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“Tomorrow,” I hear myself say. “I’ll take you riding tomorrow.”

She stops and whips around to face me, effervescent with surprise. “Really?!”

“Really.”

Her smile widens. It’s blinding. “Thank you.”

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her by the wrist to get her walking again. “The village isn’t far.”

Rae falls into step beside me. But she’s grinning from ear to ear.

My head is a mess of images as we go. I can’t stop thinking about last night. When she took that first bite of coq au vin, she justglowed.When the sauce dribbled down her chin before she caught it with her finger, I thought I’d burst then and there. The purple stain her wine left on her tongue—how good would it taste if I let myself…?

It’s not just her beauty that’s haunting me. As exquisite a physical specimen as she is, there’s something more abstract at work. Rae has never had food like that before. Never been to a place like this. Never ridden a horse or flown on a private jet orworn diamonds that would make her sick if she knew what they were worth.

And I gave her all of that.

Still, it’s not enough to sate me. I want to give her more. Everything. Every first she’s never had, every experience that her cruel life has denied her.

I want to watch her face when she tastes champagne that costs a thousand dollars a bottle.

I want to hear the sound she makes the first time a man puts his mouth between her legs and does itright.

I want Rae Everett in dangerous, dangerous ways.

And it’s only getting worse.

36

LUKAS

WITNESS STATEMENT - IRÉNÉE SAVATIER [Proprietor, Au Pain Doré]

(Translated from Fr.) “I saw her in that dress and for one moment, I thought it was [REDACTED]."

Saint-Émile-sur-Vigne is everything a French village should be. Its shiny cobblestone streets wind between stone buildings with royal blue shutters and delicate pink geraniums tumbling from window boxes. Rae walks beside me, her head swiveling to take it all in. She keeps stopping to peer into shop displays and exclaim over things that would otherwise bore me to tears: a shelf of hand-painted ceramics, a butcher’s case of cured meats, a florist arranging sunflowers in tin buckets.

There’s nothing so small or ordinary that it cannot capture her attention. You’d think it was her first day on earth.

I let her linger. I have nowhere else to be.

“Are you hungry?” I nod toward a boulangerie at the corner. “Best croissants in the region.”

“Say no more.” She skips toward it, singing happily. I follow at a slower pace.

The bakery is small and cramped, with just enough room for three customers at a time, much less one as big as I am. A glass case displays golden pastries and crusty loaves, and the smell of butter and yeast hangs thick in the air.

Madame Savatier stands behind the counter. She’s been here as long as I can remember. Nothing has changed about her in decades: neither the white hair pinned back on her scalp nor the flour dusted on her apron, and especially not the suspicious, impatient squint she turns on everyone who walks through her doors.

“Monsieur Lazarev,” she greets. Her French is taut and formal. “It has been some time.”

“Too long, Madame,” I reply.

Rae hovers at my elbow, peering at the pastries. She doesn’t speak French, so she just waits patiently for me to catch her up on what’s happening.

Madame Savatier’s gaze slides to her.

And then it happens.