Putting a smile on my face, I take my grandmother’s hand and help her down the last couple of steps. Dressed in a black gown, she looks like the monarch of the Turkish mafia that she is. “You look beautiful, Babaanne.”
A happy smile graces her lips, then she wags her eyebrows. “I still have the touch.”
“You certainly do,” Emre compliments her as well. “Ready?”
“Let me just tell Nisa we’re leaving,” she says.
I follow her to the kitchen, where Nisa and Lara are cleaning up after dinner. Worried that my conversation with Lara might have set her back, I search her face for any signs of anxiety.
A smile spreads over her face, her eyes widening as she looks at my grandmother. “You look so beautiful, Alya Hanim,” she breathes in total wonderment.
“Thank you, Lara. The child is so sweet.” My grandmother turns her attention to Nisa. “We’re leaving.”
“You don’t have to announce it,” Nisa mutters. Over the years, Nisa and my grandmother have become good friends and more like sisters, so I know there’s no malice in her words.
Lara glances at me, and I swear I see interest flashing in her eyes before she vigorously starts to wipe down the counters.
I stare at her until my grandmother pats my arm. “Stop daydreaming. We’re going to be late.”
Shaking my head, I hold my arm for my grandmother to take and lead her out of the house. The moment we’re all seated in the limousine with Mirac at the steering wheel and Kerem in the front passenger’s seat, my thoughts turn to Lara.
It feels like she’s taking over my thoughts every chance she gets.
Staring out of the window, I wonder how such an innocent creature survived hell for so long. Lara’s pure in every way.
So fucking beautiful on the inside, it shines from her.
My heart constricts, and I shift on the seat to rid myself of the weird sensation.
There was definitely interest in her eyes, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s because she’s attracted to me.
It could also be Stockholm syndrome, Gabriel. Don’t read too much into it.
I exhale loudly, not happy about the thought. I fucking hope it’s not Stockholm syndrome. The last thing I need is Lara becoming infatuated with me because she feels grateful and mistakes it for love.
Really? Would it bother you?
I shake my head, not liking the path my thoughts are taking. Lara probably doesn’t know the first thing about relationships. She’s already overwhelmed, just trying to navigate her way through a normal life and the good things we all take for granted.
But…
Why the hell am I even thinking about her? She’s just another employee.
I shift in the seat again and glance down at my thighs as I dig deeper into my feelings.
She no longer annoys me, and if I’m honest with myself, I feel protective of her.
Only because she’s so innocent.
The way she looks at me as if I’ve given her the world, her blue eyes sparkling like sapphires.
That’s because you did give her the world. You’ve changed her entire life.
‘You saved me.’
I close my eyes as her words drift through my mind, followed by her body dropping after I put two bullets in her.
Still, she believes I’m the hero in her story. So eager to please my every command.
I remember how good it felt taking care of her when she was sick and how she depended on me to make it easier for her to breathe. When she leaned on me because she had no strength.
When she was at my mercy.
The feel of her petite body in my arms. Her hands. Her eyes. Her fucking pure soul.
I fist my hand on my thigh when the sight of her kneeling at my feet flashes through my mind.
You fucking love it, you sick bastard.
There’s a rush in my chest, need pours through my veins, and my muscles tighten as my predatory side flares to life.
I could take Lara, and she wouldn’t fight me. She’d do everything I demanded in her desperation to please me.
Her innocence would be mine. I’d be the only man to touch her, and she’d worship me for it.
I’ve always been dominant, craving a submissive partner, but I never needed an emotional connection.
Until now.
She makes me fucking feel.
“Gabriel?” Emre’s voice rips me away from my depraved thoughts.
I blink as I lift my head, the rush dying away and the need retreating to the darkness deep inside my soul.
“We’re here,” he informs me.
I nod and climb out of the limousine. Cameras start flashing as my eyes scour the crowds, and once I’m sure it’s safe, I hold my hand out to my grandmother and help her out of the vehicle.
She has a graceful smile on her face as I lead her up the red carpet. Every muscle in my body is braced for an attack, and I don’t let my guard down for a split second.
Once I’m inside the hall, I spend the next hour greeting people who are of no importance to me.
My gaze goes from one socialite to the next, all dressed in the latest fashion. Their heads are held high, the power of wealth wrapped around them like a cloak. Their laughter fake, and their smiles are perfected to lure in those wealthier than them.
They’re all here to find a suitable husband in a crowd of old bastards who will be willing to leave their riches to a young bride.
Lara would never fit in here. She’d probably have an anxiety attack before the champagne is served.
I let out a bored sigh and check the time on my wristwatch.
Another two hours to go. God help me.
“Mr. Demir,” a voice purrs behind me. Emre turns around, a smile instantly forming on his lips.
“I’m Madeleine Clark,” I hear her introduce herself to Emre.
“Emre Demir,” my cousin replies, the low sound of his voice telling me he doesn’t intend on going home with us tonight.
The corner of my mouth lifts, and I shake my head lightly.
My grandmother tightens her hold on my arm and leans into me while gesturing at a couple in front of us.
“I hear the Thornes are having marital problems. They’re only together because they don’t want to split their wealth.”
I couldn’t give two shits.
“Hmm,” I answer to show I’m listening.
A woman comes around the side of my grandmother, holding her hand out. “I’m Madeleine Clark.”
Jesus.
“Mrs. Demir,” Babaanne replies cooly.
Madeleine's eyes land on me. She doesn’t even bother hiding the interest sparkling in her green eyes that are no match against Lara’s striking blues.
When I don’t bother returning her greeting, she brushes it off with a flip of her hair. “I hear you own most of the clubs in Seattle?” She steps closer to me and dares to place her hand on my other arm. Smiling up at me, she leans in, batting fake eyelashes at such a speed she might take flight at any moment.
She’s blatantly flirting with total disregard for my grandmother.
Fucking ridiculous.
My gaze flicks to Emre, and I tip my head at the annoying woman. My cousin steps forward, and taking her by the arm, he leads her away from us.
Shock flashes over her features as she gapes at me. Then, her face tightens with indignation because I didn’t bother acknowledging her existence.
Babaanne lets out a sigh, tugging on my arm. “Let’s place our donation so we can leave before the rest of the vultures descend on you.” As we walk toward a table, she mutters, “I can’t take you anywhere.”