Brutal Blueblood

you know that the goddess of Ibiza is named Tanit? And that’s the origin of my name? I had no idea Tanith came from the name of an ancient Carthaginian deity.”
“I don’t know,” he said, his lower lip tucked behind his teeth for the barest instant before he released it. “I could believe you take after a goddess.”
I laughed, but I was blushing too. “Stop. Tanit wasn’t even that kind of goddess. She liked human sacrifice.”
“Well, I can think of a few humans on this yacht that might be sacrifice material,” he said, flicking his eyes over to a group of people currently whooping and screeching on their way up to the rooftop pool. “But perhaps I should start with something smaller. How about another drink?”
Another pink drink did sound good, but I was already breaking enough rules tonight. While I didn’t normally participate in the “we’re too rich to have consequences” parties at Pembroke—since I wasn’t actually too rich to have consequences—something about being on a yacht in Europe made me feel like I wasn’t in the real world at all. Like I could taste just for a night what my classmates tasted so carelessly all the time.
But there were some of my own rules I’d never break.
“I don’t accept drinks I haven’t watched being made,” I said, a little apologetically. “But I appreciate the offer.”
I expected this to ruffle him—another eyebrow lift, at least. But instead, I got an amused pull at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s probably for the best, especially here,” he said, his gaze going back to the clump of screeching people. “What if I brought you something sealed? Would that be an acceptable offering for a goddess?”
I blushed again. Goddammit, I needed to be stronger than this. But still I said, “Maybe.”
With another pull of his mouth, he disappeared into the fray, and within only a few minutes, returned with an entire tray of things, including a glass, a second glass full of ice, and two full-sized bottles of liquor, both unopened.
“I meant, like, a beer or something,” I said, watching as he commandeered a nearby table and set the tray down. “I don’t need an entire bottle of gin.”
“Nobody does, except maybe Winston Churchill,” Owen said crisply. “I’m making you a fresh cocktail.”
With efficient, graceful movements, he had the apple brandy and gin measured out, along with a splash of grenadine, and was shaking the mixture with ice. Even for Pembroke Prep—a school of playboys and princesses and parties famous for their indulgence—this was a level of sophistication I’d never seen before. Certainly not from another eighteen-year-old.
The surprise on my face earned me a wry look. “If I’m going to make an offering to a goddess, I’m going to do it right,” he murmured.
And then he poured the bright pink cocktail into the clean glass with impossible neatness—no flourishes, no showing off. Simply the expertise of a gentleman used to making real drinks.
He held the glass out to me. “Here. A Pink Lady. Minus the egg whites—they didn’t have them at the bar.” A subtle hint of disapproval curved his lips. Clearly, a well-stocked bar for an Ibiza boat party and a well-stocked bar for Owen Montgomery were two different things.
After accepting the glass, I took a sip, hesitantly at first, and then another one as the deliciously dry flavor revealed itself. “This is really good. Better than the first drink, even.”
He nodded, his eyes on my mouth as he watched me drink. “It’s an old Prohibition cocktail. Not too sweet, not too cloying.”
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t think anyone’s ever gone out of their way to make something like this for me before.”
“Ever?” Owen asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone. “In your life? What about your family?”
“I have a big family,” I explained. “Four sisters, and my mother takes up as much emotional energy as four more sisters. It’s very crowded. At home, I mean. So, there’s not a lot of special treatment going around. It’s more like survival of the fittest.”
He seemed to absorb that, his brows pulling together. After a minute, he said quietly, “I don’t get much special treatment either.”
Being so much quieter and more restrained than the other Hellfire boys, I didn’t know a lot about his family life or background the same way I knew about Lennox’s or Keaton’s, but I did know he came from money and comfort, and so it would be easy to dismiss his despondency. So easy to say, “Aw, poor little rich boy,” and write his words off as a symptom of affluenza or whatever it was called. But there was something about the way he’d said it—low and clipped—that belied a much deeper feeling than the words themselves indicated. And when I searched his face, I caught a glimpse of something fleeting under all that cool control. A glimpse of something beyond the famous Ice King.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, meaning it.
He shook his head. “It’s fine; it’s fine. I don’t know why I said that, actually.”
And he did seem a little confused, like he truly didn’t know why he said it. Like he wasn’t used to sharing anything about himself at all.
He changed the subject then. “Is this your first summer in Ibiza?”
I took another sip, licking my lips after. His eyes followed the movement, darkening as my tongue traced over my lower lip. A flicker of heat curled somewhere low in my belly.
“What gave it away?” I asked, trying not to betray how much my body responded to his presence. “The sightseeing? The T-shirt and jean shorts?”
He reached out slowly, like he was giving me time to back away or tell him no. I did neither, and then he carefully brushed a knuckle over the curve of my cheek. “You’re a little burnt,” he said. Burnt, not burned—that inflection of a British accent again. “It makes me think you didn’t realize how sunny it would be here.”
“I’m also flushed from my drinks,” I countered, even though