The bullies collect our money, watches, phones, and my gold necklace—Dad’s present—and shove everything into a backpack. They tell Jonas to hand them his coat, too. Because they like it.

  With nothing of value left to give, we shuffle backward.

  Please, let them go away now!

  But they don’t seem in a hurry.

  The one who hadn’t said a word until now points at my well-worn puffer coat. “I want that, too.”

  You won’t be able to resell it, idiot! “I bought it in a thrift shop five years ago,” I say.

  “Shut your mouth and take it off!”

  I obey.

  While his associate grabs the coat, the bully steps closer to me, too close, and leers. “You are a beauty!”

  “Leave her alone,” Jonas growls.

  The man grabs my arm and puts his knife to my throat, pressing it tightly enough that I can feel it through my turtleneck. My heart thumps like crazy. This isn’t going to end well.

  After a moment of excruciating silence, he looks from Jonas to Peter. “Bugger off!”

  “I suggest you bugger off,” Jonas says. “Or you’re dead.”

  They glare at each other. I don’t move an inch, lest I provoke him, and he plunges the blade into my neck.

  The man with the knife shifts his bulgy eyes back to me.

  “Let’s go,” the other guy whispers to him, face twitching nervously. “She’s not worth the trouble.”

  Narrowing his eyes, the knife wielder ogles at me lecherously. “I think she is. Just look at her!”

  I silently pray for more pushback from his associate. But none comes.

  “We won’t hurt the lady,” the knife wielder says to my companions. “We’ll just have a bit of fun and then walk her home.”

  His buddy sneers. “Too many shady types on the streets, you know?”

  In desperation, I scream for help, hoping someone will hear us from one of the nearby apartments.

  “Shut up,” my attacker growls, “or I swear, I’ll kill you!”

  Jonas cracks his knuckles in an intimidating manner. “You really have a death wish, huh?”

  “I don’t,” the man says. “But it looks like you do.”

  “It isn’t d-dark enough,” Peter stutters.

  What?

  Our attackers look at him. “So what?”

  “I’ve seen your faces, that’s what!” Peter is shaking with terror, but he manages to add, “I’ll be able to describe you to the police.”

  The second assailant gathers the coats hanging over his arm tighter and demonstratively strokes the blade of his knife. “Are you trying to make us change our minds and kill you?”

  Peter steps backward. “No, I’m just warning you that if you hurt our friend…” He takes a shaggy breath before finishing his sentence, “If she doesn’t make it home tonight, you won’t get away with it.”

  Jonas widens his eyes at Peter in a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about stare.

  What happens next feels like a time-lapse video. Jonas spins and kicks the first lecher’s knife away from my neck. I jump back, wrenching my arm free. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls out a black pocketknife, snaps it open into a real weapon and lashes out at the second man with catlike agility. The man, whether because he’s weighed down by the coats in his arms, or simply because he didn’t expect his prey to turn into a predator, is too slow to use his own weapon. Jonas stabs him in the thigh. Blood gushes from the puncture wound. Jonas must’ve severed an artery.

  The wounded man stumbles to the ground, face contorting with pain and rage, while his blood soaks his pants and pools around him.

  Peter grabs my hand. “We should run now while Jonas is tackling them.”

  We should, shouldn’t we? Then why does it feel like an asshole move?

  My gaze darts around me, frantically searching for the glint of the knife Jonas kicked. But the first attacker locates it faster. He lunges for it and grasps it firmly in his hand. In a matter of seconds, he and Jonas are both facing off in a fight-ready stance. This time around, Jonas won’t be able to use the surprise factor.

  Will he come up with another plan?

  “There are two ways this can end for you,” he says to the bully. “Number one, you fight me, I maim you or kill you, and your friend here bleeds out.”

  Everybody looks at the injured man to assess his state. It doesn’t look good.

  “He has twenty minutes to live,” Jonas says. “Twenty-five if he’s lucky.”

  The other assailant sucks in a breath and shifts his gaze to Jonas. “What’s the other ending?”

  “You return what you stole from us. Before we leave, I’ll show you how to stem your friend’s bleeding.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you hit the emergency call icon on your phone, you halfwit!” Jonas points at the injured man. “Your buddy might pull through if the ambulance gets here quickly. And if he does survive, the pair of you will kneel and swear to whatever God, Satan, or alien overlord you worship that you’ll become honest men.”

  “Do it,” the prone man grunts.

  His associate nods to Jonas who nods to Peter and me. We recover our belongings while my would-be rapist calls an ambulance for his accomplice. Meanwhile, Jonas grabs the muggers’ backpack, tucks it under the wounded man’s leg, and wraps his scarf snugly over the wound.

  “Press the heel of your hand here and hold,” he says to the mugger who squats down next to him. “You’ll be pushing the femoral artery against bone, understand?”

  The mugger nods. “Like this?”

  Once Jonas is satisfied that sufficient pressure is being applied to the correct point in the groin, he stands up.

  “Let’s go,” he says to Peter and me.

  We run out of the unlit stretch as fast as our legs can carry us. When we’re back in the safety of the well-lit and still-animated Bloomsbury, we slow down to catch our breath.

  I glance at Peter. He looks too shaken to speak. His adrenaline must be crashing after it gave him the courage to stand up to our attackers.

  That was what he did, right? He didn’t run away when they gave him a chance. He stayed and threatened them.

  Jonas doesn’t appear to be in as much shock as Peter. He checks his watch, eyebrows drawn.

  To cope with my own distress, I feel the need to talk and voice my gratitude. “Thank you both for what you did there! Jonas, you’ve got some skills! Where did you learn to do that?”

  “During my military service.”

  “Does Monaco have mandatory military service? Does it even have an army?” Asking these questions calms my heartbeat and redirects my thoughts from the way things could’ve gone for me in that dark stretch.

  “It wasn’t mandatory,” Jonas says. “And I didn’t do it in Monaco.”

  “Then where? SAS? The French Foreign Legion?”

  Instead of replying, he pulls out his phone. “It’s only eleven. Mrs. Everly will still be up. I’m going to ask her to brew that calming herbal tea of hers. We need a good night’s sleep.”

  How very thoughtful of Mr. Macho Man!

  He taps Call, muttering to himself, “I must be in top form this weekend.”

  To each their coping mechanisms, I guess.

  CHAPTER 21

  MARGOT

  At breakfast, I receive endless shoulder taps, hand squeezes, and hugs. Peter told a bunch of people about our inauspicious encounter in Somers Town, and the news spreads like a wildfire.

  When the expressions of sympathy taper off, he grabs his mug, and sits next to me. “Did Mrs. Everly’s tea work for you?”

  “I dropped off the moment I lay down, and I slept until the alarm on my phone woke me up.”

  He pulls a face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  He acknowledges my commiseration with a feeble smile. “How are you holding up, otherwise?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “After what you went through last night? After what those men nearly…” He trails off, as if physically unable to utter the words.

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Margot, you escaped rape,” he manages this time. “Or worse.”

  No thanks to you! The harshness of that thought gives me pause. Since the attack I’d refused to think about Peter in any other terms than “brave.” I still believe it required courage to act the way he did. But I’m glad Jonas was there.

  Speaking of the devil—he tumbles into the kitchen and heads for the coffee machine. It’s going to be his first breakfast in our company.

  “You must be traumatized,” Peter says to me. “The police will ask you to undergo a psychological test, I’m sure.”

  “We haven’t even reported the mugging yet.”

  “I did it online last night. The Met will be here in a few minutes to take our depositions.”

  Ah, that explains our host’s unusual presence at breakfast.

  Five minutes later, Mrs. Everly leads three bobbies into the chimney room. Peter, Jonas, and I join them there.

  The cops start off by informing us that the wounded attacker will live. Jonas’s shoulders slacken with relief at that news. I’m pleased to hear it, too. Mostly, for Jonas. It’s a heavy burden to carry around—the knowledge that you killed a man—even if you did it to rescue a woman said man was planning to rape. Or worse.

  The following hour consists of separate interviews filled with detailed questions and unpleasant recollections. At the end, the bobbies confess they’d never heard of a knife attack unfolding the way ours did.

  After they leave, I feel compelled to thank Jonas again.

  “You don’t need to,” he interrupts me.

  “But I do! You chose to stay and fight when you had a chance to get out. You chose to risk your life to save mine.”

  “It wasn’t a deliberate choice,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  There’s a roguish glint in his eyes when he replies, “Toxic masculinity made me do it.”

  I try to keep a straight face for about a second, but then I burst out laughing.

  Peter gives a humorless smile. “I’m off to the Sky Hall. See you there shortly!”

  I check my watch. Only an hour left until showtime. An hour to get into character while Tami dresses me and coifs my hair and Sandra gives me a pep talk.

  “We better go,” I say to Jonas.

  As we walk the short distance to the Sky Hall, he gives me a sideways look. “This is your daily reminder that my offer to have you resettled in the attic still stands.”

  “As do my objections.”

  He frowns at that.

  “Listen,” I say. “I slept like a log last night. If you made any noise, I didn’t hear it. Besides, I have foam earplugs! Turns out Liam has a pile of them in his room. That guy is a planning genius! Anyway, I’m all set now.”

  His reply to my outpouring is a few words muttered under his breath. I can’t be certain, but they sounded like, Good for you, but how does that help me?

  Back in my room at ten, I prepare for bed, fit my earplugs in my ears and climb into my sleeping bag. But unlike last night, sleep eludes me. I think about the attack last night. Naturally and inevitably, that makes me contemplate what Jonas did for me.

  And that, somehow, leads me to remembering how much I’d enjoyed his caress in the library. A truth I’ve done my best to suppress hits me with a vengeance. I’ve been craving his touch ever since. The maddening push and pull between us has been my fuel. Methinks, his attempts to banish me to the attic are his latest “push.”

  Two more days, I remind myself.

  Two more days, and I’m out of this house and free from this man who’s been undermining my convictions and ruining my peace of mind.

  He’s driving me bonkers!

  At that point, a deep vibrating sound reaches me despite the foam plugs in my ears. It’s coming from Jonas’s room. He’s snoring worse than my late grandmother’s pug when he had a cold. And I thought it was impossible to snore worse than that.

  Weird… We’ve been here almost two weeks now. I’ve never heard him snore before.

  I get up, tiptoe to his door and peep through the keyhole. He’s at his desk. Looking absurdly sexy in checkered pajama bottoms and an old tee, he’s watching something on his computer. The dailies, I assume. He’s wearing a headset. The snoring comes from his phone. It must be a recording or some bizarre app…

  Without warning, the knife at my throat from yesterday flashes before my mind’s eye.

  Human life is short. And it can end abruptly, long before the expiry date.

  I knock on Jonas’s door. He pauses whatever was playing on his screen and frees one ear. After he’s ascertained that someone’s rapping on his door, he turns off the snoring app. I straighten up quickly when he takes off his headset and strides my way.

  “May I help you?” he asks after he opens the door.

  “May I come in?”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit at such a late hour?” he asks, dodging my question.

  “You were snoring very loudly.”

  “Yeah, I do that sometimes.” He bobs his head in support of his own statement. “Very regularly, in fact. But you know what? Remember that cozy corner of the attic I mentioned earlier?”

  “What about it?”

  “Oli and I prepared it for you while you were having drinks upstairs.”

  “But why?” I search his face. “We’re moving out of your house on Sunday.”

  “I want you to be comfortable for the remaining two nights.” He begins to count on his fingers, “You’ll have a real bed, a carpet, a chest of drawers, a full-size mirror… What else? Nontransparent screens all around, and—”

  “The snoring came from your phone,” I butt in. “I saw it through the keyhole.”

  He stares at me in silence.

  “Why, Jonas?” I ask him again. “Why do you want me out of the dressing room so much?”

  He looks away.

  It’s my turn to count on my fingers. “I don’t make late-night phone calls, I don’t sleepwalk, don’t play music, don’t snore… I’m one of those super quiet sleepers that barely change positions during the night. So, why do you want me gone?”

  Still, he won’t say.

  “Is it a territorial thing? Do you need an estrogen-free zone around you, or is it a matter of—”

  “Insomnia,” he cuts in. “You give me insomnia.”

  I blink, waiting for him to clarify in what way I manage to disturb his sleep.

  His gaze travels from my eyes to my lips and then down to my body. “I can’t sleep with you so close behind that thin wall. I keep thinking about…” He falls silent.

  Bloody hell, Jonas! Say it. I want to hear it. I need to hear it.

  “And now you’re here,” he says instead, “in your pajamas, tempting me…” He lifts his eyes to my face. “Go back to your room. Or, even better, to the attic.”

  A short laugh escapes me. “You sound like a horny monk!”

  His response is a wordless stare.

  “Why the sacrifice?” I tease him again. “Why such restraint? We both know that half of the women currently in your house and dozens more in the audience would love to sleep with you.”

  “But there’s only one I want to fuck.”

  I gulp in a sharp breath.

  There, he said it.

  His eyes drill into mine. “This will be your last warning, Margot. Go. Away. Now.”

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  CHAPTER 22

  MARGOT

  The air around us crackles with electricity. The “pull” that’s underway at this very moment in the doorway of Jonas’s room is too powerful to fight.

  I don’t want to fight it.

  True to his word, he gives me no further warnings when he pulls me to him. His lips cover mine. They’re so warm, so inviting that I can hardly contain the joy that rises in me. His mouth captures mine more fully. The kiss becomes more demanding, more possessive, which delights me to no end. When his tongue brushes my lower lip, that brief caress sends an avalanche of sensation cascading through me.

  I grow hungrier by the second.

  The next thing I know, his tongue sweeps into my mouth, making me feel like I’m being swept off my feet, pulled away to a world where there’s only lust. I moan with pleasure. My hands wrap around his neck and I sink into the kiss. Our tongues dance a passionate dance. Forget the waltz! We have now crossed into tango territory. This kiss is raw, sultry, improper. It’s exhilarating.

  He draws away just enough to look into my eyes. In a gesture like the one in the library, he lifts a hand to my face. This time with his palm inward. His thumb traces its way up and then down my jawline. His other hand snakes around my waist and draws me closer to him. I’m over the threshold, inside his room.

  Inclining his head toward me, he asks, “You know where this is going, don’t you, Margot?”

  I begin to nod in assent, but he pinches my chin and holds. “Just to make sure—this won’t be a snog. I want you so badly there’s no way I’m not fucking the hell out of you if you stay.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say no more warnings?”

  “I did.” His mouth stretches into a lopsided smile. “Clearly, I broke that promise.”

  “You did,” I say tartly.

  Something flickers in his dark gaze. “And you said you didn’t do gratitude sex. But now, after the Somers Town attack, you must be swimming in gratitude. Did it make you change your mind?”

  “Gratitude has absolutely nothing to do with this.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He eyes me expectantly.

  “Yes,” I say. “I solemnly certify that I, Margot Nolan, understand that if I don’t run away right now, then I am most certainly getting laid at some point during the night.”

  “At multiple points,” he corrects me.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Jonas pulls me farther into his room and shuts the door.

  I wrap my hands around his neck and bring my lips to his. My fingers tangle into his hair as he kisses my neck, sending shivers down my spine and making me moan with pleasure. His hand trails down to my waist before slipping beneath my pajama top to explore. His skin is hot against the coolness of mine, creating a perfect contrast that only heightens every sensation I feel.