Blood Sky

by S. Massery

  The apartment above the warehouse is in Mason’s name, but he gave Jackson free rein.

  For the first week, we did nothing except order takeout and watch movies while we both healed. Even though I was the one who got stabbed, I didn’t want that to overshadow the fact that Jackson had been held hostage for two days.

  Every so often, in the middle of the night, Jackson’s hand lands on my hip, or his breath touches my ear, and I’ll shoot up in bed. My heart rate goes crazy. It takes a second to realize James hasn’t returned to make our lives miserable.

  He’s dead.

  It’s been a month, and the nightmares are slowly receding. It’s almost like we’re going back to normal. And today, Jackson has left the house for the first time in forever. I’m proud of him, since he’s been a worried mother hen.

  I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed his tending to me, though.

  Now, I crouch behind the door and wait for him to return.

  He swings open the door and starts to say, “Delia, I’m home—”

  “Arg!” I jump out at him and latch on to his back. My abdomen twinges, but I ignore it, wrapping around him like a monkey.

  Or maybe a sloth. I’ll admit, my reaction time has been faster in the past.

  He drops the bags and yelps. I half expect him to flip me over his shoulder like the last time, but his whole body shakes with his laughter.

  “You used to be better at that,” he says.

  I lock my legs together in front of him as he picks the bags back up and walks into the kitchen.

  “You’re light as a feather, though. I could do this all day.”

  I laugh and pat his cheek. “You wish.”

  He deposits me on the kitchen counter, then rotates to face me. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, even if you were only gone for an hour.”

  My shirt has ridden up a bit, and his index finger skates along the visible part of my scar. I shiver, and then a pang of loss hits me. He ducks down and kisses the scar, then slowly kisses his way up. Stomach. The space between my breasts. My collarbone, which he grazes with his teeth.

  I tilt my head to give him space on my neck. Chills erupt all over my body. He stops at my jaw and pulls back.

  “I have a crazy idea,” he says.

  I wink. “I like crazy.”

  “Marry me.”

  “And spend forever with you?” I clarify.

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s what marriage is.”

  “Do you have a ring?” I keep my face straight, although I’m dying to jump into his arms and kiss him senseless, then shout, Yes, you idiot! from the rooftops.

  The smile drops. “I didn’t get a ring yet. I only thought of this idea on my way home. Does it matter?”

  My smile breaks free, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “Not one bit.” I grab his face and pull him to me, finally getting his lips on mine. We’ve had so many different kisses. Joyful, scared, angry. This one is full of hope. Promise.

  Epilogue

  JACKSON

  Eight Months Later

  Delia Skye leads the way off the plane. I watch her ass in the black leggings she’s become fond of. She glances back and laughs when she sees where my eyes are.

  “Jackson,” she says, “come on. I have to pee like the devil.”

  “You don’t need me to go into the bathroom with you,” I tease. “And we were in the plane restroom for so long…”

  I almost get hard again at the memory of her on the tiny bathroom counter, legs open for me. Her scent lingers in my nose.

  “You’re incorrigible,” she mutters.

  My heart squeezes, as it always does, when she reaches back and takes my hand. I run my finger over the smooth wedding band on her finger. Only a month after my half-assed proposal, we got married in a small chapel. Our friends attended, and that was family enough for both of us.

  Once we’re off the bridge and in the airport, my old training kicks back in. I scan the area around us. Only a few people meet my eyes, but the contact is fleeting.

  I get anxious in public spaces. Not because of me—because of Delia. Her breathing is shallow, and she presses close enough to me that I think she’d climb into my skin if she could. I release her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders and listen for her long exhale.

  “We have a place to stay here,” I remind her.

  Zach has a condo in Manhattan, and his delayed wedding gift was that we could use it whenever we wanted. He bought it a few months ago, but beyond signing the closing papers and furnishing the bare essentials, he hasn’t been able to get out here. I didn’t ask how much money the place cost. Hell, he didn’t even send me pictures even though I practically begged for them.

  “It’s safe?” she asks.

  She eyes every stranger on the street like they’re a threat. Like every waitress, flight attendant, cashier is going to pull a knife on her. But her name isn’t Delia Moretti anymore—she’s Delia Skye. My heart skips every time she tells people her name.

  “Yes, love,” I say, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. I do what I can to make her fears evaporate. Her skin is tan from the islands we visited a few weeks ago and the hot southern states we hopped around after that. Beyond New York, Europe waits for us.

  New York is dreary compared to the islands and the South, even though it’s mid-June. A weight settles on my chest. Wyatt lived here. Wyatt died here. And he’s buried here, too.

  We get to Zach’s building after stopping at a corner store for groceries. Delia is off, as always, and lingers behind me while I pay. I turn and look at her when she doesn’t follow me to the door.

  She holds up a box of tampons. “Forgot to pay for these,” she says.

  I laugh and nod, but my heart pangs. It’s been eight months since the events at the warehouse. We’ve moved through most of it, except the irrational fear of strangers, and I wince every time she gets her period. It’s just another thing for us to tackle.

  I browse the magazines while I wait for her. A billionaire heiress is splashed across the headlines: her mother, queen of her own corporate empire, has been arrested for fraud. The girl is missing. The Chicago police are asking for help locating her.

  “Sad.” Delia gestures to the picture of the girl.

  “You’ve been in her shoes,” I point out.

  “Yeah.” She perks up. “Maybe she ran away. That’s the happiest ending to her story.”

  “Is it?”

  She loops her arm in mine. “Sure. She can run away and live life on an island, working as a bartender and not suffering.”

  “And maybe she’d fall in love with a local,” I finish.

  Delia gives me a brilliant smile. “Exactly.”

  “It’s a happy thought.” I pull up directions to Zach’s apartment, but it leads us to a grand hotel. We stare up at it dumbly. “You don’t think…”

  She shrugs.

  At the desk, the concierge smiles at us. “Mr. Laurent told us to expect you. Our upper floors have all been recently converted into apartments. Here’s the key to his floor. The private elevator behind my desk will take you up.”

  We circle the desk, and the concierge scans our keycard beside the call button. The elevator arrives quickly. There are no buttons inside, just smooth glass and a touchscreen. As the doors slide closed, a laugh bubbles out of Delia.

  “I’m sorry, did he say the key to Zach’s floor?”

  We rise quickly. When the door opens, it deposits us in a foyer.

  “Holy shit.”

  Beyond the foyer is a massive apartment. It would not be an exaggeration to think that he has the whole fucking floor. The living room is decorated in dark-gray, stainless steel, and white. There are no window treatments on the enormous windows. Outside, the clouds look close enough to touch.

  Delia wanders away from me, setting her suitcase down on the huge kitchen island.

  “I knew Zach made good money… But who did he have to threaten to get this place
?”

  “Great question,” I say. But I perk up. “Hey, at least it’s secure. Right? He said we can stay here as long as we want.”

  “Careful,” she murmurs. “We might just move in.”

  I laugh. “That’s the first you’ve talked about settling down.”

  Her shrug is delicate. “I don’t have a lot of knowledge about the city, but what I’ve seen so far… I like it.”

  I stride forward and pick her up, setting her on the island. She parts her knees so I can get closer to her.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  She kisses me softly. She tastes like strawberries. I slide my hands under her shirt and lift it off her. She raises her hips so I can tug her leggings off, then I lean her back and kiss down her throat. I nip at the skin on her collarbone, trailing down her chest.

  “Jackson,” she whispers.

  My teeth graze her nipple. She jolts, one hand cupping the back of my head. I keep my attention on her, sucking, licking, until she writhes beneath me. I lazily trail one hand up her thigh. She’s ready for me, practically glaring as she pulls on my hair. I plunge my finger into her, and she lets out a yelp.

  “So fucking wet.” I kiss down her stomach, lingering on the scar on her abdomen. Her whole body shudders. I add a second finger, pumping into her slowly. She’s dripping, squirming, and my cock strains against my jeans. I free my erection with one hand just to get some relief.

  Pushing the skirt up farther, baring her to me, and I kiss the apex of her thighs.

  She tenses when my tongue sweeps through her hot center, and her arms tremble from holding herself up. Two fingers still work inside her, in and out.

  My tongue finds her clit, and I lavish attention on it until she’s panting above me. One of her hands is tight in my hair, but it seems she can’t decide whether to push me away or hold me closer. I build her higher. I graze her clit with my teeth, and she shatters around me, falling back flat on the island countertop.

  Once she gets her breath back, she sits up and smiles at me. “That…”

  “Pretty good?” I smirk.

  “I’m just wondering why you don’t do that more often. Like, all the time.”

  I touch her clit again. “We can do it again if you want.”

  Her eyes heat. “I think I’d rather feel you inside me.”

  “That was for you. We have things to do,” I tease. “We can’t spend all day in bed.”

  Her pout makes me fall in love with her a little more, but she doesn’t protest. She just looks at my still-hard dick, shakes her head, and slides off the counter.

  I put myself back together while she ducks into the bathroom. The only thing left to do is slowly put away our groceries. When I open the fridge, I’m surprised to see that it’s been stocked with liquor and food Zach knows I like.

  I pull out my phone and text Zach, You stocked the fridge for us?

  Of course. Say hi to Wyatt for me.

  Dread wraps around my throat. For too long, I’ve been pushing Wyatt to the back corner of my mind. Enough is enough. Later today, we’re going to see where he’s buried. Just another thing to work through.

  I need to say goodbye.

  “Jackson,” Delia calls.

  There are tears in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask, going to her.

  She hands me something, and I turn it in my hands before my mind catches up to me: A pregnancy test.

  My mouth parts. “You took a test?”

  “Look at it.”

  Two lines. Positive.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. Tears fill my eyes, and I scoop her into my arms, spinning her around. Light, bubbling joy fills me, and this time, it doesn’t spill out. “I love you so much. Oh my god.”

  “Are we ready for this?” She laughs.

  Her laugh has gotten lighter in recent months. We’ve both shed some of our darkness for each other.

  I kiss her soundly. “Yes. See? We can just stay in this apartment forever. New York has great hospitals.”

  She makes a skeptical face. “They also have snow, husband.”

  “They also have Central Park and Times Square, wife. What’s better than that?”

  We agree to disagree. She grabs my shirt and pulls me in for another kiss. I happily oblige her.

  DELIA

  I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.

  Hunted.

  It’s been nine months since everything exploded, and we’ve been bouncing around ever since. Jackson thinks we’re fine. He insists we could’ve picked any place to settle down, to get real jobs, buy a house, and get a cat or whatever it is normal people do. The wedding was normal. The travel has been fun, but it left us with a taste of being on the run.

  In my mind, we’re not on the run. The bad guys have been slain. Edgar has taken over the Castillos, and he reached out to say that I was welcome back in Vegas whenever I wanted. I had his protection, as did Jackson. But somehow, being back in the US just makes me want to hide in my new husband’s coat every time someone looks at me.

  Husband. That’s been the most grounding part of this whole experience.

  New York City is unforgiving in its coldness, and yet it’s the first place I’ve managed to take a breath. The people here are incredibly uncaring. Whether I slink by or saunter half-naked, it makes no difference to them. Their eyes slide past me without stopping.

  “Delia?” Jackson asks, squeezing my hand.

  I force myself to smile. “Jackson?”

  His expression is gentle enough to hurt. “You’re trembling.”

  I shrug. “You know how much I like being outside.”

  “Thank you,” he says, squeezing my hand again.

  I appreciate that he’s acknowledging my apprehension. I didn’t even object when he told me where he wanted to go—a feat in and of itself. I have an objection to everything these days.

  His gaze lowers to my stomach, and his smile widens. I still can’t believe I’m pregnant. Again. But this time, we know about it. The happiness is contagious. Every time I think about it, Jackson grins, and vice versa. He showers my stomach with attention, even though I can’t be more than six or seven weeks along. I’m not showing at all. That doesn’t stop him from talking to the baby.

  “At least it isn’t raining,” I say with a half-hearted smile. It almost never rained in Vegas, and the other places we picked… well, they were warm. Fog and gloom encase this city, as they have every day since we’ve been here. Thunder cracks in the distance.

  I flinch into Jackson, then my cheeks heat.

  “Easy,” he soothes, rubbing my arm. “We have an umbrella. We have raincoats. I have a gun. We’re safe.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re going to shoot someone in broad daylight?”

  “I could poke them with the umbrella first,” he offers.

  “Funny.”

  We turn into the cemetery, and my breath catches in my throat. Headstones spread in every direction, little soldiers standing at attention. The ones closest to the fence are darker, splotched with mold and chipping corners. The farther my gaze travels, the newer everything becomes.

  My chest tightens, evoking memories of my mother. I missed my father’s funeral—James arranged it while I was on the run. Everyone except for me attended, but I heard it was a beautiful service. However beautiful it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that I missed my last chance to see him. To say goodbye.

  I’ve said goodbye to him since then. Peace echoed through me when I finally got to put him to rest next to my mother in my mind. My heart aches for Jackson—he’s been carrying this around for almost eighteen months.

  “It’s up this way,” Jackson mutters.

  His friend’s grave.

  He’s been pretty tight-lipped about Wyatt, and I’ve done my best not to pry. Still, the knowledge that his friend lived—and died—in this city… that’s the reason we came. Everyone deserves closure.

  After what feels like an eternity of hiking,
he pulls me to a stop. “Here.”

  Wyatt James Pierce.

  The plot isn’t new—grass has started to grow over the dirt, flowers left by his friends and family have browned, blown away, or been collected by workers—but the headstone is an immaculate dark-gray stone. It gleams in the soft light of the clouded-over sky.

  I take a small step backward as Jackson kneels and presses his forehead against the granite.

  “I’m sorry, old friend,” he whispers. “I never should’ve let you talk us into that pact. I should’ve been here—”

  A figure catches my attention. The man walks toward us slowly, climbing the hill. There aren’t true hills in New York City except for this one, in the rolling cemetery. His trench coat flutters behind him as he walks. A trench coat straight out of a horror movie. There’s an umbrella blocking his face.

  I leap toward Jackson, fumbling for the gun in his shoulder holster, but there’s too much fabric between us.

  “Delia, what are you doing?”

  “Jackson,” I snap back, fear turns my words into razors.

  He scrambles to his feet when he sees the man. In one motion, he tucks me behind him and draws his weapon. Would he have had that same reaction a year ago?

  Probably not.

  The man keeps coming at a lazy pace and stops a few feet away. The umbrella lifts, and he looks straight at Jackson. I feel him shudder in front of me.

  “About time,” the man says. “You can put that away.”

  Jackson cocks his head. “Is this a fucking joke?”

  The man sighs. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Jackson?” I ask, edging out beside him.

  His face is pale. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

  “Delia,” the man answers. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  Bewilderment races through me. My gaze bounces between them like a ping-pong match.

  “I’m sorry, do I know…?”

  “It’s Wyatt,” Jackson says.

  I look down at the stone that is supposed to mark where he’s buried.

  Wyatt James Pierce.

  And here he is, in the flesh. Grinning at us like he’s sixteen years old and has pulled an innocent prank. There’s something predatory lurking under that grin, layered in with the affection.