Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3)

by Tamsen Parker

  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.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thank you!

  Other Books by Tamsen

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Year One

  My 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 w
on’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.

  Like, what the hell do I need to do to get some attention around here? I’d experimented with failing, but the censure from my parents and teachers both had almost killed me. I hate that sick, queasy, want-to-puke-but-can’t-quite feeling of getting in trouble. I just wanted recognition. Someone to see me with something other than an “Oh, you again,” look on their face.

  So when my Econ 101 professor had announced that someone had ruined the curve for the first quiz, I’d thrilled and tried to tamp down the anticipation. Yes, I’d studied my ass off, going far above and beyond what we’d been told would be covered. Yes, I’d felt good about it, but it didn’t mean…

  “India Burke,” Professor Yusok had said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d suggest getting her in your study group at any cost. None of you were actually supposed to get above a C on this. I want you getting used to seeing those lower letters some of you are unfamiliar with. What do you want, India? Coffee? Cookies? Someone to do your laundry?”

  God that had made me happy. Not the attention that came after it—that had been mortifying—but for a moment, that starved and aching desire had been sated.

  But now the beast has been awakened from its fast and it wants more. Always more.

  I take my cell out of my pocket and try my dad. The phone rings and rings, and when I get to the voicemail, it’s full. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Probably slumped over a bar somewhere in London. Or Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll try later. Then my finger hovers over one of my other few contacts. There’s a good chance this will go badly, but some stupid optimism makes me click.

  My pulse races. Are there people out there who don’t get nervous when they call their mothers? There must be. But I’m not one of them. What was I thinking? I start to pull the phone away, having come to my senses. That’s when she picks up.

  “Hello, Indie.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Lucia’s almost ready for me. What’s the problem?”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. Right, Lucia, her beloved colorist. Probably my own fault for my mom thinking something’s wrong. It’s true I don’t call often unless I need something. Even when I was at home, I avoided her at any cost. But I don’t need anything today.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you I got an A on the first econ quiz. I ruined the curve.”

  I know I shouldn’t sound quite so gleeful—my classmates who hadn’t begged me to study with them had definitely been plotting how to poison my coffee—but I can’t help it.

  “Indie…” Exasperation. That’s what she should’ve called me. My name might as well be a synonym for how she says it. “That’s nice, dear, but what did I tell you about that? No man wants to be with a woman he knows is that much smarter than him.”

  Right. I’m not supposed to be vapid, but I am supposed to act that way. The better to manipulate people. Even when I’m wildly successful, she still thinks I’ve failed. My throat starts to tighten around the disappointment—in her but also in myself. I should’ve known better. When will I learn?

  “Have you been on any dates this week?”

  “No,” I mumble as I wrap my free arm across my ribcage. Stupid, stupid.

  “And why not? You’re pretty enough. Someone must’ve asked you.”

  I don’t honestly know why they do. I try to think of how to respond, but I’m rescued.

  “Lucia’s calling me. I’ve got to go. Shall I make you an appointment for this weekend? We could go together. Lucia could take care of you while Anthony does my blowout for the symphony benefit. I’ll call Ivy and see if she can’t join us.”

  “No, I have to stay at school.” That and when have I ever let my mother dictate the color of my hair? Never.

  “Fine. And please, Indie. Tone it down.”

  I swallow hard around my frustration and end the call, my buoyant mood crushed and my head in the middle of a cloud. Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. I have a shit ton of work to do, and I won’t be able to do it if my brain is fogged with bitterness.

  The wood door of the dorm is heavy on its hinges as I pull it open. It’s one of those super-solid ones that would slam in a really satisfying way if there weren’t some mechanism preventing it from doing exactly that. I can’t even slam a goddamn door properly. The storm particles are gathering in my skull, the electricity pinging around and creating conditions I won’t be able to weather. Not without a soul-wringing cry, anyway.

  Rey. Maybe I can go see Rey.

  I know it’s technically his job. He’s supposed to look out for us first years, make sure we’re not going to have some kind of nervous breakdown. But his attention still makes me feel good. Not bothering to drop my things off in my room, I tread down the hallway until I reach his door. It’s closed. It’s hardly ever closed. Maybe he’s not there? But I hear voices.

  I should go, let him have some privacy, but the craving won’t stop.

  My knuckles rap tentatively on the door, and a second later, Rey’s slim, strong frame fills the doorway. “Yeah?”

  I shrink back at his tone. I’m used to impatience, but not from him. A man I’ve never seen before peeks over his shoulder. The guy has wild red hair, looks closer in age to my parents than me, and he smirks.

  “Who’s this, Walter? She’s a pretty little thing.”

  I fold my arms across my ribcage, but stop when I realize I’ve drawn the man’s attention to my chest. I pull at the orange cotton of my shirt until it stops clinging, and he laughs.

  Rey doesn’t respond to the man but looks me in the eyes. “Later.”

  His voi
ce is flat. Though the broadness of it should dull the impact, it hurts as much from him as something razor sharp from anyone else.

  “I—”

  “I said go.”

  The storm cloud gathers tighter in my head, ready to burst. No “little one,” not even “India.” If he’d said my name, it would’ve been easier to take. But nothing. As Rey closes the door in my face, I hear his words to the redheaded man. “You don’t want her, Brandy.”

  No one does.

  *

  A couple of hours later, my tears have been exhausted and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I should work. I need to work. I’ve got a paper due on Friday I really need to start because I want to see another one of those lovely red As next to my name. Approval in the form of ink soaking into the paper. I hope it bleeds through, marks all the pages. I’m about to roll off my bed when there’s a knock at the door.

  Whoever it is, I don’t particularly want to talk to them. I want to wipe off my face, shove my crap in a bag, and head to the library to get on this paper. I wait, hoping they’ll leave if they think I’m not here. But there’s more tapping, this time slow and steady.

  “I know you’re there, India,” Rey says. “Please let me in.”

  I’d like to tell him to fuck off. I don’t owe him a damn thing. But he’s my last, best hope for an actual friend here, so I scrub a fist over my cheeks and open the door. I try to block the doorway with my body, but he could push past me with zero effort. He doesn’t though.

  “Can I come in?”

  I look away, not wanting him to read my mind the way I suspect he can sometimes. Then he’s dropping to one knee and spreading his arms wide. “Or I could serenade you with apologies in the hallway. It’s up to you.”

  He clears his throat and starts to search for a note, his voice strong and deep, resonating in my bones.

  “Oh my god.” My cheeks burn bright. This is absolutely mortifying, and there’s not even anyone in the hall to hear him. Yet. “Jesus, just come in, please.”

  His smile is contagious, spreading all the way from the edge of his taut, shapely mouth over to mine. But he’s not getting unqualified glee, even though I’m thrilled he’s here. Am I so fucking desperate for the smallest drop of affection or interest that I get giddy over someone walking a few yards down a hallway? I roll my eyes to let him know his antics haven’t entirely won me over, but wave him in.