Page 67 of Captive of Outlaws

“I’m not bullshitting,” I fire back, looking up at him through my mask. God, he’s tall. From this angle I can barely see anything around him. “I truly never met the guy before. He was just some...rando trying to pick me up.”

LJ ignores me, or maybe doesn’t believe me. “You’re upset.”

I don’t respond to that. Just clutch my champagne a little harder.

“Come here.” He takes me by the elbow, surprisingly gently, and leads me towards a side wall where there are a few Louis XIV armchairs positioned strategically for people to take a breather.

“I’m fine,” I say, a little more forcefully, once we’re out of the thick of the crowd. “I’m not going to pass out again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

At least, I hope I’m not.

LJ doesn’t answer, just pushes me toward the chair a little less than gracefully.

“Hey!”

He ignores my protest and lifts his mask off his face. “You were looking at that necklace,” he says gruffly. “And then you looked...off.”

I press my lips together. Hard.

But LJ doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just paces a few feet away where he looks out over the crowd like a bodyguard, arms folded, eyes skating over everyone, ever-vigilant.

“Tell me.” He speaks without moving an inch in my direction, but his voice couldn’t be aimed at anyone but me. “Tell me why it upset you.”

I stare at the fizzing champagne in my glass, watching the pinprick bubbles roil and pop into nothing through the eyes of my own mask.

“It was donated by my uncle,” I say at last. “Which means he’s here. And I really, really don’t want to see him. Let alone have him see me.”

LJ hmphs. Like he doesn’t believe me.

“He’ll take me back,” I say. “Maybe not hurt me—not here, not make a scene. But he’s...he’s angry. He’ll drag me out by my hair as soon as no one’s looking.” My voice feels ragged. I’m suddenly dying of thirst.

So—what the hell. I down the glass of champagne.

“That’s not all, though.”

I snap my gaze up from the tiled floor. “What?”

LJ slices a glance my way for barely half a second. “You want that necklace, don’t you?” He smirks. “Champagne tastes.”

The way he says it makes it sound like I’m some spoiled trophy wife, pouting so that her husband will buy her some stupid new bauble.

And how fucking dare he? Pretend to be the big protector only so he can get me alone to mock me?

I get to my feet, get up in his face.

“For your information,” I hiss, “that necklace belonged to my mother. Mydeadmother. And so yeah, I want it. Or I want it not to go to some...” I gesture out at the milling mass of tuxedoes and ballgowns. “Some douchebag rich boy with slicked-back hair and his daddy’s mon—”

“Stop.”

LJ’s grabbed my wrists. Both of them, in one hand. I can feel my pulse working against the rough skin of his palms.

“What are you—”

He drops me, pulls his mask back into place.

“Stay there,” he orders.

“What are you—”

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