Richer Than God - Amelia Wilde Page 0,22

view of the mountain. The river that cuts through the city is vaguely visible from here in flashes of light on water.

I’m early, because I can’t stop thinking about Brigit. My sweet, naïve little whore. Who liked what I did to her earlier in spite of herself. Who cried with it. I can still feel her swallow under my thumb. Fuck. It’s like being slowly lit on fire, thinking of her. It’s not so scorching that I have to stop, but I should. That’s where this is headed. All emotions are tiny disasters in the making. And now, look. I’ve let mine get the better of me.

Curiosity. I’ll chalk it up to that. Women like Brigit do not routinely walk into this building and insist on selling themselves. Reya tells me she was wearing a cardigan outside. A fucking cardigan. Where did she come from?

“You wanted me cleaned up. Well, I’m clean now.”

I turn away from the window, and there she is, transformed. My breath catches at the sight of her—catches with an aftershock. I don’t feel this way about beautiful women. I don’t. But she’s stunning in a gown that blooms from purple into black, ending in a square neckline that’s so demure and lovely that it’s obscene.

I know what they put her through at the spa. I thought a hundred times about going down there to see it for myself. A rare misstep—I should have done it, because they’ve hidden all the embarrassment from me and made her look like a little goddess. Savannah’s fingerprints are all over this. She thought a gown like this would do less for me than something low-cut and sheer.

She was fucking wrong.

I want to tear this off of Brigit a thousand times more than I’d want to rip apart some of the see-through bullshit the girls wear when they’re not feeling confident. Awe—it’s awe making my chest feel like it’s expanded a hundred times over.

“There. Now you don’t look like you just fell off a turnip truck.”

Brigit blinks, looking down toward the floor, but it’s a momentary hesitation. She almost manages to look comfortable in high heels as she crosses the room. Such a performance. I’ve never seen another person put on a show like this. “You still look the same.”

“And how is that?” I go around the table and pull her chair out for her. My father might have been a psychopath and a murderer, but even murderers need manners.

She eyes me curiously, her green eyes catching in the afternoon glow from the window. “Gorgeous.” It’s almost a sigh. “And mean.”

“Please. I look mean while I’m sliding your chair in for you?” Mostly, I do it so she can’t see how hard my heart is beating. The effect she has—it’s too much. When she’s seated, I go back to my own place and straighten my sleeves. “Your family must have been as soft as they come. Do you live in the city?”

“Now I do.” Brigit lifts her napkin, places it delicately in her lap. She sits so straight in her chair that I want to bend her over the table and teach her several things about the limits of politeness. The silence goes on.

“And where did you live before?” I prompt. We don’t need menus, since I’ve already ordered all the food, and there’s nothing to do but look at her. Someone has curled her hair, letting it fall in gentle waves around her face. They brightened her with makeup, making her shine like a jewel. Men would pay a handsome fee to fuck her first. Too bad for them.

She names a suburb on the outer bounds of the city. It’s not one of the richest ones, but it’s not a part of the slums either. It’s a liminal space. The people who live there could just as easily move up or move down. Brigit certainly hasn’t stayed put. “All by yourself, then?”

“It was my father’s house.” One of the staff comes in from the attached kitchen and pours water. She waits for him to finish then lifts the glass to her lips. I have never been jealous of glassware before, but I’d like to crush it into tiny shards. My fist tightens, waiting. “My mother doesn’t live there.” This is practically no information, and she knows it. “Who punched you?”

My hand goes to my face, and I pretend to brush away an eyelash instead. “My brother. He put my head through a window.”

And the look on his face when he