by Skye Warren
As I moved to replace the books, the pages caught on something stiff and flush against the side of the shelf. Feeling around, I pulled out a thin stack of postcards.
Welcome to Chicago, the top one said in bold yellow writing.
Exactly the kind of postcard I had received. My heart twisted. I imagined him collecting these, storing them away. There was always a feeling of reluctance to them, the way more time would pass, then less, each one of them bare of any message—as if he’d rather not have sent them but couldn’t help himself. A magnet drawn north whether he liked it or not.
I found what I was looking for in the bottom drawer of an ornate desk against the window. There were passports and bundles of cash tumbled together, the way normal people might collect thumbtacks and pens for when they need them. And there were phones—all cheap and black, disposable. Burner phones. I had learned enough about the way they operated in my brief time with him and Shelly. Nothing traceable.
I picked one at random and dialed home.
At least that was how I thought of it. Home. The place where my adoptive family lived. The place I had spent most of my life. I tried not to think of how I’d always been the outsider in the spaces between rings.
“Hello?” My mother. Her voice was already strained, as if she was worried.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Oh, thank God. We tried calling you and I couldn’t—” Her voice cut off, and I realized that they may have actually seen something on the news about gunfire at my dorm—or maybe even a hostage being taken. Maybe the police had actually worked quickly to notify them.
A sudden warmth filled me, because, God, I hadn’t wanted to admit this to myself, but I couldn’t be sure they would be upset to find me gone.
“I’m okay,” I told her, even though I wasn’t totally sure I was. An hour ago I’d had a gun pointed at my head, even if the safety had been on. Now I was in the house of the man who had held that gun. And he claimed I couldn’t go back.
It didn’t matter, though. She didn’t seem to hear me. She was talking, almost pleading. “They took him, Ella. They came last night and took him. Please. You have to help. Please.”
My blood turned cold. “Dad?”
He claimed to have quit gambling, but they never really quit, did they? If I had learned anything from my sociology classes, it was that—people didn’t change.
“Tyler,” she said, and my heart stopped completely. Not my brother. My brother that I in turn resented and adored, the brother that I never should have had, the brother I never deserved.
“No,” I whispered.
“They said we have to pay—more now that they have him. They didn’t say where or when, but—”
But we didn’t have the money, however much it was. My father must have been deep in the hole again. And if that was true, there wouldn’t be any money to pay for the dorm or college tuition. Not that I could even go back, if what Philip had said was true.
“Mom, I’m not—” My voice cracked. “I’m not on campus. Something happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
I should have told her. I needed to. But I just didn’t have the heart to explain about Philip or the armed men outside my window. Not when she was already scared to death. Some habits died hard, and I had never completely stopped trying to be a good daughter. “A friend needed my help.”
“Ella,” she whispered. “I don’t know when they’ll contact us. I’m trying to get some money together, but you know we don’t have… I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who to…who to call…and I don’t… Oh God.”
She sounded like a mother in agony, and why shouldn’t she be? Her child was gone. Her only child. She hadn’t worried half as much when I was taken the same way.
“I’ll find him,” I told her, not knowing how I’d actually accomplish it. I was stuck here, and even if I could have left, where would I go? I didn’t have any resources, any connections to the dangerous men who could have taken him.
Except for Philip. He would at least know where to look.
She was crying now, and I couldn’t console her.
I tried anyway. I told her he was safe, that they wouldn’t hurt him—even though I couldn’t know that it was true. Even though they had hurt me when I’d been gone. I told her I’d find him, save him. That I’d bring him back, safe and sound. Because she was my mother—I loved her, even if she didn’t quite love me back. It broke my heart to hear her cry.
She was still crying when we hung up the phone.
I clutched the burner phone to my chest and stared unseeing at the row of mechanical trinkets on the shelf. Twenty minutes ago I would have said I needed to get away from Philip no matter the cost. I would have said I would never have sold my body for money, never become what they had tried to turn me into in that penthouse.
Now he was the only one who could help me. And I knew the cost would be high.
It was with a kind of knowing that I turned where I stood. There was no surprise as I saw him in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest.
There was no point in pretending. He’d heard everything.
“She said they haven’t contacted her,” I said. “Why would they take him if there isn’t going to be a ransom?” I thought of several things that could be done with a teenage boy. The same things they’d tried to do to me.
“There will be a ransom,” Philip said. “They’re just waiting to make you worry more.”
He must have showered. Showered and barely toweled dry when he got out. Most of the water had sunk into his thin, faded T-shirt, so that it clung to his muscles. The short bristles of his hair still glistened wet.
It felt surreal to see him there, fresh and composed when just last night he’d been unconscious at my door. At the time I had been relaxed, confident, focused on my sociology test. And now here I was, falling apart.
Not real. A dream.
“How do you know?” the dream version of me asked.
“Because that’s what I would do.”
It was a cold fist to the heart, the reminder that he could be as cruel and as dangerous as the men who’d taken Tyler. As the men who once took me. He was a criminal. A killer. He knew the best ways to hurt people, and one day, probably soon, the person who got hurt would be me.
Chapter Nineteen
I CROSSED THE floor to him in my dream because there was no reason not to. No reason to hide how I felt in this surreal state. Dream Philip couldn’t touch me, couldn’t hurt me. Not really. His eyes watched me, a little too sharp for a dream, a flicker of concern that didn’t belong.
“Kitten,” he said, his voice low.
I brushed my fingers over his T-shirt. I felt something smooth underneath, definitely not the ragged wound from earlier. A bandage. And no blood. “All better.”
“Stitched up,” he said, a hint of concern in his voice. As if I was acting strange.
“Who did them?”
“I did.”
I imagined him tucking a needle into his skin, not even flinching. Even alone he would be stoic. “You’re hurting.”
He steered me to a deep brown leather sofa in the corner. “I think you’re the one hurting, kitten.”
“No.” I had learned a long time ago how not to feel pain.
Or at least pretending like I didn’t.
“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t believe me. I could tell. Instead of saying so, he wrapped his arms around me, and only then did I cry. I cried for this morning and last night. I cried for every day before that.
My brother was one of those miracle babies, when a couple had been trying to have a baby for years and then finally—they did. Everyone heard the stories, little snippets of irony. How the couple resorted to adoption only to conceive within the year.
My whole life was an ironic anecdote.
And my brother, God. A smiling sunshine boy.
I couldn’t understand why my parents seemed to love him best, bef
ore I knew. I’d convinced myself it was because he was better—smarter and cuter and generally more likeable. I’d worked myself raw, until I had straight As on every report card, until I smiled brightly in every family photo, until I only moved and spoke and thought whatever my parents did.
None of it worked, though.
My mother had just never felt a connection to me. She confessed it once, in hushed tones to my father, while they were in the kitchen. They never knew I heard. I knew they wished they could give me back, and I supposed I should feel grateful that they never did.
I cried until the front of Philip’s shirt was soaked—not from his shower but from my tears.
These were ugly sobs, painful ones. It was the kind of crying you’d be embarrassed to do in front of anyone, even a close friend.
And Philip wasn’t a close friend. He was more like an enemy.
When I could breathe again, I forced myself to pull away from him. The weak part of me wanted his arm around me again, his solid presence while I fell apart.
I stood. “I’m sorry you saw that.”
“I’m not.”
No, he didn’t look sorry. At least he didn’t look amused either. He seemed more curious, as if watching an animal behave in some foreign way. I might be a sociology experiment conducted by one of my professors. Emotional Responses of Displaced Youth, the study would be called.
“I suppose you heard all that.” I realized I was still clutching the phone to my chest like a shield. I tossed it onto the sofa cushion beside him.
He nodded.
Suspicion tugged at me. I narrowed my eyes. It seemed impossible, but there was something about his expression. A total lack of surprise. Even resignation. “Did you already know?”
There was a pause this time. Another nod.
My eyes widened. “Is that why…is that why you came to my dorm?”
For what purpose, though? To warn me? To protect me?
He stood towering over me, ruining my advantage. “Kitten, we don’t need to discuss this now. You’re upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. My brother is being held for ransom.”
His head cocked. “Is that really why you’re upset?”
I felt like something small and insignificant while he examined me, something simple and yet somehow fascinating. “Of course I am. He’s my brother. I love him.”
“Hmm,” Philip said, a noncommittal sound.
I closed my eyes. Deep breath. “Will you help me find him? Please.”
His smile came slow. “Yes.”
And I wouldn’t pay him back with money, that much was clear. He would take what he’d wanted in the car. What he’d wanted all along. He would take me.
I had the sense suddenly that I was one of his mechanical wire birds, twisted into just the configuration that he liked, made to move and fly when he wanted me to, caught in a cage when he wanted that instead.
“Is that why you came to my dorm room? Because you knew I’d have no choice?” Betrayal tied a knot in my throat. “What kind of man does that make you?”
“A man of opportunity. I didn’t get where I am today by letting them fall through my fingers.”
“You could have asked.” I made my voice low, an angry, unkind version of him. “Ella, would you like to go out with me like a normal couple?”
“We will never be a normal couple.”
At least he was honest about that. Being forced to have sex with him to save my brother. No, that wasn’t normal. “How long?” I demanded because I’d seen what being used had done to Shelly. I’d seen how hard it had been for her to leave. “How long would I be yours?”
“I told you in the car. There is no expiration date. This won’t ever be over.”
I flinched. “You’re wrong.”
“Make no mistake, the thing with your brother just moved up my timetable. I was always coming for you, kitten. You were always mine.”
My heart thudded in something like recognition. Like agreement.
There was a sound at the door. Adrian had puffs of white flour on his shiny dress shirt and a smile on his face. “Dinner’s ready.” He took one look at our expressions and sighed. “I’ll keep it warm.”
*
I WANTED TO search for my brother immediately, but I needed Philip’s help. I needed transportation out of here, for one thing. I also needed contacts to the criminal underworld.
But before any of that, I needed food. I hadn’t eaten since last night—my stomach growled at the sight of lasagna on the rustic kitchen table. It seemed we would eat in here tonight, instead of the dining room where Adrian would not have been invited. Even in this casual setting, there were wide-bottomed wineglasses and linen napkins embroidered with sun-touched hillsides.
Apparently we were all hungry, because the thick ceramic platter emptied of lasagna quickly. The only sounds were gentle tings of forks against plates or the pours as Adrian refilled my glass with dark red liquid.
The atmosphere was more somber than comfortable, with Philip mostly silent and brooding.
When Adrian spoke, he didn’t bother interrupting Philip’s reverie—making me think it was a normal occurrence. Instead he focused on me. Even though I knew he intended light conversation, I couldn’t keep what I’d learned a secret so soon after the phone call.
“Jesus,” Adrian said after I told him, setting his fork down. “You don’t know where they’ve taken him?”
I glanced at Philip, but he didn’t look at either of us, focused on some invisible point. “No,” I said. “They’re waiting for contact, but even when that happens, they don’t have the money to get him back.”
Adrian’s gaze flicked to Philip, and I knew he was wondering the same thing. Would Philip pay it? And just how much would it cost me? Everything, Philip had said—was that too high a price to pay for my brother’s life? The answer came swiftly and painfully: no. I would pay anything, everything.
I guessed Philip already knew that.
Numbness would be great right about now. I took another gulp of the sweet, sharp wine.
“That’s some luck,” Adrian said. “An incident with the cops this morning and your brother taken at gunpoint last night.”
Yes, it was some luck. But no accident. I met Philip’s enigmatic gaze, challenging him to admit the truth now. “Who did you say hurt you last night?”
His gaze met mine, and I saw that he had been listening all along. He gave me a slight smile, not entirely kind. “I didn’t.”
“Of course not.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Worried about me, kitten?”
“Surprised, that’s all. A normal night for me would be study group or a Netflix marathon. Not a bleeding man on my doorstep.”
Adrian chose that moment to reach for the wine bottle—he was silent, very discreet. Philip covered the rim of my glass with his hand to block him. My lips had touched that rim repeatedly, and Philip’s fingers resting on the thin glass looked somehow intimate, almost obscene.
“Enough,” he said softly, his gaze on me.
Adrian set the bottle down on the table and got up. Without a word he left the room.
I blinked in surprise—and maybe a little annoyance. “Do you always speak to him that way?”
“I was speaking to you.”
Anger rose up in full force, but before I could say a word, Philip was out of his seat. I stood to counter him, unwilling to back down. He kept coming at me, undeterred. My body ended up flush against the wall. He stood close enough that his broad chest filled my vision. I had to look up to meet his gaze.
His expression didn’t mirror mine—no anger, no helplessness. Only hunger.
“You have no right,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I have every right.” His thumb brushed my lip. “This mouth. This body. It’s mine. I’m the only man who can touch it, who can fuck it.”
I flinched. “You’re a bastard.”
That earned me a low chuckle. “I’m a bastard because I take
what I want. Because I keep what’s mine. Did you imagine it would be any different when it came to you?”
I opened my mouth to respond, even though I didn’t know what I would say. Whatever it was, it would be scathing. It would condemn him. And then his lips brushed over mine, and it was too late.
Time’s up. That was what he’d said in the car. It was what he said now, but not with words. With the achingly soft caress of his lips, the inexorable demand of his tongue. He wanted inside my mouth. He wanted inside my body.
I pressed my lips together, stubborn and resistant—like a child holding her breath to get her way.
It was his hands that convinced me, the way they gripped my hips. There was so much knowledge in that grip, as if they would hold me the same way when he was buried inside me. It undid me. I was no longer a stubborn child, but a woman—and my lips parted on a sigh of surrender.
He took every advantage, pushing my mouth open so there was nothing I could do but submit to him. His exploration was both thorough and sensual. There was an animal grace to the flick of his tongue, to the power of his body. It didn’t feel like payment for him helping my brother. It didn’t feel like a question either. It felt like he was taking something from me—and the base part of me gave in without a fight.
Firm hands pulled my hips flush against him. I could feel the ridge of his erection, and he ground me on it—not moving his body against mine, but instead mine against his, using me to give himself friction. Heat bloomed between my legs, my secret spaces desperate for that same motion deep inside me.
When he pulled back, I was panting and flushed. I bit my lip to keep from begging for more.
His cheeks were dark, eyes like onyx.
The moment was charged with desire, with danger. My heart knocked against my ribs, and I waited for him to tell me what that was. To tell me what he wanted. I waited for him, the way he had waited for me all these years.
His gaze sharpened, and I thought he might say something important. Something personal. Then a steel gate slammed down on his expression, leaving the cold, detached man in his place. This man might not have been kissing me just seconds ago. This man didn’t feel a thing.