetings lately. Normally the impeccably dressed business men who appear on our front stoop, accompanied by body guards the size of small horses, seem to enjoy their time with my father. They all sip whiskey from the liquor cabinet Dad keeps locked and toast to their various enterprises. I don’t know a lot of details about what exactly those entail, but I’m not an idiot. There’s the front Dad puts on for the rest of the world, the real estate companies and the investments, and then there are the offshore accounts he talks about in whispers, the deals made in his study over those glasses of overpriced whiskey, while guards man the doors and even the maids aren’t allowed to go inside.

But lately, those meetings have taken a turn. I’ve heard shouting more than once, and just yesterday, a man I’d never seen before stormed out of the house, shouting over his shoulder that he’d see the Badiary name ruined if it was the last thing he did.

Guess I’m not the only one Dad is pissing off.

I turn right at the center of town, still lost in thought. That’s when instinct makes me look up, realizing the air has shifted around me.

There’s no one else on the street. I shiver. I’ve never seen the town this empty, though of course, I’ve never been out so late before. I check my phone again for the map I’ve been following. Dammit. Took a wrong turn. I double back to the main road, then count street corners again. Two blocks up, I turn right, and this time, I hear it.

Footsteps.

Almost in sync with mine but off by a hair. Just enough that I can tell.

I speed up, though that’s tricky in my heels. I make it to the next street light, then casually glance over my shoulder, feigning a nonchalance that I don’t feel.

My stomach clenches, my heart rate triples.

There are two guys behind me.

They look about my age, so maybe they’re also going to the party. That’s what I try to convince myself. But somehow I can’t see either of these kids, in their torn jeans and oversized hoodies, glowering at me as they trade a cigarette, going to St. Augustine’s. The guys from St. Augustine’s are prep-tastic, rebellious in a Catholic school way. Not like these guys. One of them steps under the street light a few paces behind me and I see he has a tattoo on his neck.

“Hey, honey!” that one calls, catching me looking.

I turn around and start to walk again, faster. Am I going the right way still? I don’t want to pull out my phone to check. I duck my head and speed up.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” he adds. His voice is getting louder. He’s catching up.

Dammit. I curse myself for wearing these heels, these tight jeans. What was I thinking?

“Let us keep you company,” the other guy joins in shouting. “Not safe out here this late.”

They both chuckle, low and dark. Then, next thing I know, they’re beside me, flanking me. I glance back and forth between them, realizing as I do, that they’re both taller than me. Taller and way more muscular.

Tattoo-neck grins down at me, a glint in his eye. “You looking to party? We can show you a good spot.”

“Private. Best kind of party,” the other guy adds. I turn to size him up, and he winks, leering at me with nicotine stained teeth.

“No thanks,” I say, keeping my voice steady and disinterested. I don’t want these guys to know how much they’re unnerving me right now.

“Oh I get it,” Tattoo butts in, rolling his eyes. “She’s too good for us.” He tugs on my shirt, and I flinch. Mentally kicking myself, I fix him with a sideways glare. “Isn’t that right, little Miss Designer Jeans? Too good to hang out with scum like us, huh?”

“What was your first clue?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. I toss my hair over my shoulder and stride forward, trying to ignore them. But then Tattoo’s friend grabs my arm, hard enough to hurt.

“That’s not very nice. Where are your manners, young lady?”

“Let go of me,” I say, my voice still steady, imperious.

He leans in, his breath reeks, and whispers right against my ear. “Make me.”

I wrench my arm from his grip, casting my memory back to the self-defense lessons Dad insisted I take as a kid. It works—he loses his grip on me, and I whirl around, plant my feet, and punch him square in the jaw.

For a second, pride and vicious pleasure surge through me. Ha. Take that.

But it’s a mistake. He barely flinches from the hit, and then he’s on me, grabbing both my shoulders and shoving me against the wall.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch,” he snarls, and Tattoo grabs my other arm, pinning me against the brick wall while his friend reaches for the clasp of my jeans.

I tense, ready to kick him, knowing even as I do that it will be useless—there’s two of them and one of me, and they know what they’re doing, more than I do. Why didn’t I keep taking those classes? I clench my jaw, ready to fight to the end, when a loud, deep voice interrupts us.

“Let her go.”

All three of us freeze. The guys smirk at one another, but I glance right past them, to the man walking up the street toward us. The streetlight catches him just as he shouts, and for a moment, I can see his sharp cheekbones glazed with dark stubble. A strong jawline, deeply set eyes that flash in the light. A short haircut, almost buzzed, in a way that reminds me of the Army.

Then he’s past the light, striding right toward us.

“Mind your own business, man,” Tattoo says, turning to face this mysterious stranger. His friend keeps me pinned against the wall, but he’s distracted too, glancing over his shoulder at the guy.

“This is my business,” the man replies. He’s closer now, his voice strong with command, the air around us seeming to vibrate. In the dim moonlight, he looks older than us, though not by much. Maybe 20, 21. Yet something in his eyes seems wise beyond his years. He’s got the kind of stare that tells you he knows what he’s doing, and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. “I said let her go. You have 10 seconds.”

“Yeah? Or what?” Tattoo smirks, and his friend laughs.

I take advantage of their distraction to throw myself forward, off the wall. I half-tackle the guy holding me, wrenching my knee up to hit him in the groin. At the same time, I swing with my free arm. I punch him straight in the throat, my fingers pointed sharply.

He staggers back, gasping, even as he grabs my arm again, throwing me off-balance. I trip in my heels, hearing grunts and crashes beside me. By the time I catch my balance, I look up to find Tattoo on the ground, out cold. The stranger grabs the other guy by the throat, and I pull free, retreating. I trip, land hard on my ass, but I’m finally free.

“You want to leave here now,” the man growls, tightening his grip on my attacker.

The attacker nods, at least as much as he can with this guy’s arm around his throat.

The man lets go, and the attacker flees, sprinting up the street without even a backwards glance at his unconscious friend.

As for my savior, he steps over Tattoo, expressionless, and strides toward me, one hand extended.

We lock eyes, and for a breath, I don’t move. Just watch him, wary. He’s just rescued me, and gazing up at him from my undignified position on the ground in the middle of this empty street, my heart starts to beat faster. Damn, my hero is hot. Up close, he’s got cheekbones that could cut glass, a smooth face, marred only by the crease in his brow as he frowns down at me.

Slowly, I reach up and place my hand in his. He tightens his grip around my fingers, pulls me up. He clenches my hand hard, hard enough to hurt, but I pull myself to my feet in one smooth motion, and as soon as I’m upright, he lets go, almost like he doesn’t want to touch me. Like I burn him.

He definitely burns me, in a way I’ve never felt before. My stomach feels like it’s turning inside out, and I finally understand what people mean when they talk about butterflies.

“Thank you,” I say, eyes wide.

His scowl only deepens at that. “Don’t thank me,” he says. His voice reverberates in my chest, deep as thunder.

“You just saved me from those guys. What else am I supposed to do?”

He takes a step closer, and I stiffen. Something about the way his eyes narrow and his mouth straightens into a thin, hard line makes me nervous. There’s a glint in his eye, something almost like recognition. Recognition, and disdain… But he couldn’t possibly know me.

I’d definitely remember if I’d seen this man before.

“You need to be more careful,” he says, and my heart skips a beat. Careful of what? Of him?

I extend a hand, trying to ward off the tingles racing along my spine. I can’t tell if I’m just feeling jumpy after seeing those guys, or if it’s the close proximity of one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen that’s setting me off now.

He grips my hand and holds on, not shaking, just tightening his grasp around my fingers. I gasp a little, and he takes another step toward me. He’s just inches away now, and I can see his chest hitching with effort. Effort from what?

His eyes bore into me. They’re ice blue, the palest I’ve ever seen, and his gaze pins me to the spot. Before I can react, he shifts his grip, loosening it, and turning his hand.

My cheeks flare bright red as he intertwines his fingers in mine. His mouth loosens, just enough to let a small smirk show through his otherwise stoic expression. “Sweet girls like you shouldn’t wander these streets alone so late. You might run into trouble.”

I swallow hard, all too aware of his gaze lingering on my lips. “Maybe.” I lift an eyebrow, putting on a smirk of my own. “But luckily there are men like you around to save me when I do.”

He laughs, just once, low and deep in his throat. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, his smirk widening. “I’m the trouble, not the savior. And those boys back there, they couldn’t harm you the way I could.”

I take a step back now, colliding once more with the brick wall behind me. But he matches me, step for step, until I feel penned in again, breathless with fear. He’s so close I can smell him, but unlike the boys earlier, it’s not a bad thing. His scent is rich, heady. Something like pine trees, sharp as new snow, and addictive. I breathe in, savoring it, even as my heart pounds and my vision goes hazy with a rush of adrenaline.

“Why would you want to harm me?” I ask, and there’s a slight tremor in my voice. Despite the fact that he just saved me, I can’t help feeling a fresh thrill of fear trickle through my veins. Is he the good guy or a bad one in disguise? “You don’t even know me.”

“No,” he admits, tilting his head. Studying me. Drinking me in. “But I’m acquainted with your father,” he says, and that’s when I really shiver.

Shit.

He must notice the way my eyes widen. He surely feels the tremble in my hand, still holding his. He chuckles again, louder this time. “Yes, Miss Badiary. I’m well aware of all the terrible deeds your father has signed onto. Either committed himself or ordered to have done. All the ways he’s terrorized and lorded his power over other people. The innocent bystanders he’s trampled in his mad dash for power.” The man shakes his head, his gaze turning wistful, almost regretful, for a moment. “He needs to be careful, your father. Because eventually the day will come when he won’t be able to dodge his comeuppance anymore.”

He leans in close to me, his lips a breath away. So close I could tilt my chin up and meet them. But everything in me is trembling, scared, breathless.

Is it just fear? Even now, I feel something else curling below the surface. Something suspiciously like desire.

“One day, even a powerful man like Calvin Badiary will pay the price for ruining the lives of others.” His hot breath ghosts across my cheeks as he says this. His gaze is locked on mine, his smirk gone, his mouth returned to that thin, hard line. He lets go of my hand, but trails his fingers up the back of my wrist, tracing up my arm to my elbow. Slowly, but I can feel every inch burn through me like flames.

I don’t understand this feeling. Why I am terrified and excited in equal measure. Why I want to run and also to lean forward and catch him the way he’s catching me.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Pamona,” he murmurs, and I tense, startled at the sound of my name on his lips. He really does know me. Not just as Calvin’s daughter, but my name, my face. Has he been following me?

“You’re a little innocent doll.” His fingertips reach my cheek and cup it gently. “And dolls like you can end up broken.”

With that, he drops his fingers from my face and turns around. Strides up the alley, leaving me breathless, leaning against the wall, my whole body shaking.

Only when he’s gone do I let myself slide down the wall to sit, running my hands through my hair.

What the hell just happened? I wonder.

One day, even a powerful man like Calvin Badiary will pay the price, he said. I wonder what kind of price he means, exactly…