Thorne Princess(72)

I ended that day sucking Princess Thorne’s pussy juices from my fingers while masturbating into the sheets like a fourteen-year-old.

“What’d you have for me?” I popped gum as I swiped the phone screen.

“I need some help,” Tom used his friendly tone, which meant I wasn’t going to like this.

“The app store is the blue square with the A on it.” I rubbed my eyes. When he wanted something, it was usually technology related.

“Let me rephrase, I have a professional request.” Tom cleared his throat. “You need to keep Miss Thorne in Texas. Or, more specifically, anywhere but in Los Angeles.”

“And why’s that?” I clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, asking, even though I already knew the answer.

“A little birdie told me Kozlov has a real hard-on for you and he’s aware that you were working in the area.”

“Remind me who said it was a good idea to send me back to Los Angeles?” My jaw ticked.

“Mine,” Tom admitted. “I didn’t think they’d know or care. It’s been years.”

I hit a traffic light. Stopped. Closed my eyes, shaking my head. Goddammit…

“Look.” I was about to lie. It would be the first time I’d lied to Tom. Up until now, I only omitted the truth from him once in a while. “I’ve been keeping an eye. The coast is clear. Maybe your source is wrong.”

What the fuck was I doing? Why was I hanging on to this assignment?

“Appreciate it,” Tom said shortly. “Still, I would feel better if y’all stayed in Texas for a bit longer to throw off the scent.”

“I can’t tell her what to do forever.”

More specifically, she now had leverage over me, and I couldn’t treat her like a rag doll. The princess and I were partners in crime, and I knew she’d use what happened yesterday against me.

“Just try to stall her, all right? I’m sure they’ll lose interest in a week or two.” Tom sounded distracted. “Course, there’s another option.”

“Enlighten me.”

“We can outsource this assignment. Get someone else to watch her. We might lose Thorne’s support, but we’d keep her safe. It’d be better for everyone.”

Not for me.

“I started the job, and I’ll finish it,” I bit out, hanging up the phone in his face.





“Hey, you.” I sat in front of the oval mirror in my suite’s bedroom, applying thick, neon-blue eyeliner on my upper eyelid, pretending to be blasé.

Max’s stance wilted in the mirror’s reflection. He stood at the doorway, hands tucked into his front pockets, mouth screwed shut miserably. He nodded. Things had cooled off between us in recent days, our playful back and forth reduced to polite, grating conversation.

“Lucky me.” I forced a smile, picking up my blush brush and stabbing it over the bronzer. “Another day without the tyrant.”

“He said he’ll take you to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow,” Max explained, almost apologetically.

It had been almost a week since Ransom and I had done nothing in the suite’s living room. Coincidentally, it had also been almost a week since I’d last seen him. One of the security people from the other room had picked up some of his suits and personal belongings and moved them out, while Max moved in to take over. The same person complained the footage and audio from the night Ransom had fingered me was missing. I had no doubt it was my bodyguard’s doing, getting rid of the evidence.

Screw Ransom. His hot and cold games were getting old. A part of me wondered if this was another creative way to punish me for exposing a weakness of his.

Only this time, the weakness was me.

I dabbed my cheekbones with the brush. I’d already asked for forgiveness from Max for what I’d done that night. He’d accepted the apology, but this was all word-laundering. Something was broken between us, and we both knew it could never be repaired.

I was too occupied with Ransom. Max was focused on staying gainfully employed.

“He’s real busy,” Max excused his boss’ behavior. “He’s setting up an entire cybersecurity department, you know.”

I laughed incredulously. “It’s fine, Max. Seriously. I don’t care.”

Max studied me. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I dropped the brush, grabbing a random lipstick, squeezing it against my lips with all the grace of a hippo.

“Because your eyes are wet.”

Were they? Shit. They were.

“Just makeup allergies,” I huffed.

I was dying on the inside. The rejection was nibbling away at whatever confidence I had left. How could he do this to me?

Max stepped into my en suite bathroom, returning with a box of tissues, which made me want to cry again. He handed it to me silently.

I plucked one out, dabbing the corners of my eyes. “See? All better now.”





On the seventh day after my nothing with Ransom, the bastard showed up in a tux at my suite’s door. I opened it for him, clad in a black vintage Victorian cap-sleeved corset dress. The sleeves were white silk, and the hem of the corset was embedded with little flowers.

“Wrong room,” I announced chirpily, slamming the door in his face. He slipped his shiny loafer between the door and the jamb, blocking me from closing it on him.