I text Raphael the next day at four, just before I go into class.

M e : Please don’t send Nate to pick me up today.

R aphael replies almost immediately .

R aphael : Why? What did he do?

M e : Nothing. He’s been great. I’d just prefer to ride the subway.

R aphael doesn’t answer . I turn my phone off when I enter my lecture, and I bury it at the bottom of my bag. If I don’t, I’ll be checking it every five seconds to see if I have any messages, and I’m already fighting to pay attention to my workload as it is. My contracts law lecture is so dull I have trouble staying awake. Once it’s finally over, I quickly head to the bathrooms and get changed into the light, fairly casual dress I neatly folded into my bag before I left my apartment this morning. I trade my Chucks for some pretty suede boots with a kitten heel, though the effort is wasted really, since I’ll be leaving them in the elevator. Still, they complete my outfit. I apply a tiny amount of makeup, some blusher and some mascara, some lip-gloss to add a bit of extra color to my face, and then I hurry to the subway. It’s packed, but I’m so used to traveling this way now, that the sea of people all crammed tightly together in the narrow space doesn’t bother me anymore. A busker is playing jazz on a trumpet somewhere, but sound travels so strangely underground here; it’s impossible to know which walkway he’s playing down. A guy with salt and pepper hair taps his foot along to the rhythm as we wait for the train. When it arrives, people pour out of the carriages, talking into their cell phones, heads down, lost in their own private worlds. I take a seat, and I allow myself to check out for a minute. My eyes skip over the countless ads displayed on the walls of the carriage, my mind wandering. The Lion King ; Wicked ; The new David Baldacci book; A pharmaceutical advertisement for depression; A fifty percent off sale at Kingston & Bradshaw Mattresses.

Twenty minutes later, I’m off the train and walking through packed streets toward the Osiris Building. It occurs to me once I get there that I’ve only ever accessed the penthouse through the private elevator in the parking lot. Damn. I dig out my phone, about to text Raphael to ask him if there’s another way up, but he’s already messaged me. Twice.

R aphael : The subway isn’t safe. It’s Nate’s job to collect people on my behalf.

I didn’t check my phone after class, so I didn’t get his message. He obviously expected me to acquiesce and let Nate pick me up. Does that mean Nate went and waited for me at my apartment? I really hope not. The second message reads:

R aphael : Go to the front desk. Tell Oliver I’m expecting you.

I don’t know if his tone is irritated or not. It’s so hard to tell on a text. Shit. Oh, well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. Now that I’m not getting paid for this, I feel a little less anxious about the whole thing. I head inside, straight to the front desk, and I’m about to ask for Oliver when I notice the guy standing in front of me is wearing a name badge bearing that very name. He smiles politely. “Can I help you, Madam?”

“I’m here to see Mr. North,” I tell him. And then, “I’m expected.” I’ve always wanted to say that. Feels very professional. Oliver’s smile amps up to a thousand watts.

“Oh, yes, of course. Beth, correct? Please. Follow me.” He leads me through the lobby of the building, skirting groups of people dressed in suits and ties, briefcases clutched tightly in their hands, until we reach a door marked “private” with a polished brass plaque. He opens the door with a key and ushers me through. I find myself in another small waiting area like the one down in the basement, with another private elevator.

“You’ll see yourself up, Beth?” Oliver asks. “Mr. North prefers us to remain down here in the lobby.”

“Oh, yes. No problem.”

Oliver hits the call button, bows ever so slightly, then leaves me alone to wait for the elevator car to arrive. When it does, I get on and remove my shoes, secreting them away in yet another hidden closest. I check my watch: 6:47. Nearly fifteen minutes early again. Instead of ringing the bell, I walk over to the window opposite, and I stand there, taking it all in. Raphael was obviously upset that I was early last time, so I figure I’ll just wait here until seven rolls around.

The view really is phenomenal. The Osiris Building is so tall that the other buildings on the horizon all seem dwarfed by it. I never realized how many helicopter pads there were on the roofs of the buildings in Manhattan. To the east, I can see the water in the distance, a flat mirror that stretches on into nothingness. The Hudson River winds its way toward the sea like a shining ribbon of grey silk. I can’t hear a thing. This high up, the sounds of the sirens, the traffic, the chatter—they have all disappeared. A solid, tangible, weighty silence fills my ears instead.

It’s almost feels like I’m observing the city from space. Everything feels so far away, like I’m untouchable here in this penthouse.

“Surreal, isn’t?”

The voice at my back startles me. I didn’t hear the glass door open. I didn’t hear Raphael step out into the anteroom, or approach me from behind. He’s wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black pants. His shoes are a burnt brown color—incredibly expensive looking leather. His dark clothes, coupled with his almost black hair, make the green in his eyes all the more vivid. He slides his hands into his pockets, taking a step toward me.

“Does it make you feel small and insignificant? Or does being so high up, being able to see so far, make you feel powerful, like you own it all somehow?” he asks quietly. The Raphael North Intensity Spectrum seems to be hitting an all-time high this evening. He stalks towards me, head slightly tilted down, looking up at me from under his perfect, dark brows, and it feels like a hand strokes down my spine, directly between my shoulder blades.

“Small,” I tell him. “It makes me feel small. How does it make you feel?”

He looks past me, his gaze briefly flickering over my shoulder, out of the window, before returning to me. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On my mood. On the day.” He takes another step forward. There’s something animalistic about the way he moves. Leonine. Predatory. His eyes rove out of the window again, but I still know he’s really watching me and nothing else.

“What about today?” I ask.

He smiles softly. Stops in front of me, barely two feet away. “Today? Today, the view is making me feel powerful.”

His eyes never leave me. I get the feeling he’s not talking about the bustling city through the glass anymore. I feel like he’s talking about me. I am the view. “I didn’t want to ring the bell until it was time,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Oliver called up to let me know you’d arrived,” he says. “And I didn’t want to keep you out here waiting. Shall we go inside? The food isn’t quite ready yet, but I have some wine breathing. Do you like red?”

“Yes. I love red.”

He nods a little, fiddling with his shirtsleeve. “Perfect. Follow me.”

I think he’s going to take me back to the lounge, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens a door along the hallway, the third on the right, which leads to yet another hallway. A single door stands at the end of it, and it’s open. The room beyond is magnificent. Another glass ceiling, and another impressive panorama of the city. The room faces west, and the sun is finally going down over the skyline, oranges, yellows, and blazing reds. In the center of the room, a long, banquet style dining table sits, almost fifteen feet long. At one end, two places have been set, and a vase full of pure white calla lilies sits before them. A simple glass decanter of wine is also waiting by the place settings. Raphael makes his way over and pours two glasses, then returns to hand one to me. “Your dress is…” His eyes travel down my body, and I can’t deny how his attention makes me feel: flustered, a little anxious, vulnerable and on show. I should have worn something fancier. The shirt he’s wearing is a thing of beauty. It looks like it probably cost more than my monthly rent. I have an overwhelming urge to place my hand against his chest and feel the fabric. To feel the solid, sculpted flesh underneath. God, what the hell is wrong with me? I look up, blinking furiously.

“It’s simple,” I say, almost apologetically. “I didn’t realize this was going to be such a formal evening.”

Raphael smiles crookedly. “It’s not formal. And I was going to say your dress is beautiful. The color makes your eyes seem…alive .”

Funny how I was just thinking the exact same thing about him in the anteroom. “Do I normally have dead eyes, then?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Not at all. They just seem to be shining especially brightly this evening.”

I drink from my wine glass, not really sure how to respond to that. Is he flirting with me? It feels like he is, but then again I’m hardly an expert on the subject these days. It’s been a long time since someone tried hitting on me; I probably wouldn’t recognize if it were happening either way. The wine is incredible—rich and full-bodied, sweet, with just the right amount of tannin to give it a solid texture on my tongue.

“You like it?” Raphael asks.

“Yes, it’s lovely. What is it?”

He takes a sip himself. “A Syrah my mother bought me for my twenty-first birthday.”

“Sounds like something you should have saved for a special occasion.”

A strange, curious look settles over Raphael. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his body language is guarded. Eventually, he speaks. “Thalia told me she came clean with you last night. About our history. She also said you’ve decided you won’t allow me to pay you for your time anymore.”

“That’s correct. I also told her to ask you not to address me so formally.”

“Thalia said you didn’t want me to call you Ms. Dreymon. I haven’t.”

This, technically, is true. He’s being a smart ass, though, I can tell. “Just because you’re not calling Ms. Dreymon doesn’t mean you shouldn’t address me at all. You should…you should call me Beth .”

Raphael shifts, twisting his wine glass around in his hands. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him fidget. He’s always been so relaxed until now, so still, to the point where he’s almost seemed statuesque. He clears his throat. “Why? Why do you want me to call you that?”

“Because it’s my name. Because that’s what everyone else on the face of the planet calls me when they speak to me. Because that’s what my friends call me.”

His hands still. “Is that what I am? Your friend?”

“I—I hope so. I know you can’t just call someone a friend overnight, it takes time, but eventually…”

“Eventually, you and I will move from chess opponents, to acquaintances, to friends?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want?”

He turns to look to his left, away from me. It’s so hard to read him when he looks away like this. Perhaps that’s why he does it—so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he…is he angry ?

“Would you prefer we remain chess opponents?” I ask.

“Ask me again at the end of our dinner…Beth .” He tacks my name on the end after a pause that feels like it might go on forever. I like the way he says my name. The way his full lips press together at the start of the word. The way the very tip of his tongue catches between his teeth at the end. It’s sexual, somehow. Laden with suggestion. There doesn’t seem to be any intent on his part to make it sexual. He just exudes this magnetism that drives me crazy, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

“Let’s sit down and play. Dinner will be ready soon,” he says.

I haven’t noticed the tablet sitting on the table until Raphael picks it up and hits the home button, lighting up the screen. He sits down at the head of the table, watching me, waiting for me to sit down too. I take up my place to his right, and he reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin. Not just any coin. A silver dollar.

“Call it,” he says. “For white.”

“Heads.”

“All right. Heads it is.” He deftly flicks the coin, and the flash of silver spins end over end before he catches it out of the air and places it on the back of his other hand. When he takes his hand away, tails is facing up.

“Looks like I’m white,” he says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t bring the big board in here. It would have gotten in the way. I hope you don’t mind playing on this.” He taps the tablet, and the black and white squares of a chessboard fill the screen.

“Not at all.” Somehow playing with the tablet is less intimidating. The obsidian and copper set is beautiful and one of a kind, but it’s much easier to have a thin screen to tap on.

Raphael makes the first move, per the coin toss. I know I ought to play sloppily, especially after what Thalia said about me letting him win, but…I don’t. I just can’t seem to force myself to throw the game the time. There’s an odd, combative tension in the air, and it’s making me want to hand his ass to him. Raphael smirks as we play, his gaze lingering over me as we each take our turns. After fifteen minutes or so, there’s a quiet rap at the open door, and I look up to see a guy standing there with two covered plates in his hands.

“First course is ready if you are, Mr. North?” He’s maybe in his late thirties, dressed in a smart deep purple shirt and black pants. Not a waiter’s uniform. Just a well-designed outfit. His sandy hair is swept straight back, razor short on the sides, and tattoos spiral down his bare forearms.

Raphael smiles, gesturing for the man to enter with the dishes. “Yes, thank you. Beth, this is Denny. Denny, this is Beth.” He introduces us to one another like we’re both old friends of his, not people employed in his service. Or previously, albeit briefly employed on my part. Denny puts down a plate and offers out his hand to me, grinning warmly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Beth,” he says, pumping my arm up and down.

“Likewise.” He seems so happy; it’s impossible not to return his enthusiastic greeting.

“I’ve got some sorrel soup for you guys,” he says, setting down a plate before me first, and then Raphael. He removes the cloches to unveil shallow, oval shaped bowls beneath. The pale green soup inside has been artfully dashed with sour cream by the looks of things, and small sprigs of watercress. It smells absolutely delicious.

“Thank you, Denny,” Raphael says.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Absolutely. I’ll be back in a little while with your main courses. Shout if you need me in the meantime.” He leaves the dining room, humming softly under his breath.

“We’ll pause to eat,” Raphael says. Probably because he wants to take a second to regroup; I’ve taken six of his pieces already, and he’s only taken two of mine. He picks up the napkin from my table setting, and with a flick of the wrist he unfolds it. Sliding forward, he reaches across me, laying the cloth over my thighs. His face is closer to mine than it ought to be. Close enough that I can see the tiny knick on his jawline, just below his ear, where he’s caught himself shaving. His eyes, only two inches away, are pale and flecked with silver, like threads of silk. He smells fresh again, like citrus and clean laundry. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me, but he glances sideways, smirking just a little. “You’re holding your breath,” he observes.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve gone red.”

“I’m just—it’s the wine. I always get a little rosy when I drink red wine.”

“Mmm. Okay .” Raphael leans back, eyes lowered. He doesn’t believe me.

“Why did you ask Thalia to have me come here?” I blurt. The question’s been burning in my mind ever since she told me the truth. A thousand potential reasons have come to mind, ranging from Raphael somehow finding out that I’m really good at chess, to the possibility that I remind Raphael of some long dead relative or something. At no point have I allowed myself to consider that he asked me to come here because he saw me in that photo and decided that he was attracted to me. But with moves like the one he just pulled with the napkin…

Raphael picks up his spoon and points it at me. “Why do you think I did it?” He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t seem remotely surprised that I’m willing to bring this up, now that that whole Craigslist ad charade is over.

“I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been wondering, and I can’t think of a good enough reason that would have made you ask for me specifically.”

Raphael dips the spoon into his soup, then slowly slides it into his mouth. He makes the simple act of eating soup the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. He’s unhurried, unworried, totally at ease. I feel like I’m about to throw up. When he’s finished with his mouthful, he carefully places the spoon down beside his bowl and looks at me intently. “I used to laugh with Thalia, the way you were laughing with Thalia on Instagram. I used to be able to drink and socialize and be a goofball with her, and with Pax. I haven’t been able to in a long time, though. I was intrigued. I could tell by looking at that photo that you’d taken my place in Thalia’s life a little, and I was interested. I was interested in what kind of person you were. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were going to be good for her.”

What a strange thing to say. A strange thing to feel, as well. I look down into my soup bowl, thinking for a second. “If you’re so concerned about Thalia, about someone else replacing you in her circle of friends, why won’t you just spend time with her?”

“I would if I could. But…” His brow creases with lines. “It’s not that easy.”

“You’re in love with her.” I say this because I am so sure of it now. There’s no way he can possibly feel anything else for her given the way he’s speaking. Raphael’s pained expression turns to one of surprise, however. He bursts out laughing.

“God, no. No way. Thalia is my sister. Or she might as well be. That’s definitely how I see her. She sees me the same way.”

“Then why? Seriously, she misses you so much. I can tell by the way she speaks about you.”

The muscles in Raphael’s throat work overtime. He frowns deeply as he studies his hands. “I was in an accident. Something terrible happened, and afterwards…everything was different. It couldn’t ever be the same again. So, no. I can’t be a part of Thalia’s life anymore. Not the way I used to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to be curious about what’s going on with her.”

A deep well of sadness opens up inside me. His words when he speaks about Thalia carry such obvious affection, and obvious pain. “The accident? Was it…?”

It doesn’t seem like Raphael wants to talk about the accident, he practically shrank back into his seat at the very mention of it, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t see why I should. I’m tired of the secrets. I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on. I’m tired of being uninformed and trying to navigate this whole situation blindly.

Raphael looks up at me sharply. “Was it what?”

“Was it when you crashed your car into the Waldorf?” I ask. “It was all over the news. It’s hard not to hear about these things.”

The muscles in his jaw tense, his back straightening, like an electric current is suddenly flowing through him. “Yes,” he says simply. No further explanation offered. No words of self-defense. No apology. Just that one clipped, hard-edged word, and the steel that forms in his eyes.

Well. Apparently he’s not going to expand on that. I’d ask further questions, try to glean more information from him, but I already know him well enough. He won’t tell me anything else. He won’t give me what I want, the stubborn bastard. Doesn’t stop him from grilling me, though.

“Since we’re asking questions, why did you refuse to let Nate come and get you earlier?” he asks.

I take another mouthful of my food. “I like riding the subway. I enjoy it. And I’m sure Nate has better things to be doing for you than shuttling me around the city.”

“What do you like about the subway?” He ignores my comment about Nate altogether.

“I like the people watching. I like how you don’t have to sit in traffic. And I like to read all of the adverts. I find them interesting.”

“The adverts?” His voice rises at the end.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. People just usually try and ignore the ads. The general populous hates feeling like they’re being tricked or brainwashed into buying something.”

“I don’t like that part,” I tell him, swallowing down more sorrel soup. “I just like the snappy strap-lines and the pictures.”

Raphael pushes his bowl away. “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. There were over five hundred sex crimes reported on the subway last year.”

“I carry mace.”

Raphael’s brows rocket up to his hairline. “Is that true?”

I shake my head. “No. I carried some mace a long time ago. I accidentally hit the button in my bag, though, and the fumes made me throw up. I had to toss the bag, too. It was my favorite.”

“Is it because of Nate?” he asks. “Would you feel better if you drove yourself over here?”

“No, I told you. Nate’s awesome. It has nothing to do with him. And besides, I’m not going to be buying a car any time soon.”

“Because you can’t afford one, or because you don’t want one?”

I stop eating. I raise my eyes until they meet his. We are entering very dangerous territory. “Both .”

“Because I have cars you can borrow, Beth. It’s not a big deal.”

I stare at him for a moment, and then I wipe my mouth with my napkin, pushing my soup bowl away as well. “Please…don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Offer to lend me something that most people have to save for a very long time to afford. Like it’s nothing to you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m a problem solver, Beth. Loaning you a car merely seemed like a good solution to a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem. I told you. I like riding the subway.” Defiance rings clear in my tone. I’m daring him to say another word on the matter. Daring him to open his mouth and say something that will light the fuse on my very short temper. He doesn’t, though. He merely nods, rubbing his palm against the smooth, polished surface of the table.

“When I saw that photo of you and Thalia together, it was more than simple curiosity,” he says. “I looked at your face, and you didn’t remind me of a single person. No one from my family. No one from school. No one from here, or from working at North Industries. You were just…a brand new person. Someone I had no negative associations with. You had this look of pure happiness on your face. Your mouth was open, your eyes almost closed, smoke on your breath… You looked so free. You were absolutely beautiful. I felt drawn to you, and I wanted to meet you.”

He shrugs in a complacent, unaffected way. The way a person shrugs when they talk about wanting something, not knowing what it might be like not to get it, as if the thought never even occurred to him.

“It looks like you got your wish,” I say softly.

“It looks like I did. The problem with me is that I’m never satisfied, though.”

“Oh? How so?”

Denny chooses this exact moment to return. He strolls into dining room like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Are you both ready for me to clear some dishes and bring out your mains?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you, Denny,” Raphael says, his voice cool. He doesn’t look at Denny; his gaze remains fixed solely on me, burning into my skin. My cheeks grow hotter and hotter with every passing second. No doubt Denny can feel the pressure in the air; you could slice through it with a knife. He’s doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, though. He simply clears our bowls, humming softly under his breath, taking our spoons and relieving us both of our napkins. Raphael’s gaze doesn’t waver. I’ve never felt so on the spot before—to have someone so blatantly staring at me in front of another person and obviously not giving a shit whether it makes me feel uncomfortable.

“I’ll be right back,” Denny says brightly. His eyes meet mine as he leaves, and he winks at me. As soon as he’s gone, Raphael rubs a hand at the back of his neck, and says, “I’m not satisfied, Beth, because now I want more .”

I’m on fire. My dress suddenly feels too tight, my ribcage unable to expand. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest. There’s no mistaking his tone right now. No way I can’t read between the lines, but I still find myself, saying,

“More? What more is there?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Beth. You’re a smart girl. You know perfectly well what I mean.” His eyes flash—a challenge there, daring me to deny that his words are true. I clear my throat, a cold, nervous chill racing down my spine. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so direct before. His intensity is more than a little alarming; there’s some basic, animal part of me that’s telling me I should run from this situation. No other creature would look at another with such hunger in their eyes unless they intended on devouring it whole. And yet I can’t seem to make my body obey me. I’m rooted to my seat, every hair standing on end, prickling with some unknown sensation. I look away, making a move on the chessboard. A tactical, defensive move, as if my strategies in the game can protect me out here in the real world, too. I end up taking Raphael’s knight.

“You’ve been pretty hostile toward me,” I say softly. “Honestly, I didn’t think you even liked me.”

Raphael smirks. “I’m a hard person to get to know. I come across as difficult or rude sometimes. I know that. I assure you that I do like you, though.”

“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

Raphael, calm as ever, picks up the tablet and studies the game, considering his options. “When my parents died, everyone assumed I came into a fortune. The North Empire was vast, after all. My father was known internationally as a savvy, trustworthy banker. My mother’s entrepreneurial endeavors here in New York were also well known. But the truth of the matter was that when they died, they left me a mountain of crippling debt. They’d been living on credit for years.” Raphael takes a slow sip of his wine, makes a move on the tablet, then places it down on the table in front of me—a challenge. A gauntlet, thrown down. “Millions of dollars owed. Millions ,” he continues. “They lived to excess for so long that I don’t think they ever really admitted their situation even to themselves. I decided I wasn’t going to let their recklessness with money be the end of me. I vowed to repay the money owed and then some. And I did. It took me three years. Just three years. I invested what money I had myself. I created patents for technologies that were still waiting to meet their full potential. I broke my back to recoup what was lost, and I ended up making more money than my parents could ever have dreamed of accruing.” Another sip of his wine. Another pregnant pause. “Do you think I’d have managed that without doing my due diligence, Beth? I know plenty about you. You never asked me how I knew about what happened to your mother when you were a child.”

A shot of surprise races down my spine, between my shoulder blades. A chaser of anger follows right after it. “You promised you wouldn’t talk about that again.” I take another of his chess pieces, stabbing at the screen.

Raphael shrugs, running his index finger around the rim of his wine glass. “I did. I’m sorry to bring it up now, but I’m sure you must be curious.”

I was curious. I hate even thinking about that day, though. The mere mention of it makes me break out in hives, makes me feel panicked and sick inside my own skin for days, so I haven’t allowed myself the luxury of further curiosity. It would only have led me to dark places. I clear my throat, looking down at the table. “Just tell me.”

“When someone goes to the hospital for a work up after a sexual assault, records are made. Those records stay on file forever.”

It feels like a knife is twisting deep in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know Mom went to the hospital. She never told me. But then again, why would she? She’s been lecturing me about spending any significant time with men for years, but she’s never brought up what happened to her. It’s hung there between us, alluded to, a black fog that descends on us whenever she feels as if I’m being reckless, but never directly spoken about. And I was just a child back then. She probably didn’t want to scare me any more than I already had been.

I barely even notice Denny return once again with our main courses—the most perfect looking, perfect smelling steak I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Denny sets a razor sharp knife down next to my plate, and I find myself staring at it. In my head, I imagine picking it up and plunging it directly in Raphael’s knee. I can’t believe he did that. I just can’t fucking believe it. “So. You’ve been…researching me? My entire family?” I demand.

“I’ve merely taken note of the information already out there in the world,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice, like he knows how badly this conversation could go any second. “Your Instagram account’s public. So is your Facebook account. Your academic history is a matter of public record, too. Admittedly, hospital records aren’t just floating around in the ether. I did take liberties where they are concerned.”

What the hell? I don’t know what I should be feeling right now. Outraged that he’s been stalking my social media accounts? Flattered that he’s taken such an interest? Creeped out, or a little thrilled that he’d care enough to look? My initial response is to lean toward creeped out.

“You shouldn’t have done that. You could have asked me anything. I would have told you.”

Raphael has the common courtesy to look a little chastened. “Would you? Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry. I have a very quiet existence here. I find it hard to invite people into my life without doing a little background search on them first. I need to know that they’re genuine. Not likely to sell information about me to the press.” He says this last sentence as if he knows all too well I was considering doing just that the day Thalia gave me his profile. “I’m very protective of this space. It’s been my haven for a long time now. I don’t like entertaining the possibility that someone may come here and jeopardize that.”

I can kind of understand where he’s coming from, but at the same time I feel like my privacy has been violated.

“Think about this before you decide that you hate me, Beth. If you want to know something about me, all you have to do is go on Google and there you have it. Everything about me from my eye color to my shoe size to my favorite color. My relationships. My successes, my mistakes, my glories and my fuck-ups. You know everything about me, because you’ve read all about me online. The accident, for example. You know all about that, don’t you? You read the police reports in the news. You stared at pictures of my written-off car. You checked out the images of me being arrested, then being driven off in the back of a police cruiser. You’ve seen my mug shots, maybe studied the look of horror on my face as you drank your morning coffee. True?”

Ah. Shit. I cast my eyes down at the steak on my plate. My appetite has evaporated into thin air, leaving behind it a hollow, empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Yes. That’s true.”

“I’m not saying any of that justifies the fact that I looked you up. But…maybe it’ll give you some context.”

I hate to admit it. It’s almost impossible to admit it, but it sure as hell has. I’ve been a voyeur, peering through a window into Raphael North’s life for years now. Years . He spent a couple of days doing the exact same thing to me and I just clambered up onto my high horse and started wagging my finger.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he says. “I promise, I won’t look you up again. From here on out, whatever I learn about you will be information you give to me yourself. Deal?”

I consider this for a moment. There are plenty of reasons why I should call this whole thing a day, but there’s something so captivating about this man. I can’t seem to walk away. Can’t seem to clear my damn head of him. He makes me mad, fills me with a righteous fury one second, and then the next I feel like I’m being swallowed by his very presence, pulled unwilling toward him like a fish on a hook. It feels… god. I can’t even decipher what he makes me feel. It’s all so bewildering. “Okay,” I say eventually. “Fine. You have yourself a deal. But seriously…no more internet stalking. For either of us.”

“Good.” Raphael pours me another glass of wine, then one for himself. “And since you’re so set on me calling you by your first name, I think, from here on out, it would be better if you called me by mine, too.”

“You want me to call you Raphael?”

He shakes his head. “It would be better if you called me Raph .”

Raph. It suits him. It’s a beautiful, savage name, just like him. We eat. We drink. We continue our game of chess, and I proceed to attack Raph across the board, showing him no mercy, knowing that Thalia is going to lose her mind. I’ve made an awkward kind of peace with the ridiculously attractive man sitting on the other side of the table, but I can’t shake my need to show him I am not weak. I am not as defenseless as he thinks. At the end of the meal, Raph moves my plate out of the way and leans toward me across the table.

“Where would you most like to travel in the world?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it in a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Because. When I began studying to become a lawyer, I knew I wasn’t going to be traveling anywhere any time soon. I put it out of my mind.”

Raph shrugs—that makes sense. “If you had to make a decision right now, though, on the spot…if you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?”

“Well, I’ve always had a thing for the Brits. I think London would be pretty amazing.”

Slowly, Raphael gets to his feet. He holds out his hand. “Let me take you there.”

“I’m sorry?”

“To London.”

“What?”

“Right now.”

A flash of heat slams into me. “I can’t just up sticks at nine p.m. and get on a plane to another country. I have classes I have to get to. I have a million assignments due.”

Raphael doesn’t react to my stressed tone. He simply extends his hand further. “Don’t worry so much,” he says softly. “How about you just trust me instead?”

“What about our game?”

Raphael glances down at the tablet still sitting on the table between us. “You’ll have me in three moves," he says. “Take a look. You’ve already won.”

I glance down at the tablet, and I already know he’s telling the truth. I allow a small, smug smile to form on my face. Damn right I’ve won. And this time I intended it.

* * *

T he room Raphael leads me to is much larger than the first VR studio he took me to the other day. In fact, this room, up a flight of stairs, must be at least two thousand square feet. A thick yellow band is painted on the floor around the perimeter of the room, maybe about two feet from the walls. The walls are painted a light, industrial grey, the floor, other than the yellow bands, painted black. There are no cables hanging down from the ceiling this time. Raphael fits me with another set of VR glasses, also entirely different to the one I wore last time. The lenses on these glasses are clear, and a series of thin wires loop around the back of my head, trailing down my back. They remain unconnected to anything, though, simply hanging there.

Raphael’s face is expressionless as he organizes the VR glasses, fiddling with them, pressing a series of buttons down the right hand arm of the set. The lenses remain clear, but words flash up on them in front of me, bold and in white:

“It’s okay,” Raph says. “You might see a few notifications. They’re nothing to worry about. I should have warned you, though. I’m sorry.”

I adjust the glasses on my face, taking a deep breath in through my nose. “That’s okay.”

“You’re nervous. You don’t need to be.”

“Sorry. It’s just the last time I did this…”

“I know. You thought you went blind. I promise that’s not going to happen this time.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not brimming over with confidence,” I fire back.

Raph stops what he’s doing and turns to face me, tilting his head to one side, biting his bottom lip gently between his teeth. “What’s this? Attitude? How refreshing.”

I’ll give him refreshing. He won’t find it refreshing when I snap my VR glasses in two and storm out of here. “Just don’t screw with me this time, North. I don’t think I can take it.”

He holds his hands up, a soft huff of laughter escaping between his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Dreymon . Give me a second. The lenses are going to turn black in a second, don’t freak out. It’ll only be for a second.” He stands in front of a computer on the other side of the room, typing quickly into a computer. A number of fans located high on the walls, close to the ceiling, whir into action, blasting cold air into the room. A distinct smell begins to fill the space—something organic, dirty, fresh, with the very slightest hint of food smells mixed in. Something completely unrecognizable and alien to me. Raphael equips himself with glasses of his own, connecting the cables behind his own head, allowing them to trail down his back. Holding some kind of remote in his hand, he hits a key on the computer keyboard, and the lenses of my glasses gradually begin to fade until they’re completely black. Another notification pops up in my vision, again bold and white:

The percentage at the bottom of the notification quickly spirals upwards, twenty-eight percent, thirty-nine, fifty-one, sixty-seven, eight-one percent. At ninety-one percent, Raphael North takes my hand. For approximately seven seconds, I am standing in darkness, holding hands with the most intriguing, sexy, fucking frightening man I’ve ever met.

And then…

There is light.

I’m looking up at Raphael, and my breath catches in my throat. “How are you…how are you so…perfect ?” I whisper.

Raphael’s amusement makes itself know in the slight twitching of his cheek. “Perfect?”

“Yes. You’re not…I thought you’d be some kind of avatar or something. But…it’s as if I’m looking right at you. At you . Not some computer generated image.”

He nods. “Old VR systems map a persons features. They map their height, their weight, the width of their shoulders. But this system’s different. It uses a series of cameras placed around the room, as well as tiny cameras located in your glasses, to compose an identical version of me. Every slight movement I make, every facial expression, every breath I take, every step. It’s all faithfully replicated and delivered into your VR feed in real time.”

“There’s no lag?”

“There is. The transfer of information takes time, of course. But the system we’ve developed for North Industries is so fast, the human mind doesn’t comprehend it.”

I’m blown away. I can’t even begin to imagine how long it’s taken to develop technology like this. I take a look to my left and a wave of vertigo hits me right in the gut. I’m looking over the side of a bridge, spanning a river, muddy and murky. The drop is minimal but so unexpected that my knees buckle a little from beneath me.

“Holy…fucking…shit !” I cannot believe what I’m seeing right now. Can not believe it. It’s not only Raphael that appears completely lifelike in this experience. The sky, the lazily flowing water below us, the people passing us by on the old, wide bridge. All of it, down to the tiniest detail, looks and feels so real. I say feels real, because I can feel the slight breeze gusting against my face, see it blow and tug at the hair of the passersby as they hurry on down the street. English accents fill the air as people chat with one another and talk into cell phones. A blast of cold air hits me as the clouds briefly travel in front of the sun overhead in the sky.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss. “How? How did you do all of this?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t just me. About a hundred people have all worked tirelessly together to build these worlds. It’s taken a long time. A lot of blood, sweat and tears.”

“The gaming community is gonna lose its freaking mind.”

Raphael looks down at the ground, ruefully grinning. “The gaming community will lose their minds, yes. But that’s not why we created the program. We created to help surgeons train originally. Hours logged in OR rooms are vitally important to residents. Vitally important to the learning process. But the thing about learning is that accidents do happen. Mistakes are made, and lives are lost. With this program, a surgeon can spend limitless hours training in a very real environment. They can complete limitless surgeries, with thousands of possible outcomes. They can make the mistakes they need to make in order to learn, but no one gets hurt.

“We also designed the program with people suffering from disabilities in mind. People born with degenerative disorders or involved in accidents, unable to walk or move around for one reason or another, can in here. In here, they get to experience what it’s like to be able-bodied.”

The lump in my throat is the size of a golf ball. For a second, it’s hard to breathe around. “Why?” I ask. “Why do you do this? Every single technology you develop is geared toward the medical field. It’s all geared to helping people, in one way or another.”

I think I’ve asked the wrong question. Raphael swallows, his neck muscles even working overtime here, in this rendered, digital world. “Is there something wrong with wanting to help people?” he asks, his shoulders tight and tense.

“Not at all. It’s just…I guess it’s all very unexpected. Most people in your position are investing their money in exciting business ventures. I can see how something like this would make millions when used in certain ways, but medically? I don’t know how that would be a viable source of revenue.”

“It hasn’t been designed as a source of revenue,” Raphael says. “It’s been designed as a teaching tool, and an escape.”

“So all the money you’ve poured into this…?”

“Will unlikely be recouped at some point in this instance. But the money was spent freely. I went into this knowing there was a chance I wouldn’t get it back. If you make your peace with a potential loss outcome in the very beginning of a project, the actual loss, when it arrives, is much easier to bear.”

So…he went into this, knowing he would probably never make his money back? What the fuck? I’m hardly an expert on tech development, but I know this must have cost millions and millions of dollars to create, develop and put into production. Tens of millions of dollars. The amount of money Raphael was willing to kiss goodbye on this project is unimaginable to me.

“Would you like to take a walk? Explore a little?” he asks. He applies a faint pressure to my hand, reminding me that he’s still holding it. He’s probably worried about me walking into a wall or something.

“I’d like that,” I tell him. Even if I do end up walking into the walls, this is an experience I simply can’t pass up. This looks, feels, sounds and smells like another place entirely. The program is seamless. So convincing that I have to remind myself it’s all just a display on my glasses, fooling my mind into believing I’m standing in another city, in the middle of the damn day.

Raphael takes a right and heads toward the other end of the bridge, observing our surroundings as intently as I do. Makes me wonder if he’s been here before, in this simulation. As we reach the end of the bridge, I notice a fine grid pattern overlaying the road ahead.

“The boundary of the room,” Raphael tells me. “Put out your hand and you’ll feel the wall.” So much for my he’s-holding-my-hand-to-make-sure-I-don’t-give-myself-a-black-eye theory, then. He doesn’t even release me as I reach out with my left hand, and my palm meets with cool plaster.

“If we want to head down that way, all you need to do is hold your hand out like this and clench your fist,” he informs me, demonstrating. “Then turn to your left or right and open your hand. It’ll basically drag and drop the landscape until it’s placed in a position where you can proceed forward.” He opens his hand and the whole world around us shifts—very disorienting for a second, but then completely normal again once the graphics settle back into place. The view that was right in front of us now stretches out to the left.

“Pick a direction,” he tells me.

I glance around, drinking everything in. To our right, a street vendor is selling fish and chips from a food truck, and the smell of salt and vinegar hits the back of my nose, carried on the breeze. It’s crazy how accurate this program is. Crazy . I can’t even begin to comprehend how it all works.

Raphael and I walk along the riverside, watching small boats zip up and down the waterway. Every fifty feet, we need to take a left, Raphael shifting the simulation so we can keep moving. Eventually, we come to a large square, restaurants and bars lining the open courtyard-like area, and Raphael draws me to a halt.

“Have you been here before?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve been here in real life. I spent a summer living in London seven years ago. It’s one of my favorite cities. Holds some pretty fond memories for me.” He looks around wistfully, his eyes landing on the water fountain that’s happily gurgling away about fifteen feet from where we’re standing.

“I don’t think I ever stood here, though. This view is new to me,” he says. His eyes, usually so bright and sharp, are somehow slightly unfocused, and for the very first time he looks less like a honed weapon, fixated on its target. He simply looks like a man, wandering, lost in his memories.

He looks down at me, and that soft edge remains for a second. His eyes travel over my forehead, my hairline, down the bridge of my nose, over my lips, my jawline, my cheekbones. He settles on my eyes last of all. “You’re more beautiful than this city, Beth. More beautiful than any city I’ve ever stepped foot in.”

Heat blossoms in my cheeks. “Don’t—don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“It is, I assure you. There’s something about you that intrigues me more than a place, a landscape, or a work of art ever could.” His hand tightens around mine. I try to take a step back, but he draws me closer instead, stepping into me at the same time. Our chests are flush with one another, his chin level with the top of my head. He reaches around me, sliding his free hand into place so that it’s resting in the small of my back.

“I’m going to kiss you, Beth. I’m going to claim our first kiss.”

“You can’t just claim something from me. That would be just like the man who claimed something from my mother.”

Raphael shakes his head slowly. “No. Not like him. Never like him. I’ll never take from you without your consent. You will always have the right to say no with me. If you don’t want this, if you don’t want me to kiss you, say so now and I’ll back the fuck off.”

I gape up at him. I don’t know how to react.

“You’re not telling me to let you go,” he whispers. His mouth lowers, barely an inch away from mine.

How can he just… what does he think he’s…the very nerve of the…man…I just can’t seem to…

I stare into those eyes of his, my body locked, my spine straight, my lips tingling. I should push him away. I should slap his face. Scream at him. I can’t seem to do anything but lean into him, though. He moves toward me, his actions drawn out, almost glacially slow. I know he’s giving me all the time in the world I need to reject him, to tell him this isn’t what I want, but my voice has fled me. My hands refuse to push him away. My whole body is magnetized, drawn to his in the most powerful, undeniable way. Closer, closer, closer… so close that his lips graze mine, the contact barely a whisper. Raphael studies me, his breath warm against my mouth.

“You’re not running,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking move.

“Open them,” Raphael says softly. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see the moment you fall in love with me.”

What the… I open my eyes. Not in answer to his command, but in response to the sheer, insane levels of arrogance this man possesses. The spell is broken. I shake my hand loose from his, planting it in between our bodies, flat against his chest. I shove him, trying to reclaim some space between us, but Raphael refuses to budge, refuses to let me go. He reaches up with his now-free hand, burying it into my hair at the roots, and he’s not moving slowly anymore. He moves like lightning, stooping down to kiss me, pressing his mouth down on mine with unbelievable force. He’s not rough, doesn’t hurt me, but he sure as hell isn’t gentle with me either. His lips are hot, soft yet insistent, demanding. He cups my face with both his hands, and then his tongue is darting between my lips, tangling with mine, exploring my mouth, leaving no part of me unturned. He huffs heavily down his nose, and for a second I get a feel of what Raphael North is like when he loses control. His chest rises and falls against mine, and my mind goes blank. I’ve never been kissed like this before in my entire life. I’ve never felt a measure of attraction, happily simmering away in the base of my stomach, catch light and transform into an incontrollable inferno in an instant. I’ve never felt curiosity burst into flames of roaring desire in the blink of an eye. I haven’t known my own body until this very moment. Twenty-eight years have passed since the day I was born, and I’ve been so naive. I’ve never known I was capable of such a depth of need before this moment, and the surprise of it takes me out at the damn knees.

I was angry a second ago. Mad enough to rip the VR glasses from my eyes and storm out of the studio, but now I feel like I’ve stumbled over the edge of a rooftop and I’m tumbling, the ground rushing up to meet me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from falling. I dig my own hands into Raphael’s hair, kissing him back. A small, pained groan catches in the back of his throat, and he shifts, lowering himself a little. A solid hardness presses up against me, between my legs, and I let out a stifled moan. Oh god… he’s hard. He’s so hard, and we’ve only been kissing for a matter of seconds. Raphael tears his mouth away from mine, staggering back. There’s a wild, untamable, almost otherworldly light shining in his eyes, and I can’t fucking look away. He swallows, then brushes his hair back, digging his own fingers into his hair, leaving them there, elbows bracketing his face. “We’re electric,” he says breathlessly. “You’re electric.”

I don’t know what to do with myself. People walk around us, oblivious, the way water flows around rocks in a stream. If we were standing on a real street in New York right now, staring at each other, stopped dead on the sidewalk, we’d be getting lynched. People would be screaming and swearing at us for causing an obstruction. They’d be jostling us, shoving, trying to get passed us. And if they’d seen that kiss…it doesn’t even bear thinking about. We’d have been mercilessly heckled and whistled at. We’re in our own personal little bubble, though. No interruptions, no comments, no prying eyes.

“Did you bring me here to do that?” I ask him. “Were you planning on doing that the moment you asked me to do this with you?”

Raphael doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“You had no right. You’re…you’re so fucking full of yourself.”

“I am,” he agrees. “I have reason to be. I’m not just some guy off the street, Beth. I’m different, in the same way you’re different.”

“What…what does that even mean ?” Frustration colors my voice. I reach up, about to rip the VR glasses off, but Raphael lunges forward, halting me, his hand on mine.

“It means that we’re meant to do this. I knew it the second I saw that picture. You’re meant for me, and I’m meant for you. I’m going to find a way to prove that to you.”

I glare at him, hating the fact that he’s making so much sense right now. There is definitely a connection between us, no matter how much I want to rail against it at this specific point in time. I’m a strong person. A fierce person. An independent person. I call my own shots, and Raphael’s arrogance right now is trying to take that away from me. No matter who a person is, they have no right to do that. It’s frightening to feel this way about a man I barely know. More than intimidating. It’s enough to paralyze me with doubt. It took me years to build my courage after what happened to my mother. Years . I was a timid, scared person for a very long time. Every single act of courage I performed, and every single moment of bravery I forced myself through was a hard-won battle. Raphael telling me in no uncertain terms that I am undeniably meant for him feels like he’s taking my free will from me somehow…no matter if I believe it might be true myself. “You’d better think of a damn good way to prove it to me, North,” I snap at him. Jerking my hand out of his, I remove the VR glasses. Raphael leaves his on, clearly still able to see a version of me inside the simulation. London has vanished for me now, though. All that remains is the industrial grey of the studio walls and the rubberized black coating of the floor beneath my feet.

Raphael moves subtly from one foot to the other. He scratches his chin, angling his head down, then he slowly slides his own VR glasses off, turning it over in his hands, studying it with enough intensity to melt the damn plastic. “Our bodies are aligned, Beth. You can feel the connection pulling taut between us every time you’re near to me. Don’t tell me you can’t. Don’t deny something so obvious.”

“So what if I do feel it? It doesn’t mean anything, Raph. We’re from different worlds. Our lives are polar opposites. I’m not just going to—It’s not as if I can just—”

Raphael holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Our worlds are one and the same. We’re just people, Beth. Who’s told you we can’t be together? Who’s told you we can’t make this work?”

“Common sense—”

“Fuck common sense. You want me, Beth. I can feel it pouring off you like wildfire. I can fucking smell it. I want you just as badly. Come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

“I think I should probably go home. It’s late, and we’ve both got a lot to think about.” I certainly have. I’m going to be thinking about this all night. For days. I’m not going to be able to think of anything else. Raphael shakes his head, his eyes narrowing. He crosses the room, packed muscle shifting over bone, veins standing proud in his corded arms, and the way his eyes flash makes my stomach twist and turn. Fuck. He is so goddamn sexy. Sexy isn’t the right word, though. The energy that pours off him is primal. Base. Deep and penetrating. He may be wearing an Armani shirt, the buckle of his belt may be an understated Tom Ford logo, and the shoes on his feet might have been handmade in Italy, but at his core, all the trappings and fixings of being wealthy mean nothing, because he is raw . He is wild. He is savage, and he is walking toward me with a look on his face that says he wants to eat me. Raphael flexes his hands, turning them to fists, and he smiles, flashing me perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth.

“Stop over thinking things and come with me,” he says. He’s clearly used to people doing as he commands them; he doesn’t wait to see if I’m going to do as he’s asked. He walks right past me and disappears down the hallway to the left. I look around the VR studio for a second, my heart doing backflips all over the place, and then I walk slowly down the hall behind him.

What the hell am I getting myself into? I should have left the moment his arrogance level jumped from a three to an eleven inside the VR simulation. I should have been home hours ago, it’s late, and I’ve had more than enough wine. I’m not in my right frame of mind, clearly. I need to leave. I need to go home. And yet I keep putting one foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, left, right, and with every step I feel as if I’m growing closer and closer to something dangerous. Something…wicked. “Don’t go to strange places with strange men, Beth. Don’t follow blindly. Don’t go into the dark.” Usually my mother’s words, rattling around the inside of my head like a screw in an old tin can, are enough to stop me dead in my tracks, but not today. In my mind, I close a hand around the words until I can’t see them anymore, until they grow smaller and smaller, shrinking, their importance evaporating. I’ve never done this before; I’ve never purposefully tried to shut out Mom’s warnings. Doing so would never have felt safe, but the interactions I’ve had with the other men in my past have been very different to this. I’ve looked into their eyes and not been able to break through their walls. I haven’t been able to decipher the true meanings behind their pretty words. I’ve never found anyone quite as honest and straightforward as Raphael North. When I look at Raph, I don’t feel that way. I see plenty of hurt, yes. Plenty of pain. I can see it all reflected inwards at himself like a mirror, though, not projected outwards at the people around him. He’s unlike any other man I’ve ever met. I know he won’t hurt me. I know he won’t drag me to the floor and force himself on me. I know he will never take anything from me, be that my emotions or my body. He just swore he wouldn’t. And I believe him.

Raph stops in front of one of the many doors that line the hallway. Nothing marks it as special or any different than the others, but it is. I know there’s something waiting for me behind that door that I’m going to find confronting. He stands perfectly still with his hand on the polished brass doorknob. He turns his shoulders, angling his body towards me, and he looks me dead in the eye. “Don’t run,” he tells me gravely. “Stay with me here and experience this. I just want you to see it. I want you to go away and think about it. I want you to spend some time imagining what it would be like to walk into this room and…participate .” He hovers over that last word, and I can tell: the idea of my participation, whatever and however that may be, excites him. Shit. There’s something very intriguing about this, though. I don’t want to be intrigued. I want to be disinterested. I want to be smart, more importantly. A part of me needs to know what lies on the other side of this door. I’ll forever be curious otherwise.

The idea of facing my fear in this particular situation feels very freeing to me. The concept of being free is more than a little appealing. I’ve lived a life overshadowed by fear. I’ve been crushed under its boot heel, unable to form normal relationships or connections with people because of the constant warnings from my mother. While every single one of my friends in high school were going out on dates, kissing boys, eventually losing their virginities, I was huddled under a blanket in my bedroom, biting the insides of my cheeks until they bled because I felt wrong and dirty for wanting the same things. Years have passed, and I’ve overcome so many of the obstacles in my life. I never thought I’d be able to maintain a relationship with a guy or have sex, but I managed to make that work with Robson, my ex, for three years. I can sit alone on the subway now without breaking out into a cold sweat whenever a guy sits close to me. These are huge accomplishments, and yet I still wake up some nights covered in sweat, imagining myself in my mother’s place, pinned down and unable to move as a faceless stranger pushes my legs apart and steals my dignity from me. What would life be like without that dark seed of rot twisted around the very root of my being? What would it be like to truly be free of that terrifying, awful day?

I take a step forward, nodding just once. “Okay,” I tell Raphael. “Show me and let’s get this over with.”

Raph’s smile turns wolfish. I’ve pleased him. Slowly, his hand turns on the brass doorknob and the door swings open. Gesturing into the room beyond, Raph steps back to allow me past him. “After you.”

My head is pounding as I slip into the silent, dark room. It’s a relatively small space—I can tell even with the lights turned off. The sound of my rapid breathing is muffled in here, like the walls are close at hand and growing closer by the second. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness when Raph throws a switch behind me and a small sconce on the wall blossoms with light.

My feet are suddenly glued to the floor. The room is empty bar a single chair in its center. No windows. No pictures or paintings. No mirrors, even. There’s nothing in here except the chair…and it is no ordinary chair. My fingers subconsciously rise, touching nervously at the base of my throat.

“What is that?” I ask quietly.

“I had it made specifically for you,” Raph answers. His voice is like crushed velvet, stroking down my back, in between my shoulder blades, making me shiver. “I wanted something special in here. Something only for you. Well. For you and for me.” Raph walks around the chair, standing behind it, placing his hands on the low slung back. “This chair was designed to restrain you while I fuck you. It can be configured in many different ways. For instance, with your legs held together…” He adjusts a small lever to the left hand side, and the polished brass stirrups at the base of the chair snap together, locking into place. “I can have you laying flat on your back if I want to,” Raphael says, lifting another lever underneath the seat of the chair, so that it pivots back, snapping home. “I can tie you at the wrist and ankle using these cuffs,” he says, pointing to the flash of gold at each side of the chair, low down, close to the floor. “I can also tie your hands behind your back and fasten them to this,” he says, showing me a small length of slender chain attached via a bolt at the very back of the seat. “There are many ways I can use this chair to fuck you, Beth. Once you sit in it, you hand yourself over to me. You’ll be making a very clear statement. You’ll be telling me that I have your permission to use your body as I see fit. You’ll be telling me you’re ready to overcome the thing that frightens you most. You’re entering into a contract of sorts. You become my submissive, and I become your master. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

God, where is all of this coming from? I look down at the chair, swallowing hard. It’s mostly constructed from wood, beautifully crafted, but there are areas of deep red silk here and there as well—on the leg braces, on the seat and the backrest, as well as lining the brass cuffs. It’s a thing of beauty, really, a work of art, and yet when I look at it I find myself shaking. So many ways for him to restrain me. So many ways for him to lock me into place, to make me vulnerable. It would be impossible to escape from this chair. If I sat in it and entered into that kind of agreement with Raphael, there would be no backing out. “Why did you have this made?” I whisper. “Why would you assume that I want to have a sexual relationship with you, let alone one…like…this ?”

Raphael isn’t wounded or embarrassed by my question. The way he looks at me makes me feel like I should be the one who’s embarrassed. “You came here to play chess with me, Elizabeth, not to play hide and seek, or Guess-What-Elizabeth’s-Thinking. You’re horrible at hiding your feelings. I saw the look on your face the very first time you thought about me pushing inside you and it made my dick hard. It made your pussy wet, too. You can’t deny it. I could fucking smell how turned on you were.”

Shame rocks through me, hot and overwhelming. When did I imagine him inside me? At what point during our interactions did I allow myself to picture that? I know in my heart that it’s happened. I would only be lying to myself if I tried to deny it. But why the hell would he say something like that, though? A polite person would never give words to something like that, even if it really did happen. It would be far too embarrassing for the other party.

“Why are you blushing?” Raphael demands.

“Because! What you’re saying. It’s…it’s…”

“Rude? Politically incorrect? Fuck that, Beth. Why should I be politically correct? The scent of your arousal teased the back of my nose and it made me feel fucking good. That’s all there is to it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, and I’ve had some really important mergers to concentrate on, Beth. Really, it’s you who was rude by distracting me like that. And you’re doing it again right now.”

Shit. Shit, fuck, damn. He’s right. I am turned on. Despite how absolutely terrifying this chair is to me, all this talk of him fucking me has had my insides twisting into knots. I can’t smell anything. I can’t imagine what Raphael thinks he’s smelling, but by the way his nostrils are flared and his pupils are dilated, it must be pretty damn hot. “You said I wouldn’t have to participate today,” I say shakily.

Raphael nods. “Of course you don’t. You never have to participate if you don’t want to.”

“So then…what happens to the chair if I don’t ever want to use it?”

Raphael shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ll burn it.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone else to sit in it.”

He shakes his head slowly, his green eyes flashing with something like annoyance. “I wouldn’t do that. This was made for you. It’s measured to your body. No one else would fit it correctly, the way you’re meant to. And besides, Beth, that would be pointless. This is your fear. This is the mountain you need to climb. It would make no sense for someone else to face it.”

He’s right, of course. What would be the point in him tying someone else up in the chair, when they would probably relish the experience? They wouldn’t be challenging themselves for him. They wouldn’t be earning his attention and affection, which is clearly what he wants. The idea of sitting in the chair, allowing the circlets of metal to close tight around my wrists, allowing myself to be strapped in at the ankle and the waist, is making me feel very claustrophobic.

“You’re talking yourself out of it. I can see it in your eyes,” Raph tells me.

“I’m not. I’m just…”

“You’re scared.”

I have no idea why proving him wrong is so important to me. I’ve been called a chicken, I’ve been heckled and harassed by people trying to urge me into positions I have no business being in, and it’s never mattered before. I’ve never had a problem saying no to something or someone. In fact, saying no has been the easiest thing in the world for me. Apart from right now, looking up into Raph’s eyes, seeing the challenge there; I want more than anything to rise to his challenge, to tell him he’s wrong, but I honestly don’t know how.

As if reading my mind, Raphael places a hand on the back of the chair, looking down at it in a contemplative manner. “It’s really simple, y’know.” He steps around the chair, locking it back into an upright position. He has to adjust a lever to make the backrest recline a little. Once he’s satisfied with his alterations, he sits down onto it, leaning back. I’m no idiot. I can see the perfect outline of his erection through the material of his pants. Raphael glances down, obviously seeing it too and not caring. He angles his head back, his chin tilting upward, his arms thrown over either side of the wooden rests. He looks like some sort of fallen angel—beautiful and cruel all at once. “I’ll be your buffer. Just this once, I’ll stand between you and your fears. Sit on my lap,” he says.

“I’m not eight years old. I don’t need to sit on your knee. Or is this some sort of “Daddy” thing?” I ask, my laughter nervous and jittery.

A serious expression forms on his face. “You can call me daddy if you want to. I’d prefer sir, though. Or master. We can figure all of that out later, though. For now, think of this as an experiment. You find out if you like being close to me. I find out if you’re capable of relinquishing control to me. Even just a little.”

Normal guys take a girl to see a movie on their third date. Normal guys take a girl to watch a play, or they’ll cook something delicious at home to make a good impression. Normal guys do not have a torture/sex chair crafted to your very precise specifications. They don’t ask you to sit on their lap in order to see if you’re able to submit yourself to them. And Raph and I aren’t dating. We haven’t been on one date yet, let alone three. This is all really, really fucked up.

Raphael rubs his thigh through his pants, eyeing me like he wants to take me right here, right now on the floor of this strange, airless room. “It’s okay if you want to leave. You can go. Turn around and walk out of the door. Take the elevator down to the ground floor, get into a cab and disappear into the night. But you and I both know what will happen the moment you climb into bed tonight. You’ll touch yourself, thinking about this moment. You’ll make yourself come with your fingers or with a piece of fucking plastic, and you’ll feel cheated. You’ll know you’ve missed out on something remarkable.”

“There you go again. So fucking full of yourself.”

Raph just smiles, allowing his head to hang for a second as he looks down at the floor. “And like I told you, Beth…I have every reason to be arrogant. I’m really good at fucking. I’m really good at bringing a girl to climax. I’m really good at making girls scream my name. Not to mention, my dick is fucking glorious.”

Jealousy surges through me when he says that. He must have had an awful lot of sex to be so cocky and confident. Exactly how many girls has he made come? How many of them have found themselves praying to the god of North Industries? If I ask him, he’ll probably tell me exactly how many. I realize almost instantly that I don’t want to know that information. I drop my purse, allowing it to hit the floor. I cross the room, eyeing Raphael and the huge bulge he’s sporting between his legs. His dick really must be glorious to be tenting the material of his pants like that. I look away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching me stare at him, but when I look up to meet his gaze, Raphael’s eyes are filled with amusement anyway.

This moment is pivotal for me. I know it deep within me, inside my very bones. If I sit on his lap, I’m telling him that I want this, and in turn that I want him . I should be taking more time to consider my options here. I certainly shouldn’t be slowly walking towards him, my body pulled to him, no longer responding to my own will. I have liquid fire traveling through my veins. I have light under my skin. I have a raging inferno for a heart. I can’t seem to stop myself from reaching out to touch my fingertips to his face.

This is all so unexpected. I don’t trust my own intuition anymore. I’m completely lost. Raphael doesn’t respond to my touch. His expression is blank as I trace my fingers over his cheek, along the sharp, angular line of his jaw. “You got under my skin,” I whisper to him. “I don’t know how you did it so quickly, but I can’t deny it. You know my past. You know what happened to my mother. You obviously know how that day has affected every moment of my life since. I don’t want to live under the weight of that anymore. I want to be free.”

Raphael’s pale green eyes seem to shine a little brighter. “But more than that…” he says, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “You want me .” He places his hands on my waist, lifting me up roughly. He spins me around, turning me, pulling me down onto him so that I’m sitting sideways on his lap. When he puts me down, Raphael plants me directly on top of his rigid boner. I gasp—the sensation and the feel of him is almost too much to bear. Three milometers of fabric separate my pussy from his dick. Three measly layers of clothing that might as well be made out of tissue paper at this point. I can feel everything, and I’m betting Raphael can too.

His eyes shutter a little, his bawdy, confident façade slipping for a second, revealing just how turned on he is right now. “I won’t ever do anything to you against your will, Beth. Ever. You can believe that.”

Weirdly, I do. I believed him back in that VR simulation, and I believe him now. I nod slowly, my heart racing out of my chest.

“I’m not going to tie you up and fuck you today,” he says softly. “But I am going to put you over my knee and spank you.”

“Spank me?”

“If you don’t think you can handle it…” Raphael points to the door. “It’s still open. I won’t think any less of you.” He says this in such a teasing way, a challenging way. It’s a carefully crafted barb. His eyes shine brightly, and I can see the anticipation there. I can’t decide what he wants me to do more: get up and go, therefore chickening out on his blatant dare, or stay and accept the challenge.

Every part of me is burning now. Fuck, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. How am I supposed to just hand myself over to him like this? Like my emotional freedom is worth nothing to me. The reality of the matter is that it’s the most important thing to me in the world. Raphael wants it from me, and it’s the hardest thing for me to give. Maybe that’s exactly why he’s asking this. If I valued something else more, he’d no doubt want that from me instead. It’s messed up. It’s a clear, obvious power play, and it’s making it difficult to consider all my options without losing my temper. The simple solution in this situation is to coolly and calmly leave with my pride and my dignity in tact, but I just can’t do it. My head is filled with him. Always . I smell the scent of him teasing the back of my nose every time I walk down the street. I hear his voice whenever I’m in class, or on the subway. The man is haunting me like the mysterious, enigmatic ghost that he, for all intents and purposes, is, and it’s driving me insane. “Why don’t I get to strap your ass into the chair?” I ask in a hard, clipped voice. “Why don’t I get to give you a good hiding?”

Raphael laughs softly, his voice the sound of rustling silk. “That’s not how this works and you know it.”

“Why? Because you’re an arrogant asshole who wants everything his own way?”

“Yes. That’s part of it, anyway,” he concedes evenly. “A Dom also doesn’t bow down to a sub.”

“Sub? You seem to be making a lot of assumptions here.” I try to keep the snark from my voice, but I’m unsuccessful. What the actual fuck? What have I done to give him the impression I’d be submissive to him? It’s absolutely maddening. He’s being such an outrageous prick. I look back over my shoulder, and I can’t stop staring at him, though—the way the dim light is hitting his shoulders, casting long shadows down his body, and throwing his handsome face into dramatic patches of light and dark. He is the physical manifestation of all my darkest, most sensual desires come to life…and he is impossible to ignore.

“How hard will it be? How hard will you spank me?”

He answers immediately. “As hard as you can take it.”

A thrill of adrenaline rushes through me. My mind splinters into three. The first part is focused on the shape of his full lips as they curve and arch into that smile of his. The second part is focusing on the idea of pain, and how much of it I can handle before I have to back down. The third part is focusing on my underwear, trying to remember which panties I put on this morning. Black lace? Red lace? Boy shorts? Hipsters? God, I hope I didn’t pull out a pair of granny panties in my rush to get out of the door for school. I find myself nodding, though, relinquishing control of the moment to him. “All right. I’ll let you know when I can’t take anymore.”

“I’ll already know when we reach that point.”

“How?”

“By the way you breathe. By the way your body writhes over my knee. By the way you jump every time I lay my palm to your bare skin.”

I let out a sigh, unable to hold the fragile, frustrated sound back. I hate that my body is betraying me like this. I fucking hate it. He is controlling me right now. Trying to, anyway. I can’t decide who I’m more annoyed with right now—him, for having the nerve to try and tame me, or myself for allowing it to happen. I’m turned on, though. I had no idea I could ever be this turned on. I want to kiss him. I want his hands all over my body. I want him inside me, but in the same vein the very prospect is terrifying.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “Your mouth is perfect. Your tongue is perfect. Your lips are perfect, Beth. I can’t wait to dig my hands into your hair and fuck your mouth. Are you going to let me? Are you going to let me do whatever I want to you?”

I close my eyes. I don’t know what to say to that. How to respond. I might not have words to express my confusion right now, but my body has a language all of its own and it’s screaming that it wants the dark delights Raphael is offering. All of them, every last damn one. Raphael’s very still one second and then the next, he’s moving, grabbing hold of me, flipping me over, bending my body over his knee impossibly fast. His cock is pressing up between my breasts now, rock solid and throbbing. He takes hold of my dress and lifts the material, exposing my ass. He exhales—a deep, heavenly sound that makes my toes curl. There’s no time for embarrassment. No time to look back and check which panties I’m wearing. Raphael’s bare hand comes down, connecting with my bare ass cheek, and a volley of shock and pain sings through me, demanding attention.

“Ahh, fuck!”

“Good girl,” Raphael purrs. He rubs the flat of his hand against my skin, as if he’s trying to rub away the pain. “Good girl. That was a rough one. You took it well. Ready for another?”

My ass cheek is still burning brightly from the pain, but I nod, clutching hold of the side of the chair in my hands, bracing myself. “I’m ready,” I say breathlessly.

There’s no warning. Raph’s hand comes down on my ass again, even harder than the first time.

“Shit! Ahh, oh my god!” I buck, trying to escape the sting that prickles across my skin, but I can’t. It’s a part of me now. No matter how much I twist and writhe, I can’t separate myself from it. Raphael makes a pleased sound. He rubs my ass again, up and down, growling.

“You turn such a pretty shade of pink, Beth. The curve of your ass is fucking amazing. I knew it would be. I fucking knew it.” His hand comes down again. I cry out, and Raphael’s growl turns into a snarl. He rubs again slowly, his palm applying a weighted pressure that somehow makes the burn lessen. A moment later, his hand is coming down again, and my shout echoes off the walls of the dimly lit room.

“Fuck, Raphael. Fuck !”

“Not yet, baby. You’ll know when I’m fucking you. There’ll be no mistaking that.” Again, his hand comes down and again I cry out. Again and again, the pain comes, and I lose myself inside it. I feel like I’m floating on a sea of it, bobbing there, gasping for breath every time I breach the flat, mirrored surface long enough to open up my lungs. It’s encompassing, enough to swallow me. I want him. I want him. I fucking want him so badly, every muscle and bone in my body is crying out for him. I’m begging him to take me, to throw me to the floor, to fuck me until I can’t remember who I am anymore…and that’s when he stops. My heart feels like it’s stumbling out of my chest as Raphael draws my dress back down, covering my ass with the greatest of care. He cups my ass cheek in his palm through the material, murmuring softly, and I melt from my position over his knee, sinking to the floor at his feet.

Raphael takes me by the chin, lifting my face, and he smiles down at me. A strange look of peace has fallen over him. “I might not know everything there is to know about you, Elizabeth Dreymon. There’s still an awful lot I need to learn. But there’s one thing I do know…and it’s this . You are going to fucking love this chair when you finally climb into it. You’re going to make me so fucking proud.”