I stop for a moment, hesitate. Why? Why would she help me?
No, she’s not helping me. She’s helping herself. I have to give her one thing. She’s been up front with me from day one. She’s been awful, but honest. She hates me, but she doesn’t play games with me. Not like Sebastian.
Does she see how close Sebastian is with me? Is that what it is? Am I threat to her? How? Why?
In my rush, I stumble over a stone raised a little higher than the others and fall down, scraping my knees. I look down at my hand, at the ring Aunt Helena gave me.
Aunt Helena is dead.
She died weeks ago, and Sebastian has known all this time.
Christ. I’m a fool. All that time in the car, me spilling my guts out about her. Telling him about that night, that secret I’d kept even from my sisters, I told him.
And when he told me to trust him, I did.
She said she found the letter in his trash can. Was he ever going to tell me? Or just avoid having to answer every time I asked him to let me make a call? Maybe work something out with my parents that they keep this a secret too.
If he’s lied about this, what else is he lying about?
I didn’t know about his twin brother. Never knew Sebastian isn’t technically firstborn. That his place isn’t cast in stone.
He told me about Lucinda being his stepmother, and I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for him that his mother had died. If he’d told me she’d died on his birthday, he would have gotten even more sympathy out of me.
What else isn’t he telling me? What else is there he’s lying about?
Is it true what she said? That he didn’t have to do this? That he could stop it at any time?
“And it all just comes down to one thing. Money. He releases you from your obligation, and he forfeits his place as head of the Scafoni family. He loses everything. Sad little world we live in, isn’t it, when money is worth more than a human life?”
I get up, wince at the pain the tiny stones cut into my knees. The boat engine starts when I take my next step, and I wipe my face. I’m not crying over him. I’m not. My aunt is dead. These tears are for her.
I climb the steps up to the dock and go to the idling boat. Remy is at the steering wheel. He doesn’t come to help me on. I climb on myself, but it’s easy enough.
As soon as I’m on board, before I’m even seated, we pull away from the island.
I look back once, look back at the big, beautiful house with all its lights. With all its lies. All the liars inside it.
I hug my sweater to myself and move to step into the enclosed space of the boat, and I don’t expect there to be anyone on the boat but me and Remy, but someone’s inside the cabin. He stands as I enter. He’s tall and big, but he’s wearing a hoodie and I can’t see his face.
Something tells me to turn, to get off the boat, but we’re too far. When I try to run, a powerful hand closes around my arm, hurting me, bruising me.
I open my mouth to scream, but he smashes a cold, wet cloth over my face and just then, Remy turns around. But it’s not Remy. It’s Ethan. Ethan with a leering grin, watching me struggle, kick, and claw. And I realize my mistake too late.
Ethan’s face is the last thing I see as the chloroform does its work, and I feel myself weaken, feel my body slump against the powerful chest of the man behind me, feel him let up a little as my arms drop to my sides and my knees give out.
I hit the hard deck of the boat, feel the engine vibrate as a boot shoves me rudely aside. The man makes his way out of the enclosed space, and I hear the muffled sound of speech, smell the smoke of a cigarette as I lose consciousness and we speed toward whatever destination Lucinda has planned for me.
I knew she wasn’t doing this to help me.
But her intention wasn’t ever to let me go.
It was only ever to take me from Sebastian.
* * *
Thank you for reading Taken!
I hope you love Sebastian and Helena.
You can read the conclusion of their story in Torn, which is available in all stores:
Buy TORN on:
Amazon US
Amazon Universal
COMMITMENT
T.K. LEIGH
Part One
Promise
A Redemption Series Extended Prologue
Chapter One
BROOKLYN
June 2001
The average person spends at least two weeks of their life kissing. When you consider you may live to be ninety, it doesn’t seem like that long a time. But if you take into account the average kiss lasts approximately seven seconds, two weeks equals over 170,000 kisses.
I’m almost sixteen and haven’t even been kissed once. At this rate, I doubt I’ll ever come close to hitting my kiss quota. It’s not that I haven’t had any offers. I have. But I want my first kiss to be special.
I once read the term “French kiss” came into popularity as a slur against the French culture, who seems to have an obsession with sex and promiscuity, at least according to the indecency experts of the early twentieth century. But the French refer to that deep, all-consuming type of kiss as a “tongue kiss” or, even better, “soul kiss” because, if done right, it should merge two souls together.
That’s what I want from my first kiss. To merge my soul with another, not waste it on someone who won’t appreciate it.
Even at my young age, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time imagining the day my soul will connect with another in such a beautiful way. I’ve forced my best friend, Molly, to watch a ridiculous number of romance movies. Whenever I’d witness that first kiss between the leading lady and man, I’d exhale dreamily.
Will my first kiss be like the one between Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, deep and full of despair? Or will it be closer to the one between Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind? All-consuming and needy, as if neither one could go another minute without that connection. I’m beginning to think I’ll never know.
“What about this style?” Molly asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I shift my eyes to where she reclines on her lounge chair in practically the same position as me. Back propped up at a slight angle. One leg bent at the knee, the other straight. Chin tilted to the sun in an attempt to prevent the occurrence of strange tan lines. The aroma of coconut-scented sunscreen and briny sea air filters into my senses. It’s the smell of summer.
I scan the page of the magazine Molly’s pointing to, seeing some famous actress whose layered haircut has become popular over the past few months. “It’s cute.”
She raises her eyebrows and huffs in annoyance. “Cute? Just cute? That’s all? I’m sixteen. I’m far too old for anything cute.”
“Okay then.” I lower my book. My father insists I work my way through the recommended reading list my honors English teacher provided. I’ll soon be starting my junior year of high school. These are important years, especially where college admission offices are concerned. My dad doesn’t have a lot of money, so he’s depending on me getting some scholarships to help ease the financial burden of sending me to college. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” she exhales. “Beautiful. Stunning. Sexy.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I want to be sexy. Don’t you?”
I shrug, looking away. Brightly colored beach towels cover the sand like a Tetris game gone wrong. Off to the right, several guys I recognize from school play volleyball, many of them shirtless, their tanned skin glistening with sweat from the humid temperatures. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it, especially at one guy in particular.
“I never really thought about it,” I lie.
“Oh, come on, Brook. You can’t tell me you haven’t swayed those hips of yours a little more whenever you passed a cute boy at school or the mall.”
I retrieve my book and flip it back open. My eyes remain glued to the words on the page, but I don’t comprehend any of them. It could be written in a foreign language for all I know. Th
ere is a boy at school I sway my hips for, who I smile shyly at whenever I see him, who makes my entire body warm whenever he steals a glance at me. I can’t tell Molly, though. She’d never understand. After all, that boy is her older brother.
“I guess I never really thought of anyone in our class that way.” I continue to avoid her eyes.
Up until a year or so ago, I was taller than most boys in our class. There was nothing attractive about having to bend my five-foot, nine-inch frame over just to dance with them during one of the school functions my father begrudgingly allowed me to attend. Over the past year, something happened. Boobs. My formerly straight and statuesque frame is no longer shaped like a stick, but now resembles an hour-glass. Along with the boobs came a lot more attention I still don’t know how to handle.
“Well, I have.” Her voice is very matter-of-fact.
“Who?”
“Brody Carmichael.”
I lift my sunglasses off my eyes, narrowing my gaze at her. “He’s about to be a senior and is replacing your brother as captain of the hockey team.”
“So?” she says dismissively.
I shake my head, praying I’m not around when Drew learns of this little development. “Your funeral,” I quip. “Or maybe Brody’s.”
She grins. “Most definitely Brody’s.”
We both laugh. For the past ten years, Molly and I have been practically inseparable. After we met during our first day of kindergarten, we immediately formed a bond. I still remember that day with alarming clarity. I had watched as all my classmates gave their mother a hug and kiss goodbye in front of the school. I’d kissed mine goodbye forever the previous year after a drunk driver killed her.
Growing up without a mother affects you in ways you never think it will, especially as a girl. There’s no one to teach you how to apply makeup. No one to talk to you after you get your period. No one to tell you about their first boyfriend. Molly and I found a camaraderie in each other, considering her mother left them and never looked back. We figured out things together. And I knew we’d confront the rest of the problems life threw at us the same way.
“Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly, her voice chipper. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” She grins deviously and jumps up from her lounge chair, her blonde curls springing with the motion. After adjusting her bikini, she assesses her appearance. I can’t help but envy her. She’s petite and skinny with not many curves. On the other hand, I’m tall with an ample chest and even more ample hips. I’m still not used to this new body I find myself in, but Molly’s encouragement helps. Whenever she notices me trying to hide underneath my clothes, she tells me how amazing I look, how she’d kill to have curves like mine. She makes me feel good about myself, a difficult feat for a teenager.
I follow her line of sight across the street toward Kelly’s, one of our favorite spots, shaking my head when I see Brody, along with several other guys from our school, approach the food stand. That’s what summers are like in the greater Boston area. When you’re not working, you’re hanging out at the beach. Most days, it’s like I’m not even out of school, considering how often I see my classmates congregate here.
“I’ll let you work your charms on your own.” I return my attention forward. “These books won’t read themselves.”
It doesn’t matter that I can’t see her. I feel her roll her eyes at me. “You’re always so serious. When are you going to learn to have a little fun?”
“This is fun for me.”
“Suit yourself. Want anything?”
“I’m good. I’m still full from the muffins you stole from the café.” Her father owns and runs a café in the North End of Boston. It’s been in her family for generations. They have the best coffee in the city and the best pastries in the world, although I’ve never left the New England area.
Molly moans, rubbing her flat stomach. “God, what I wouldn’t give for another muffin right now.”
“You’re a fiend.”
“But you still love me.”
“You bet I do. Now go before your…food walks away.”
She shifts her eyes across the street and chews on her lower lip, her cheeks blushing. “Be back in a few, Brook!” she calls out as she runs up the sand. I watch her climb over the short ledge, then hurry across the street, still barefoot.
Once I see that she’s made it to Kelly’s in one piece, I return my attention to my book, immersing myself in the author’s world. To be honest, it’s a world I hope I never have to live in. Now that I’m older and am in more advanced English classes, it seems the reading material has become more mature, as well. I can’t help but feel bad for Hester Prynne and the secret she keeps at the expense of her happiness. I hope I never put myself in a situation where I have to keep my love a secret.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I continue to bask in the sun, losing track of time, which is often the case when I read. So many people I know hate reading. This is probably why Molly and I get along so well. We can hold entire conversations using book quotes and no one would be the wiser.
It’s not until my hair starts to stick to my neck that I put the book down for a moment to tie my long, dark locks into a ponytail. The instant I do, I spy a familiar silhouette heading my way, eyes trained on me, a cockiness about him.
I quickly retrieve my book, burying my nose in it once more in the hopes he doesn’t recognize me. I didn’t have this problem last year. Next to Molly, with her charismatic personality and infectious enthusiasm, I was practically invisible. Now, thanks to the cleavage that no swimsuit can properly hide, everyone’s suddenly noticing me. All the more reason I should keep my cover-up on, just like I tell my dad I do to stop him from worrying. I don’t want to consider what would happen if he drove by and saw me in this bikini he doesn’t even know I own.
“Brooklyn Tanner,” a coy voice croons.
I take a breath, swallowing down my irritation at the interruption, and float my eyes to the source, who’s now commandeered Molly’s chair. “Damian.”
“Looking good.” He winks, but it does nothing for me. Damian Murphy is one of the most popular guys in class. He always has an entourage with him, mostly made up of the popular girls, who fawn over him every time he scores a basket during games or makes a tasteless joke, most with some sort of sexual connotation. He can have anyone he wants, but over the past few months, he seems to have made it his mission to get me to go out with him. “Where’s your hip attachment?”
“You mean my friend?”
“Yeah. It’s rare to see one without the other.”
I flip the page of my book, brushing off his comment. “Not that rare. She has her own life. I have mine. We just enjoy spending time with each other.”
“So much so that you can’t seem to find the time to go out with me?” He cocks a brow, then leans closer. “I normally don’t ask a girl out more than once.” He pauses, considering his words for a moment, furrowing his brow in obvious confusion. “I usually don’t have to. I’ve never had anyone turn down a date with me.”
I grit a smile. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, Damian.”
“Ouch,” he teases. “Beautiful and witty. That’s one killer combination.”
“I’ll be sure to add that to my college applications then.” I return my eyes to the pages, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave. Unfortunately, just like every other time he’s asked me out, he doesn’t.
He’s an attractive guy—sandy blond hair, crystal blue eyes, dazzling smile—but even killer looks can’t diminish his pompous attitude. A year ago, he thought my name was Brenda. Now that I have boobs, he seems to have mustered the brainpower to learn my real name.
Too little, too late. No thank you, Damian.
“Like I’ve told you repeatedly, my father doesn’t want me to date until I’m sixteen.”
“And when will that be?”
“September first, but even then, I’m not sure I want to date.” I attempt to give him the cold shoulder, but I can�
��t ignore the heat of his body inching even closer to mine.
“Oh, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Brooklyn…” His voice is irritatingly sly. “What can I do to convince you to say yes?”
When his hand lands on my thigh, my body immediately grows rigid. I inhale a sharp breath. His fingers sweep up and down my leg as I blink repeatedly, my heart pounding in my chest. Didn’t Damian pay attention during our health class when Mr. Ottermeyer went over the importance of verbal consent? Probably not. He was too busy flirting with anything with a pulse.
“Damian,” I warn through tight lips, gripping my book, my knuckles becoming white with the force. “Please take your hand off my leg.”
“Why?” He smirks. “Is there somewhere else you’d like my hand?” He comes closer still, his fingers traveling up my leg, over my hip, and farther north.
I open my mouth, dread forming in the pit of my stomach, every inch of my body tensing. The hair on my nape stands on end, my palms becoming clammy. I press my elbows into my sides, my teeth grinding. Hearing laughing and blaring music reminds me I’m in public, that I can get up and leave, but I’m frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak as his hand looms perilously close to my chest.
As I brace myself for what’s to come next, he suddenly flies off the lounge chair and onto the sand. I’m disoriented at first, unsure what just happened. Then I see a familiar, yet intimidating figure standing over Damian, his foot pressed against his neck, his dark hair wild.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on her again!” Drew bellows. His back is toward me, muscles tense, body taut.
Over the past two years, he’s gone from a tall, scrawny kid, who perpetually had a pair of ice skates or rollerblades attached to him, into this beast of a man. With his six-foot, two-inch frame and muscles he’s built up during hours of training, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Couple that with a hot temper, and the entire school has learned not to mess with Andrew Brinks, unless you want to walk away with a broken bone or two.
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 83