Read Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) Online
Authors: Tamsen Parker
Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3)
Before there was Cris, there was Hunter…
Eighteen-year-old India Burke has been waiting for as long as she can remember to escape her life of material feast and emotional famine. Going away to college offers separation from her noxious family and a connection with the best friend a girl could ask for.
While her peers are picking majors and navigating the pool of college dating, Reyes Walter introduces India to the intoxicating world of dominance and submission and to a man who will become utterly obsessed with her. Hunter Vaughn is older, handsome, and just the right kind of arrogant. And he’s never wanted anything as badly as he’s wanted to possess India.
As she comes into her own in these consuming relationships, where pain so often results in pleasure and submission is a gateway to freedom, it’s difficult to define sacrifice. But when Hunter issues a ruthless ultimatum, India will have to choose: give up half of herself or break free of the bondage and belonging she’s always craved.
** Please note:
Uncharted Territory
is a prequel to
Personal Geography
. This erotic coming-of-age has no happily ever after, but does offer compelling kink, scorchingly hot sex, and brutal psychological warfare.**
For Megan, my fellow prickly heroine. I’ve got your bildungsroman right here.
‡
Year One
M
y father’s knuckles
are white as he grips the steering wheel, and I’m pretty sure his jaw has been clenched continuously for the past half an hour. Mine would be, too, if I were listening. But I’ve cranked up the music coming through my noise-canceling headphones, so as far as I can tell this is a pantomime of WASP: Angry Couple Theater.
I’d tried to convince my parents they didn’t need to drop me off at school. My dad had been willing, perhaps sensing I’d like a fresh start when I step on campus instead of polluting it with the toxic nature of my family. But my mother wouldn’t have it.
“Of course we’re bringing you to campus, dear. We brought Ivy to Harvard, didn’t we? We’re going to make sure our baby’s all settled in. I can hardly believe you’re all grown up.”
Tears had actually welled in her eyes, and I’d been a little touched, even though I suspect her concern is more with what other people would think than whether I’m comfortable. But if it makes her happy to play the doting parent, fine. It’s true she’d done this with my sister, too, forcing me to join them for the long drive up to Cambridge. I just hope their performance doesn’t last too long. Make it quick and then get the fuck out. I’ve been waiting for this for years.
I press pause when we get to campus, silencing the music that’s been reverberating through my head, and listening in on the Preston and Samantha Burke Show. As I suspected, my mother’s changed her tune. She would, now that there might be other people around to hear it.
“Isn’t the campus lovely, Preston? The architecture is so striking.”
She’s right about that. Princeton is pretty, and I’m sure the grounds crew has been working overtime to make sure it’s at its best for all the parents who are placing their darlings in the school’s benevolent hands. Everything is decked out in orange and black, and the place is crawling with families. Which only makes me wonder how soon I can get rid of mine.
My dad angles to get as close to my dorm as possible. When we’ve parked, he opens the trunk to get my few bags out of the car. They’re props, designed to make the Burkes look like any other family here. Really, the rest of my things were dropped off earlier this morning.
I duck my head when we get to my single room. It looks like I’ve lived there for a week—bed made, books neatly tucked away on shelves, clothes hung in the closet. But my mother does what she always does and fusses about how everything’s been done wrong, how the more-than-adequate space isn’t fit for her little girl. My father and I exchange baleful glances and sit down on the bed side by side while Hurricane Samantha blows through. It doesn’t matter what she does. I’ll rearrange it again when she leaves.
Thankfully, they only manage to hold out for an hour before my dad starts checking his watch and my mother wrings her hands.
“Are you all set, Indie? Do you need anything else? We could—”
“No, I’m good.”
Leave, leave, leave.
“Do you want us to—”
“I think the next thing on the schedule is a lunch mixer, so I’m going to head over.”
My mother looks distinctly pleased. Pleased as she can look with her Botox-dulled expressions anyway.
“Have fun, then. Introduce yourself to everyone. I know you can be shy.” If by shy, you mean misanthropic, then sure. “Maybe you’ll meet a nice boy.”
I doubt it. The boys I knew in high school didn’t do much for me, and I’m not expecting much better from the boys here. But I know what I’m supposed to do. Find a boy I can string taut and then play like the cello that’s tucked neatly under my bed. Someone who will have the appearance of being powerful but who I’ll keep wrapped around my little finger. My mother’s schooled my sister and me in the art of manipulation since before I can remember. I think training us like soldiers is her version of love.
Men are tools, but you need to let them think they’re in control. Be smart, be strong, and be savvy, but for god’s sake, keep that to yourself.
I wait a beat, knowing she’s not done, and steel myself. She’ll never not take the opportunity to teach me a lesson in the art of war. My mother’s weapon of choice is my appearance. One I don’t particularly care to wield, which would explain the not-particularly-flattering outfit I’d donned this morning, knowing she’d hate it.
“But you should change your shirt first. Blue isn’t a good color on you, and this baggy old thing doesn’t show off your figure. You look like you’re wearing a sack. And put on some makeup. Lipstick. Here…”
She rummages in her bag, pulling out the ever-present metallic tube that has a tiny mirror inside, and grabs my chin while she applies the color to my lips. When she’s satisfied, she rubs at the bridge of my nose, like a parent who’s trying to rub off some stray food with their spit. But this particular flaw won’t be rubbed off. She frowns.
I cut her off. “I should really go.”
My mother kisses me goodbye, our lips touching briefly, cushioned by the thin layer of cosmetics. I close my eyes. I hate this. My dad hugs me, squeezes me tight against him until I’m almost breathless.
“I’m so proud of you, Rani. I hope you know that. I love you.”
My eyes water, and I try to blink back the tears. He hasn’t called me that childhood nickname—Hindu for princess—for years, and I don’t remember the last time anyone said those other words to me. I try to swallow them whole so they’ll sit heavy in my stomach, small doses of fondness and affection leeching out when I need them most. But there’s such a giant gaping hole, they won’t fill it in, never mind stick around.
“I should go.”
I herd them out of my room and shut the door before collapsing on my bed and staring at the ceiling. They’re gone now, and I can finally breathe. I’ve nearly got myself settled when there’s a knock at my door.
When I open it, a hand is thrust into my personal space and I have to take a step back.
“Reyes Walter, your friendly neighborhood resident advisor. You can call me Rey.”
The man standing in front of me—and that’s what he is, a man, not a boy—is proffering a very large hand along with a blindingly white smile on his beautiful copper face. His picture-perfect teeth are set off by gelled black hair and warm dark eyes. He’s smoothly good-looking, maybe too good-looking, and a voice at the back of my head shouts,
He’s gay, you moron
.
It’s possible, likely even, given the baby-pink popped collar polo he’s rocking atop madras shorts, but he seems like such a force of nature he’d get away with it, even have girls crawling over each other to get to him if he deigned to be straight. Or maybe that’s just me.
Despite his friendly words, there’s an edge to him, and the too-firm grip of his hand on mine gets my attention in a way that makes my lips part. Perhaps I’ve underestimated college boys. Here’s hoping, but I suspect Rey is the exception rather than the rule.
“I-India Burke. You can call me Indie. Everybody does.”
One of his dark eyebrows goes up. The smile that curves his mouth is teasing and he’s still holding my hand. “That’s not a very good reason to be called something, now is it? Because you’ve always been?”
“I ’spose not,” I allow, blood and heat rushing to my cheeks because I want so badly for him to think well of me.
“That stops here, little one. So which is it—India or Indie?”
“India,” I say with conviction. I even smile.
His answering grin is blinding, the brilliance of it making my insides puddle. “Well done, little one. Welcome to Princeton, India Burke. The world is now your oyster.”
*
A.
I got a motherfucking A. This shouldn’t be a big deal. It wasn’t when I was in high school. But by the time I left Dalton, I’d started to feel like my teachers didn’t even look at my papers, just rubberstamped them. I should’ve been happy—I’d proved myself so thoroughly they barely bothered to glance at them—but instead I’d felt neglected.