Brutal Blueblood

he was right. I had actually caught a little too much sun today while on my walking tour. “Maybe that’s why my cheeks are pink.”
Something glittered in his eyes then, a cool darkness that made me feel bright and hot everywhere. “Is that the only reason you’re flushed, Tanith?”
I looked down at my drink, pretending nonchalance when all I felt was panic. Panic that he could see the horrible, embarrassing truth. That I was flushed because of him, because he’d been making me flush for years before tonight. That hearing him say my name after all this time was more wonderful than I can bear.
“Yes,” I lied. “Of course it is.”
“Hmm,” he said. “What do you think of going somewhere a little quieter?”
My first instinct was a deep flush of excitement; my second was wariness. I might have been secretly in love with Owen, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be a notch on a bedpost.
He must have seen some of that wariness on my face because the corner of his mouth lifted. “Here on the deck,” he clarified. “Just someplace less loud.”
Oh, who was I kidding? Tonight was my night without consequences, right? Why not do exactly what I wanted, which was to go with Owen and listen to that seductive accent some more?
I nodded, and the other corner of his mouth lifted too. A firm hand came up to my elbow; with gentle but unyielding pressure, he guided me to the farthest edge of the deck, where there was nothing but railing and warm, open sea. The music and laughter still reached us here, but it was fainter now. I could actually hear the wash of the waves against the yacht’s hull.
“There now,” he said. “Much better.”
“Much better for what?”
“For hearing you admit the truth,” he said, pressing those full, sculpted lips together in something like mock disapproval. “You were lying to me back there. About the flushing.”
I almost lied again—actually, I very nearly considered hurling myself over the balcony and swimming to shore—because any option seemed better than admitting the awful, humiliating truth that he affected me.
But when our eyes met, I couldn’t lie. He was studying me with a gaze so avid and so penetrating that I felt rooted to the spot.
I felt seen.
And after three years of being invisible, being seen felt incredible. I liked it far too much. Even if a Hellfire boy, heartless and cruel, was doing the seeing.
I couldn’t say what came over me then. It wasn’t bravery and it wasn’t recklessness, or at least it wasn’t only those things. It was partly lust, maybe, and partly the pink drinks tickling through my veins. It was partly that once, just once, I wanted to believe I could have my own fairy tale, my own Mr. Darcy jumping into a lake about his feelings for me. I wanted to believe my life wouldn’t merely be reading about love and desire but experiencing those things for myself.
With him.
The oldest story there was.
I wanted to fall in love.
I wanted him to fall with me.
“You’re right,” I whispered. “I did lie.”
It was a good thing I’d only ever seen Owen bored before because Owen victorious—Owen triumphant—was stunning. A wide smile cut across his perfect features, and his eyes danced with something more than reflected lights. And the slow swallow of his throat, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was like a tiger who’d just woken up to find his prey already wriggling under his paw.
He caught his lower lip between his teeth. “I thought that might be the case.” The words came out pleased and a little rough. “Am I making you flush, Tanith?”
In for a penny . . .
“Yes,” I admitted, and then my blush burned even hotter. There was something thrilling about this, about skating along the edge of vulnerability and desire. About the potential currently searing the air between us.
His smile returned, but he didn’t respond—not at first. His eyes seared a trail down to my mouth, and then to where the worn T-shirt stretched over my breasts, and then down to my legs. When his gaze met mine again, it wasn’t only hot and victorious, but determined. He seemed to have made up his mind, and I wondered what he’d made it up about.
About me? About having me?
For the night?
For the summer?
Longer?
“What are you thinking right now?” he asked in a husky voice. “I can see so many things in those big, blue eyes, but I don’t know what they are.”
I was a little surprised. I’d thought he was about to feed me a line, something irresistible and smooth, something like what I assumed he’d fed to scores of girls before me. But his question, his honest admission that he couldn’t read me, was far more powerful than any pickup line.
My pulse kicked up as I summoned the courage to be honest too. “I was thinking you could make me flush some more.”
“Oh?” His voice was still very controlled, still so very cool, but his gaze was beyond hungry now, beyond avid. It was existential almost, like his next breath depended on what I said next. “And how should I do that?”
“You could kiss me.”

Chapter 2
Owen
I’d planned on spending the night drinking alone at the villa Rhys’s parents had rented for us, drowning my bad mood in sangria and hierbas while I stared out at the sea and cursed whoever had beaten me out for the Everston Fellowship. But Phin and Keaton had been unbearably annoying until I’d finally agreed to come out. Phin because the idea of spending a night silent and alone was utterly alien to him; Keaton because he wanted another cool head nearby if Phin or Rhys got into trouble, which happened often enough to be a real consideration.
So, I’d allowed myself to be dragged out to the yacht, but I’d kept myself away from the crush of the party. Serafina van Doren was an old friend of mine and I liked her a lot,