Tonight, I’m like Sleeping Beauty. One kiss, and I’m outta here.
Get my first kiss, then leave this bramble-infested—fine they’re people, but they scratch at me like brambles—place forever. Night clubs are not my thing.
Also like Sleeping Beauty, I’ve accepted the first man who comes along. Is this guy a prince? Euuhhh… I’m not asking questions. Enthusiasm has to count for something, right? And Lance—I think that’s his name anyway, the club was loud—is very enthusiastic.
I really thought I’d lose my k-card to an older man. There’s even someone I’ve seen around a few times who would be my dream first kiss. But it’s Friday night, and while I couldn’t find any of the girls from my university course who said they’d be here, blond and nice Lance with his big smile and dull small talk approached me at the bar, and he’s… Okay.
We couldn’t really converse much over the music, so when he suggested we go somewhere quieter, I thought why not? A girl has to live her life and get rid of her first kiss sometime, and before turning twenty-one would be good.
“You don’t mind if my brothers join us,” Lance says, and it’s not quite a question as two other young men catch up with us as we step out into the street. I shiver and tug down the skirt of my not-particularly short dress, because it’s dark and chilly, the late Spring evening turning cold.
“Hi.” I glance at Lance’s brothers. They look similar to him. Lanky, blond, wearing deck shoes with no socks, chinos, and pale pastel-coloured shirts. “You’re coming with us to the pub?”
Not much chance of talking or kissing with the four of us. Despite their posh and harmless appearance, chilled water slides down my spine as I look into their dark-blue eyes.
“Hey Agatha,” says the chubbier one, giving me a thin-lipped smile.
I bristle. Not only did Lance somehow text his brothers, he told them to call me Agatha? My full name the way he says it makes me sound like I’m a virgin old lady with a crochet teapot cover and a yappy little dog.
And twenty-one is not old, and I don’t have any pets. Yet.
“Taggie,” I correct him. “Everyone calls me Taggie.”
“Sure, Agatha,” he sneers.
What am I doing? This isn’t me. Even though an older man has made me inexplicably horny with his mere presence, this isn’t what I want. I’ve never been into guys my own age.
“Shut up, Boris,” says the other brother.
We’re at the corner of a dark side street, and you know, maybe I’m done for this evening. Perhaps I’m not sleeping beauty. No kiss for me.
I stop walking.
“I think I might just call it a night.” I feign a yawn. “You go on. I’ll get a taxi.”
“Ahh don’t be a spoilsport,” says Lance, hooking his arm through mine with a surprisingly tight grip and pulling me around, down the alleyway.
“Yeah,” chimes in Boris, wrapping his arm over my shoulder in an over-friendly manner that simultaneously makes my skin crawl and traps me from bolting away. “The night is young. Don’t leave us yet.”
“The pub isn’t this way.” My voice comes out high and frightened. “Where are we going?”
“George knows a fun shortcut, don’t you, George,” replies Boris, and they all laugh.
“I certainly do,” George replies, and there’s something in the words that really scares me.
I try to pull away, but they hold me tighter, almost dragging me along into the deserted street, the tarmac wet beneath my scraping feet.
“Come on, you knew what you were getting into,” Lance says with a sickly smile.
“I didn’t!” I bleat. “I just thought we’d go to the pub.”
“You sluts want more than that.” George grabs his crotch meaningfully, angling it at me, and their laughter is loud and cruel.
Mad, animal panic overtakes me, and I throw myself around and down, escaping the only thing in my head now. That and terror. I get under Boris’ arm, but Lance’s fingers bite into my wrist, sending crippling pain all the way up to my shoulder.
“Oh no you don’t.” Boris grabs me up by my hair, and I scream as they shove me against the brick wall, knocking the breath out of me. The rough surface tears at my skin.
I fight. I kick and slap, but there are three of them, and they’re still men, even though they’re not brawny. I’m thrashing, but there’s nothing I can do.
Fear courses through me painfully. Not the good sort of pain. The sharp, jagged kind that shrivels and dries and cracks. I’m brittle, and crying, shouting incoherently and kicking out.
Within seconds I’m on the ground, all four of my limbs held, the backs of my bare legs in the grit of the tarmac.
Desperately, I look up and down the alleyway. No one is coming. I’m alone.
“Little whore is a fighter,” George says, eyes gleaming. He pulls a knife from his back pocket and the blade mirrors the sickly orange street-light and his pink shirt.
“I’m not a whore,” I whisper. I’m trembling, and my voice is stronger than I expect. “I’ve never even been kissed.” Maybe I can get them to feel sorry for me.
“She’s never been kissed, boys,” Lance sneers. “Virgin too, like a proper Essex girl. Stupid bitch is going to get us all smeared in blood by the end of the night.”
They all chuckle.
Tears seep from my eyes.
I’m such an idiot. I should have known this would go bad.
“Let’s have a look at you…” George says, pressing the blade to my breast.
“Please don’t,” I sob out.
George rolls his eyes and the strap of my dress slices through. He grabs the swell of it, and I recoil.
“No. No. Help!” I shout, but I know no one is going to. I don’t even have a dad who would avenge or get angry about what’s about to happen. It’s just me and my grandmother.
“No, no, don’t,” Boris mimics as he shoves my hips painfully down, and rips my skirt up.
“Let me go. No!”
“Hold her,” says Lance. “Shut up you stupid bitch, or it’ll be less important that you get to our father in one piece.”
I scream louder, because he’ll be worse. The father will be worse.
“Get her gag, Boris.” He’s undoing his trousers. “And open her legs. I’m having my due—”
“Stop.” The deep voice of a man cuts through the chaos.
George glances over his shoulder with a sneer. “Mind your own business.”
A terrified noise continues to come from my mouth. They don’t let go.
“Touch her and die.” The dark menace of the man in the shadow’s statement reverberates through me despite everything. He’s all causal power, and I’m silenced by it somehow.
Like this man could tell the earth to stop spinning, and it would.
My assailants don’t feel the same.
Lance snorts, and turns back to me, taking his pasty, skinny length in hand. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this part of a man, and even through my terror, I’m not impressed.
Women get excited about that?
The noise is subtle. The release from my leg doesn’t register initially, only the spray of warm liquid.
“Shit!” Then a gurgle, and Boris slumps on top of me.
Another splatter of blood.
Then I look up in shock. The impossibly tall man, in a black suit, his face in shadow, is gazing down at me. The thick barrel of a silencer gleams.
My scream dies in my throat.
The man puts the gun away with an elegant flick of his hand then strides over, black polished leather shoes crunching on the tarmac.
“Sorry about that,” he says in a low voice. His tone is polite and refined. With one foot, he rolls Boris’ lifeless body off me.
I’m shaking and tears are pouring from my wide-open eyes. It’s cold, yes. A spring night, and my dress is torn. But it’s the panic receding that causes my shivers.
The warm spots of moisture turn cool. I’m covered with their blood.
“Here.” The man strips off his suit jacket, and I get no more than a moment of the scent of sage and cedarwood and a flicker of a cheekbone as he kneels.
Then he offers his hand, and his white shirt pulls up to reveal a solid and expensive-looking watch, gold cufflinks, and a jagged tattoo that snakes over the back of his hand. He turns his palm upwards and waits.
Another sob escapes me, and for a second, I consider refusing. After all, I trusted one man—well, boy—tonight, and that turned out to be an error. I should have listened to my grandmother. She always says men are trouble. That’s why she won’t tell me anything about my father. Secretly, I’ve longed for a dad, or a man I could trust. And kiss.
And that was an awful mistake.
But this feels different.
I peek up at my saviour, and although his face is in shadow, a little of the confidence I began the evening with and have felt for the last week, trickles back.
I take his hand and allow him to help me to sit up.
“Good girl,” he rumbles. “Did they hurt you?” He drapes his jacket over my shoulders, covering me with his warmth, and the rich scent of him. Something green and earthy and masculine.
I make a noise to object. Maybe I use words?
“Blood, jacket, I—”
The man shushes me and shakes his head, pulling the jacket tighter, the silky-soft interior comforting on my skin.
“You’re safe. No one will ever harm you again.” He has a rumbling voice that’s so reassuring. “What’s your name?”
“Taggie. Agatha Hayes, but everyone calls me Taggie,” I stammer, but not because I’m scared now. I’m… The relief coursing through me is a river of sugar and wine. Heady.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, Taggie,” he murmurs.
“Who are you?” My voice is weak, and my throat is sore.
“Their father’s enemy,” he says quietly as he slides his arm around my back and under my knees, lifting me.
Enemy? I squeak and grasp for his shirt, but he has me held tight. Not the bad sort of earlier, though. Nope. A warm, secure kind of hold, and I let my palm rest over his hard pectoral muscle.
“You’re coming with me.”
Probably I should fight or scream, or at least make a snarky comment. But he just shot three men who were trying to hurt me, so I’m giving this stranger leeway. Besides, his jacket smells delicious, and he’s warm and solid.
I relax into him as he carries me out of the alley, and only a few steps into the street to a sleek black limousine.
In the glow of the interior light as he lifts me inside, I finally get a good look at the man who has saved me, and jolt. He looked tall and broad and intimidating as he appeared like an avenging hero, but now I can see more details.
He’s older. He has black hair with a slight wave, and it’s shot through with silver that glints. His square jaw is hard-set and covered with black stubble. There’s a scar that runs down next to his ear.
And he has a pair of brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, with faint lines radiating out that reveal he’s probably twice my age.
Familiar eyes. Eyes I would never forget if I’d seen them once, but it hasn’t been once.
No. I’ve seen these tummy-fluttering fathomless eyes before. They’ve followed me around for the last week. They’re the reason I’ve been feeling restless, and like I want my first kiss.
“What’s your name?” I ask with a gulp. And I’m afraid again, but a different sort of fear, that’s thrilling. Things are clicking into place.
“Dominic Richmond,” he says calmly.
This is insane.
I think the most dangerous mafia boss in London has been stalking me.
