Again I don’t answer, and the limo keeps moving on.

“Were you scared, Bell?”

My eyes shift forward. The driver’s back is stiff; his focus remains on the road. “What was there to be scared of?”

“I don’t think you were prepared for what happened between us.”

“Sex?” I reply. But when the limo driver’s eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, I lower my voice. “I knew what we were going to do when I went home with you.”

“Yes, but I don’t think you expected to like it.”

I laugh—a laugh that’s meant to show that what he’s saying is ridiculous.

It’s a laugh that I hope hides the fact that he’s right. “Women don’t go home with men they don’t think can satisfy them.”

“Most women don’t,” he concedes. “But you’re different from most women, aren’t you? Besides, your line of argument is a little weak.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because you were a lot more than just satisfied. You seemed almost . . . awed.”

Again I laugh, but the sound is harsher now. “You were hardly my first, Lander. I’ve had other lovers.”

“I’m sure you have, but I’m also fairly certain that none of them were very good.”

Again the chauffeur’s eyes flicker to the rearview. My cheeks heat up as I turn away from his gaze.

“It’s not that I’m claiming to be a superior lover,” Lander continues. “But I do think . . . I think we have superior chemistry. I think that when I . . . entered you, when I pressed inside you, I . . . broke something. Something that needed to be broken.”

“I don’t understand you.” I want the words to come out derisively, but instead they come out weak, soft.

“Have you been hurt, Bell? Did someone build that armor?”

I chew lightly on my fingernails. I won’t answer that.

“Why did you come home with me? Were you really seeking satisfaction or were you craving something . . . darker?”

I stare out the window, holding on to my silence. The limo feels too small now. The air too limited.

He leans forward, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “How many battles have you won?” he asks. “How many casualties have there been? Did it feel like you were winning when there was blood on your hands?”

It’s a metaphor. He doesn’t know the truth . . . but still . . . he’s close to the mark without realizing it.

“I don’t understand you.” I turn toward him, I see the intensity in his expression, I feel his proximity, and again I’m watching him watching me.

No, that’s wrong. I’m seeing him seeing me. That’s different. He may not understand my details, but he sees me with clearer eyes than any other man ever has.

It’s terrifying.

It’s thrilling.