Which was when dinner arrived.

It was super super weird to be served in your home like it was a restaurant, except it was hard to imagine One Hyde Park being anyone's home really, and they were tipsy, which helped with the embarrassment factor.

The food went by in a blur of faint weirdness. They'd brought them this complementary starter, which was an orange and some burned toast, except the orange was actually pate and Mika exploded it with a knife when she tried to slice into it like you would a piece of fruit. The Rice & Flesh turned out to be saffron risotto with cow bits on top—although it was delicious—and Malora's savory porridge was the worst thing in the world. Probably it tasted okay once you got over the fact that it was bright green and the frog legs croquettes had the bones sticking up like they were flipping you off.

Malora got her revenge with the mains, though, since the braised celery was still, y'know, braised celery, despite being covered in cheese. Whereas she was presented with most of a dead animal in this amazing sweet-sticky-smoky sauce and crispy, thick-cut chips like you get in gastro pubs. Although, if those were Malora's terms of reference, probably she didn't have much of a future as a food critic.

By the time they got to dessert, they were basically dead of indulgence. The caramelized apple tart turned out to be literally a caramelized apple on a pastry base, with ice cream on the side. So that was sort of hilarious. As was the fact that Mika cut into it super carefully, having obviously been scarred for life by the disguised orange experience. What was left of the evening found them in a pile on the sofa, under a duvet dragged from the guest room, watching Money Heist on the enormous wall-mounted TV. Mika idled her fingers in her hair and it was like being at Oxford—except university had been this closed system, made up of habits and proximity and inevitability. Now they were in the world. And the world was kind of. . .theirs. Full of possibility.

Or Malora was just full of vodka.

'What's he like?' Mika asked.

'Hmm?'

'Titan Pitts.'

'Oh.' Tricky one, that. 'Complex.'

'Wow, you've really developed this keen insight into him, haven't you?'

Malora gnanged her shoulder. 'I'm not sure what to say. He's rich, powerful, and insanely hot. He lives in a different world from me. Likes kinky sex, and basically likes tying people up.' She fingered her collar and sighed. 'He even gave me this collar stuff.'

Mika whistled at the sight of it. 'That mutherfucker is kinky as hell.'

'You bet.'

'Yeah, but do you like him?'

Malora  wondered how to explain.
'The fact that you're taking so long to say yes isn't a great sign, Mal.'

'Oh my God, of course I like him. I just. . .I'm not sure I know him.'

'Well, you only met him a few weeks ago.'

'I get that but'—Malora chewed her lip thoughtfully—'it feels. . .deeper somehow. Like maybe he doesn't want me to.'

Mika was quiet for a moment or two. 'This reminds me of the time you asked me to breakup with that girl because she didn't like Deepeche Mode.'

'Yes. Like who doesn't like those people?'

'Um. . .maybe this isn't about Deepeche Mode. Just saying.'

Malora peeped at her over the top of the duvet. 'You mean—dum dum duhhh—it's about me.'

'You do have a way of getting out of relationships. You didn't even date.'

'But,' Malora pointed out, all logical-like, 'I'm not in a relationship with Titan'

'And yet you're still looking for the thing that's wrong with it.'

Wow. She'd got Malora there.

'Wow,' Malora said, 'you got me there.'

Mika pulled her in closer and attacked Malora's hair until it was all fluffy and annoying. 'I'm really going to miss you.'

'I love you too.'

Malora snuggled down even farther. Vaguely turned her attention to Money Heist—people who broke into the bank to print out money and some hard-core gun fight. Mainly, though, Malora was thinking about what Mika had said and if it was true. She meant, yes, it was. Kind of.

Or maybe it was a totally different problem this time. Because, for once in her life, Malora didn't want out of a relationship: she wanted in one. But that meant finding her way—probably through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered—past the man Titan kept trying to be, the one who took her to a mystery Island by rote and touched her by rote and didn't seem to see her when he looked at her, to the one who had whispered to her down the phone, laughed with her, listened to her, comforted and believed in her. The man who had followed her to see her sister and was there when she most needed him to be there. And whose harsh kisses stripped bare his needs to her as surely as she bared hers to him.

What were they even doing?

*

The next day, Malora called a car to take Mika to the airport—just about managing not to ask Blake's permission this time—and since she wasn't exactly over endowed with things to do, went along with him.
Which was a daft move because saying goodbye at the airport turned out to be awful. It felt all final. And Malora got clingy as hell, trailing around the concourse with Mika, holding his hand like a kid at the supermarket. But then he wasn't exactly shaking her off either.

They parted at the last possible moment with a pathetic amount of hugging. Malora was crying openly and Mika was snuffling, because big girls don't cry.

'I'm going to come back and visit,' she said. 'I really need another one of those facials.'

Malora nodded. 'You'll need it. America is bad for the complexion.'

'And we can still Facetime and girly watch stuff.'

'Yep yep.'

'And you can obsessively like all my Instagram posts.'

'I only care about the ones where you're topless. Fuck this cappuccino foam art bullshit.'

'I made a little cat.'

'But were you topless?'

Mika laughed, then checked the time on her phone. 'Shit, I'd better go.'

Malora wiped her eyes and put on her best brave face. 'Travel safely.'

And that was. . .it. She guessed that was the thing about goodbyes: they were always smaller than you expected.

The flat seemed even quieter and emptier without Mika. And the worst of it was the cleaners had hit hard. The duvet was back on the bed—actually it was probably a fresh duvet, the other having been whisked off to be scoured of all traces of humanity—the leftovers were gone, and the champagne glasses were back in the cupboard. It was like Mika had never been here at all.

And there was still no call from Titan. Not surprising, honestly, because he'd warned her he was very busy. Probably he wasn't even in the country.

Malora located a branch of WHSmith and popped out to buy a copy of GQ. Spent the rest of the day trying to be witty on the subject of. . .of. . .well, that was kind of the kicker. Molten shell treatments? Finnish premium spring water? She tried, she really tried, but it didn't go well. She was too full of sads. And, in the end, Malora broke and rang Blake.

'Yes, Malora?'

She opened her mouth and nothing came out.

'Yes, Malora?'

'Is Titan away?'

'No, he's at a meeting of the CBI. Why?'

'Oh. No reason. I just. Um. Thankyouverymuchsorrygoodbye.'

Well. That had. . .been a thing that happened. What was still more excruciating, though, was the text she got from Titan a few hours later. He said he'd be coming round that evening, and Malora couldn't tell whether it was nothing more than a coincidence or if Blake had told him.

Mr. Pitts—oh wait, he called him Titan. Titan, the annoyance you installed in your Kensington apartment wants your attention.

Or, y'know, maybe now was not a reasonable time to descend into a whimpering pit of paranoia. Because it was very possible he genuinely wanted to see her. And it wasn't even Friday yet. They still had three more days till then.

Urgh her brain. It was like Malora had this insecurity pendulum: she'd just about convince herself everything was okay and then it would swing back even harder and hit her right in the face.

Malora managed not to be visibly freaking out when Titan finally arrived. She'd spent the intervening time profitably at any rate. Okay, that was a lie. She'd showered and painted her toenails blue and silver and tended her. . .uh. . .ladygarden.

Nothing major—just a delicate trim to frame the general area and the personal eviction of a few non-brunette hairs. It was the McCarran family curse: brownish on top, reddish below. At least, Malora assumed it was genetic. She hadn't asked her sister about her curtains or anything. But her head hair matched Malora's. And what that meant for her was the occasional bright ginger pube, waving wildly from amongst its more socially acceptable fellows like a Miley Cyrus fan at a Taylor Swift concert.

Anyway, Titan arrived, looking blah blah gorgeous, because did he ever not, his intimate hair probably perfectly groomed beneath his pinstripes. He was carrying a bottle of something. Oval shaped, encrusted with pink crystals. Uh oh.

He held it aloft, his lips curving into what—on a less austere face—might have passed for a teasing smile. 'I understand you've developed a taste for this?'

'Well, we drank a couple of bottles the other. . .Wait a minute, how do you know that?'

'The app monitors the contents of the fridge.'

'That's incredibly creepy.'

'It's for restocking, Malora. Not spying.'

'Tell that to the milk.'

He laughed and went to replace the vodka. And, after a moment, she trailed worriedly after him. 'It was okay, wasn't it? For us to drink it, I mean.'

'Of course. You might, however, want to go a little easy in the future.'

Ouch. Although considering her  performance on the island, it was no wonder he'd concluded she was a burgeoning alcoholic. 'I know you probably won't believe this, but I'm not really a big drinker. I'm not going to drain your cellars dry or anything.'

'That's not what I meant. It's just this happens to be somewhat of a rare vintage.'

'Somewhat?' Malora's heart curled up like a dead slug. 'You don't mean somewhat at all, do you? You mean. . . extremely or remarkably or exceptionally.'

He didn't have to say anything.

Malora windmilled her arms. 'Oh my God. Oh my God. Why was it just in your fridge? That's like a totally irresponsible way to store expensive wine and shit. Even I know that and I know nothing about expensive wine and shit. What the were you thinking?'

'I'm sorry, Malora.'

'Don't laugh. This isn't funny.'

Titan closed his eyes. Brought up a hand and pressed his knuckles to his mouth.

'I said don't laugh!'

He laughed.

A great undignified spluttering thing and if she hadn't been so angry-appalled Malora would have been delighted. Because to see Titan anything less than absolutely controlled was a victory.

'How could you let me do this?' she wailed. 'I've never even heard of Alazé. . .Alice. . .Allize. . .whatever it was. Although I guess that should have clued me in to not drinking it.'

He drew in a rough, unsteady breath. And, within seconds, was almost his usual self again. 'I don't care that you drank it. Since I'm neither a collector nor an auctioneer, that's what wine is for.'

'Not wine like that. It was just in your fridge.' She was repeating herself like a traumatized crime scene witness. 'Why would you have something like that sitting in your fridge?'

'To impress the people I usually have staying here.'

'That's. . .a little bit wanky.'

'I work in financial services.' His mouth softened with a faint, fleeting trace of mischief. 'I know a lot of wankers.'

They were silent for a bit, hovering awkwardly in the kitchen. Now the initial shock had worn off, Malora was beginning to calm down.

'I don't want this to happen again,” she said finally. 'I get you're amused. But I feel really bad about it.'

'You didn't enjoy yourselves?'

'Well, of course we did. It was the most amazing vodka I've ever tasted. But I can't in all honesty say I derived sufficient pleasure for the likely cost.'

'My little puritan.' His fingers traced the line of her jaw before gently turning her face up to receive an unexpected kiss. 'No pleasure is worth the cost. Some things are beyond price.'

Unfortunately, Malora had gone weak-kneed and wobbly and wasn't really up for a discussion of the transience of material wealth and the transcendental nature of the superficial. Because mouths and hands and bodies and—

'I want you to be happy, Malora. You know, you can have whatever you want.'

Malora made a sort of lunging nuzzle into his palm. This was sweet of him. And confusing. But not quite what she needed to hear. Basically it was emotional umami. And she didn't know how to answer. Except then she blurted out, 'But I don't want things. I want you.'

Titan froze. It was like lights going out. Security doors coming down. Then he leaned in and kissed her again, and it was all teeth, all savagery. He spun me round, driving her back against the fridge, his mouth still on hers, one hand trapping her wrists and the other sliding down to rest against her throat. It was a pretty 
threatening way to be pinned, with her pulse beating under his palm and the heat of him surrounding her.

So, obviously, Malora was super into it. He finally broke the kiss, leaving her breathless and dizzy and full of the taste of him. Pressed in even closer, his eyes a flare of steel gray—the glint of metal in the sun—and his lips a little red from hers. 'No, you don't.'

'How do you know? Don't you trust me?'

His thumb circled a shivery spot below my ear. 'It's me I don't trust.'

Chapter dedication: justin4664

To New beginnings, Justin. I can't wait to read your first book. Just keep in mind that I am cheering for you❤❤❤❤

A/N:

Okay, that's one weird chapter.

He said, it's me I don't trust.

What do you think he means by that?