Freya Arsov sits on top of a world of diamonds and sports cars. Her father is a billionaire, head of a world-renown company, her mother, an esteemed lawyer. She attends the most prestigious boarding school in England. She has four amazing best frien...
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"YOU CAN STAY, IF YOU'D LIKE," came the sound of Grayson's voice, interrupting the silence that had fallen between them within the darkened state of his bedroom at the London warehouse.
Mayella hesitated, pulled from the lull that had overtaken her.
Her long legs were still tangled in his, her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Sweat peppered her body. She felt his eyes, bright and blue, on the top of her head.
She did want to stay. It made sense to stay. It was well past midnight. She'd arrived at the warehouse hours ago, not too long after dinner. She'd snuck out of Ebony House, as she'd done far too often in the past month, after nothing but a short text from Matthew al Nassar's Second-in-Command.
Come over, love.
Mayella had shaken her head at the text, but she was already putting on her shoes as she typed back.
Why should I?
Grayson's response had come quick. She pictured him, typing with one hand, leaned against a crate, one eye on the phone as he studied the members of Du Morts with the other.
It's been a long week.
Two seconds passed.
You know you want 2.
And he was right. It had been a long week. In between classes and extra curricular activities she was trying to do, Maye was overwhelmed. It didn't help much that Ebony House had started to feel skeletal, it's halls hollow, it's residents silent. She didn't remember the last time she and Freya had a proper conversation. And to top it all of, the meetings held by the committee for planning the fundraiser at the end of the term consisted mainly of Maye and Helena Chapman arguing over what colour the bloody tablecloths should be.
And so she ended up at the warehouse, which she'd grown accustomed to, a little less fretful over the several crates of God alone knew what, a little less wary when driving along the empty street of warehouses, and, most certainly, a little more open to the tattooed, blue-eyed young man named Grayson Winchester.
So, yes, Maye did want to come over. And she did want to let Grayson do whatever he wanted so that they both could enjoy a little piece of sanity left in this wild world.
However, time had slipped her, it seemed.
"I shouldn't," Maye said and forced her limbs to lift her off the muscled torso she was laying upon. She paused, however, at the hand that wrapped cooly around her wrist as she bent above him.
Grayson's eyes were stormy, matching his bedsheets. She'd become accustomed to those sheets, to this room, to this boy, over the course of this month. But she didn't want to become too familiar with him.
