Many hours later, Thorne is still sitting next to me, but we are in a different limousine with a different driver, and in a different country. I look out of the window as we navigate through the streets of London.

I was born in a farmhouse in France, but I was raised right here, in the inner-city of London. I watch the people going about their business and feel a strange sense of disconnect. I never belonged in New York, but I don’t belong here either. I really believed I would only ever come back here for one thing, but here I am, with only the clothes on my back.

Thorne drove me back to my apartment so I could pick up my passport. I don’t even know why I bothered to ask if it would be possible to go up to my apartment alone. His dark eyebrows came together in a forbidding line and his nostrils flared with impatience, but the truth was I was not intending to defy him again. I already knew it would be pointless to run.

I just wanted a moment on my own. I felt so vulnerable, so exposed. My thighs were wet and I wanted to change my underwear. Even more important I didn’t want him in my tiny studio-apartment. I want to hide as much of myself from him as I can.

“Take only your passport. Everything else you need will be provided,” he reminded me as we walked to the elevator.

I nodded, and after that no more words were exchanged. When I put my key into the door and pushed it open, he followed me in. His powerful presence filled the whole space. My apartment felt like a coffin. While his laser sharp eyes snaked around his surroundings coldly, I used the bathroom. My underwear and jeans were soaked through so I changed into a skirt. After getting my passport from the cupboard, I followed him out, putting my fate in his hands.

Now, as we pass Earl’s Court, my eyes are drawn to the road that leads to my mother’s home and a sad sigh escapes me. I feel Thorne lift his gaze from his laptop to look at me, unblinking and curious.

Instantly, I regret the slip.

I need to keep my wits about me, but unwittingly my eyes stray to his hand resting lightly on the corded muscles of his thigh. Without meaning to, my mind replays the sting of his slaps and the sounds I made, which I have since realized sounded more like moans of pleasure rather than protests, and that is probably what they were. It must be obvious to him as it is to me that the spanking he administered deeply excited me.

A fiery blush of shame creeps up my throat, and the upward curl of his mouth tells me he knows what I am thinking. I turn away in confusion to face the window again.

I really don’t understand why my thoughts keep obsessively taking me back to that undignified time he had me sprawled across his lap. Especially since I’m actually frigid. I’ve had two boyfriends in my life and both have flung that word at me when I was breaking up with them. One in vicious anger, and the other with despair and a plea I get help for my ‘problem’. I suppose I can’t blame them; the sex was terrible. Both times and not because of them. Barry was quite good-looking and very attentive. He tried really hard to turn me on. He would have done anything I wanted, but there was nothing I wanted. Steve was a babe magnet. Girls just flew to him like moths to a lamp, but when we got down to sex, I just didn’t want it. Nothing. Not the kissing. Not the touching and definitely not the actual sex. Ugh. Which is why my thoughts about Thorne are so confusing.

“Where are we going?” I ask, watching our reflections in the tinted glass window.

“Breckland House.”

I whirl my head around in surprise. During the entire time I worked for him he never invited anybody to his house in Richmond. In fact, it is well known that he guards his privacy like the dragon guarding its lair. With complete and relentless dedication. No intrusions are tolerated. Ever. I’ve even heard that drones fly around his grounds twenty-four seven looking for intruders and paparazzi.

“I thought we would be living in your apartment in London.”

His eyes spear me, half-exasperated, half-amused. “No. I have work to do.”

I feel myself squirm and fidget like a child. “Oh, okay.”

He turns away then and looks out of his side of the window. My gaze fixes on the thick black hair at the back of his head, and I wonder how it would feel to claw my fingers into it. When it hits me where my mind has slipped off to, again, I jerk my head around to face the scenery outside. I try to make sense of why he would take me to Richmond and not keep me in London. Why let me in?

At Hammersmith we turn off before we hit the motorway. After about twenty minutes we go past Richmond town. A few minutes later we turn off the dual carriageway into a small road. Already I can see the property’s high brick walls.

My mouth opens in a soft gasp when the car slows down, and the dark partition glass descends. In front of us are tall iron gates with golden lions stationed either side. The driveway is so long that all I can see is land stretching on either side of us dotted with ancient trees. The house is so far from the gate I have yet to actually see it.

I look around in amazement. A herd of deer are grazing in the distance as the car slowly makes its way through the stunning grounds. When my dazed eyes meet Thorne’s, I find him watching me, his expression veiled and secretive.

“This is all yours?” I ask in awe.

“It’s my home,” he says simply.

I nod. I haven’t seen the house, but I know that it will be massive and austere. Just like his office, his car, his driver, his men, and him.

Even knowing that doesn’t stop my mouth from hanging open with astonishment. What I’m staring at isn’t a house at all; it’s a vast mansion made from grey stone. Six Corinthian pillars soar upwards to bear an impressive plinth upon which is a statue of a bearded man in a chariot drawn by six white horses. There is a thick giant wooden front door and hundreds of tall windows with intricately carved stonework around them.

Thorne and I step out of the limousine, my legs are numb, my feet feel like clay. The car moves away, and I want to run after it. I’m terrified. Not of the house, or Thorne, but of me. How will I survive in these surroundings? I bite my lip. My chest fills with emotions I have no names for.

I gaze in awe at the large classical fountain directly in front of the house. It is a copper statue of a mermaid surrounded by strange creatures holding little jugs and pots spewing water into a deep pool teeming with big, brightly colored fish. It is the middle of winter. They must keep the water warm for the fish.

A tall man, with thinning white hair, wearing an immaculate black suit, and a middle-aged woman in a formal uniform, are waiting for us at the shallow stone steps. They make a small bow in our direction. Thorne introduces them as his butler, James and housekeeper, Anabel. He introduces me as Miss Appleby.

James’s expression remains inscrutable, fatalistic even. His smile is polite, but not friendly. I recognize it because that is my smile too. I see in him a kindred spirit. Anabel is a different kettle of fish. She is about 20 years older than me. She cannot hide the deep curiosity in her watery blue eyes. Her cheeks are rosy and her smile, wide and genuine. I smile back at her. I’ve half-forgotten how kind the world can be.

It is cold, but Thorne removes his jacket. I try to avoid looking at him. My eyes swivel around and I try to look past him, but I can’t. I don’t want to think about why I can’t. One moment I’m fighting myself, the next I’m drinking his profile in. My breath catches. His hair is tousled, his eyes are hooded, and his skin is pale from all the hours he spends locked away building his AI. He is an impossibly beautiful creature. He hands his jacket to his butler who takes it so smoothly, it’s like a choreographed dance move, or a slick calligraphic scrawl.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Thorne in his shirt. I stare at him. There is something so wild and untamed about him. He is an enigma, unlike any other man I have ever met, both in appearance and presence.

His thick muscled shoulders, like those of a prize pitbull, are incredible, irresistible, as if he has been pulled from a story about shapeshifting men. He addresses his butler. “I’ll be working in the dungeon, bring me a sandwich in an hour.” He throws a glance at his housekeeper. “Show Miss Appleby to the blue room.”

“Of course, Mr. Blackmore.”

Without looking at me again, he turns at the hallway, and walks down a tall corridor full of tapestries to the west of the house. Interesting. He works in the dungeon of the house.

“Are your bags still in the car, lass?” Anabel asks.

I turn to face her. Her lovely broad accent tells me that she must come from North Yorkshire or somewhere close to it.

“Nope. I just have this,” I say, holding up my purse.

“That’s not a concern, your room has been fully stocked with everything you could possibly require during your stay here, but if there is anything specific you want, Ryland, the gardener, or even one of the other staff can nip into town and pick it up for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Come on sweetheart, I’ll show you to your room.”

As we walk up to the grand entranceway I have to drop my head back to look up at the majestic ceilings. They are all elaborately carved and look like they could have belonged to the palace in Versailles.

It is an absolutely beautiful house. Every artifact and art piece looks as if it was specifically designed to fit in this space. The curving stairs are a work of art. Made of beautiful dark wood with intricate gold banisters.

Anabel ascends the stairs and looks back briefly to make sure that I am still following her. I am only two steps behind. I run my hand along the wood, marveling at how deliciously cool and smooth it is. We make our way to the top of the stairs, then turn off down a corridor with a blue and pink runner carpet. Anabel stops in front of a tall door with a brass handle, before opening it and walking in ahead of me.

“This will be your room, Miss,” she announces in the stillness of a large room.