Entwined: (A Dark Romance Kidnap Thriller) (The Dark Necessities Trilogy Book 3)

by Felicity Brandon

  Chapter Eight

  “I want to make contact with her again.”

  Connor knew how fucking ridiculous his request was even as it left his lips, but there was nothing to be done about it. It was true, and now the words were out there for Morrison to take however he wanted.

  Saul’s face was the picture of astonishment. “What? Tell me you’re joking, Reilly, please?”

  “Am I known to be a man who jests, Morrison?” he retorted, causing Saul’s expression to harden.

  “Don’t be a prick, Connor.” Saul’s voice was little more than a growl. “Men like us don’t fall in love. We don’t need that shit. We’ve got money, we’ve got power. Fucking hell, we’ve got virtual impunity from the law! We can get anything we want, you know that. Women, drugs, anything.”

  This was far more like the Saul Morrison Connor knew and loathed. The Saul of the last few days had been far too open-minded and understanding for Connor’s liking.

  “Far be it from me to break one of your precious rules, Saul,” he replied in a virtual sneer. “But you’re wrong. I am in love with her, and I want her back. And you know me, I won’t stop until I get what I want.”

  Saul rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, I know you, Connor. You and Dalton have been driving me crazy with your particular brand of desire for many years.”

  Morrison paused, his gaze drilling into the younger man. “But this, Connor. This is too much. Your hedonism has landed you in serious trouble on more than one occasion, and now you want to reconnect with the woman who inspired this latest disaster?”

  Connor wanted to smile. Everything about Saul’s response so far was exactly as he had imagined it would be. “That’s right,” he purred in response. “That’s precisely what I want.”

  Saul slammed his fist down hard against the glass desk between them. “This is bullshit, Connor, and you know it.”

  If he was looking for a response from Connor, then Saul was to be disappointed. Connor didn’t move, and there was no discernible reaction from his face.

  “Be that as it may,” Connor continued. “But it won’t stop me. I want her, Saul. I want her like I’ve never wanted anything before.”

  Saul stared at him blankly. “This is just your latest whim, Connor, we both know that. Your latest fetish. You’ll soon tire of her, and then what? If you reach out and bring her here, then she’ll know about us. Damn it, Connor, she’ll have to become part of us. Do you know what that means?”

  “Of course, I know,” countered Connor. “I’ve been a part of this family for most of my life. I’ve seen the very best and the very worst of it.”

  “And you want to bring her into that?” Saul’s quip was as sharp as it was fast. “To expose her to all of this BS?”

  “I think she’s been exposed to a lot worse than that already,” laughed Connor from his chair on the other side of Saul’s desk. “She did have to endure many days and nights at my beck and call, remember?”

  Saul snorted, the atmosphere in the room shifting to a more relaxed ambience after Connor’s latest remark. “Well, that’s true,” he offered at length, “but still. The Syndicate is something different altogether. If we bring your pretty little writer into our dark folds, then there can be no turning back. She’ll be one of us for the rest of her life.”

  Connor liked the way that sounded. He liked it a lot.

  “I understand,” he mused. “And I know I’d have to make her understand that, too, but in principle, if she was willing. Would you be prepared to accept Molly?”

  Saul’s expression was stern, and for a few moments no further words were exchanged at all. Connor waited, ignoring the anxious knot of tension in his stomach. He knew Saul, and he knew it could go either way, but he deeply resented the way he was toying with him; making him wait like a naughty school boy.

  “I’ll need time to think on it,” he brooded after the longest time. “And it will have to be presented to the membership.”

  “What?” demanded Connor, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “What the fuck does it have to do with the others?”

  Saul smirked. “Come on now, you know the rules,” he told Connor. “Any woman entering the fold has to be decided by a majority vote.”

  Connor’s jaw tightened. He knew the rules, alright, but that didn’t mean they weren’t bullshit. “Can’t you override it?” he asked indignantly. “You make the bloody rules here, Saul. You can overrule them!”

  “I don’t see the need,” he told Connor flatly. “This would be a big decision for The Syndicate, and in that event, I think everyone should have their say.”

  Connor slammed his boot down against the expensive wood flooring. “Are you doing this just to torture me?” he huffed.

  “Naturally you would think that,” retorted Saul, “but no. Unlike you, Connor, I do not get my kicks by inflicting pain on others. I am merely observing tradition. Our collective is built on trust, loyalty and above all, discretion. That means whenever we bring someone new into the fold, they have to be assessed very carefully, to see if the majority support it.” He paused, ensuring his gaze locked with Connor’s. “It’s not unreasonable.”

  Connor ignored the assertion altogether. He knew better than most, whatever the so-called majority thought, it would be Saul who made the final call. “And what about you, Saul,” he asked. “Do you support it?”

  Saul stared at him, his gaze darkening. “I can’t say,” he concluded. “I haven’t even met the girl yet. You came here looking for my permission to make contact with her again. Is that right?”

  Connor snorted. “I do not need your permission,” he hissed, practically spitting out the final word. “I came here only as a courtesy to you, Saul. As our leader.”

  Morrison’s brow rose. “Yes, your leader,” he reminded him. “And the one who orchestrated your recent escape, as I recall?”

  Connor blanched at that. Saul had him there.

  “So, reach out,” the older man continued. “Make contact with your woman, and see how engaged she is. I don’t want The Syndicate mentioned until you’re face to face and she’s here in England.”

  Connor sighed. Saul was right. He did have to get Molly back across the pond, and God only knew how he was going to manage that.

  Chapter Nine

  Days had passed since Molly had made the decision to contact Connor, but in all that time there had been no breakthroughs. There was no sign of him, no semblance of the man she had grown to obsess about; no sign of him at all. She’d begun slowly, posting tentative messages in her group, and engaging with her readers again. It had been fun, and Molly had to admit that she’d missed it, but the real excited tension rising in her belly every time she logged in was not about reader interaction. It was only about him.

  She distracted herself in her words, as she always had done, and piece by piece a story had begun to develop. But still, things felt clunky to Molly. The words made sentences, and those sentences filled pages, but there seemed to be no passion in them. There was no fire anymore, no desperate yearning between the characters, and urgency to reach the end. It was unsettling and thoroughly unsatisfying.

  By the end of the third day, Molly was sinking. She could physically feel the mood fall over her, dragging her down to new depths she hadn’t even experienced in the days since her captivity ended.

  Captivity.

  That seemed laughable now, given that she was actively seeking out the man who had taken her, but that was, she reminded herself, how all this had begun. Molly tried not to think about what people would say if and when they found out what was filling her head for long hours. She knew nobody would understand. Not her mom, nor Suzy or Hannah, and she couldn’t blame them for that. How could they understand? It wasn’t understandable, but it was what she felt; what he made her feel, just like he always did. Just like he always would.

  Molly settled in her comfy chair with a slice of the freshly delivered pizza in her hand, firing up her laptop for what felt like the fiftieth time that
day. Her eyes scanned the open tabs, searching for names she knew, plus those she didn’t; for any piece of correspondence which would offer her hope, but there was nothing. Nothing new and nothing of any interest. With a sigh, she snuggled back in the seat, determined not to let her disappointment ruin her pizza. She had fancied this little delicacy for an age now. Franco’s chicken supreme had been the first thing she had wanted when she’d got back to Pennsylvania.

  It was then that it happened. She had just devoured the first slice with gusto, licking her fingers as she considered which piece to attack next when her ears registered the familiar ping of the direct message box. Glancing back to her screen, she saw the new box flashing on her browser, and all at once her curiosity was piqued. The message was from an individual she didn’t know. Usually she wouldn’t even have seen it. Molly had chosen to ignore all unsolicited messages for years, knowing what kinds of scandalous requests people seemed to think it was acceptable to send an erotic romance writer, but now everything was different. For the last few days, she’d been proactively scouring those messages, looking for a sign of her lover, and because of that, she noticed this new communication.

  It was from someone called Dalton Reilly, and just the look of that name made her heart race a little faster. Reilly. That was Connor’s name! Could it be that this was a pseudo name he was using to reach out to her? Probably not, she told herself. It’s probably just some other nut job wanting to share a dick picture or two, but still… the thought that it could be him was enough for her to push the pizza aside and draw the laptop closer. Her eyes danced over the words of the message hurriedly.

  I love your books, Miss Clary.

  Molly sighed. It wasn’t much to go on, but for the first time since she began scouring her messages, she felt inclined to respond, hammering out a reply in just a few seconds.

  Thank you, she answered. It’s great knowing there are people out there who enjoy my work.

  Dalton’s response was almost immediate. Do you have anything new planned?

  Molly glanced up from the message box, scanning the barely-started new story. She didn’t have the energy to look at it again now, and every time she’d headed back into one of her half-finished manuscripts, her heart grew heavy. It appeared she didn’t have the appetite for any of them anymore. The characters all seemed vacant, as though they were missing some vital ingredient which would spark her interest.

  I’m working on a few new projects, she typed in response, but there are no releases dates yet.

  There was a pause then, Molly’s eyes darting over the small box, desperate to see the flashing dots which would indicate a forthcoming reply. When those small dots finally appeared, her heart skipped a beat, and she found herself staring avidly at the screen, as though she was expecting some critical message.

  Nonsense, she reminded herself. That’s nonsense. This is just some random individual. It’s no one. I bet they haven’t even read any of your books.

  Yet still she glared at the screen, waiting, her body tense and expectant. And what she read next nearly made her heart stop altogether.

  I have a story here for you to finish…

  That was it, just nine little words, but they nearly sent Molly hyperventilating.

  Really? she asked with trembling fingers. And why would that be?

  This time the messenger didn’t make her wait at all.

  I think you know, pet.

  Molly re-read that last word about five times. Her eyes hanging on it as though it was super-glue. Her heart was hammering inside her chest now, threatening to leap into her throat if she didn’t do something to calm it soon.

  Do I know you?

  It was all she could think to ask, as she hit send, she found herself holding her breath.

  I think so, came the reply. You certainly should.

  A wave of panic washed over here at that, exhilaration meeting anxiety inside her body. It couldn’t be Connor, she assured herself. It was probably just some twisted fucker who’d read the story in the news, and had come online to torture her further. Yes, she decided, that would be it. Not Connor. Not Connor at all.

  Pet?

  The word stirred her, commanding her fingers back to the keyboard.

  Why are you calling me that? she typed, trying desperately to keep calm as she watched the question appear on the screen in front of her.

  You know why, pet. It told her. Because I can. Because you are my kitten. You’re mine.

  Chapter Ten

  Connor came alive as he typed. In all the excitement and trauma of the last year, he’d almost forgotten how intoxicating it was to communicate with Molly this way, to flirt with her; to goad her from the privacy of his own device. He could tell she wasn’t convinced about who she was talking to, and on that point, he couldn’t blame her. You never did know who you were dealing with online, after all, and it was better to be shrewd, than sorry.

  He chuckled out loud at that, amused at his own ironic musing. How peculiar that he should be worried about Molly’s safety online, when he was the predator reaching out to her. Or at least, he had been once, many months ago, when he had first made contact with her on one of his many accounts. Now, as he sat propped up against a stack of pillows on his king-sized bed in the middle of the night, he was using Dalton’s account in the hope that the Reilly name would resonate. It seemed it had indeed resounded with his pet, but still, she was wary. Any nutter could take a name on social media. Any number of them could have read their story in the papers and reach out, pretending to be Connor.

  Why are you calling me that?

  The question appeared in his messenger box, and even as he read, he could hear the hiss of Molly’s indignant tone. Connor shook his head, smiling to himself.

  You know why, pet. He replied slowly. Because I can. Because you are my kitten. You’re mine.

  There was a pause, and he took a swig of the whisky from the tumbler beside the post of his bed. He hadn’t drunk much in the last few years of living alone, but something about being back with The Syndicate had helped that bad habit to re-emerge.

  I don’t know who you are, but that’s not funny.

  Molly’s reply was curt, but somehow, he could feel the hurt in her words. Understandably, she had decided this must be some sick fuck playing a joke on her. Well, she was right about the first part at least, he was a sick fuck, but these days he was more lovesick than anything else.

  Kitten. His fingers were typing even before he’d had time to instruct them. You know me, but I get it. You don’t trust what you can’t see. So, test me. Ask me a question. Ask me something that only I would know the answer to. Something that hasn’t appeared in the media.

  Connor hit send, downing the rest of his drink as his gaze seared into the screen in front of him. He wanted her to take the bait, she simply had to. Saul was still unconvinced about his plan altogether, but everything depended on his ability to connect with Molly again. It seemed to take forever for the small dots to appear in the messenger box again. All the while, anxious tension clawed at Connor’s insides. Anxiety wasn’t something he was particularly accustomed to. Even in prison, he’d rarely been on edge, safe in the knowledge that he could handle himself, and he’d not be residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for too long, but this; this was something different. The power that his kitten had over him at this moment was new and troubling, and he gulped as those peculiar little dots darted across his browser. Whatever her verdict was, it was coming now.

  Okay, hot shot, she replied. If you really want to play, then answer me this. What were Connor’s final words to me in the car, before he was arrested that day? If you’re him, then you’ll be able to answer without a problem.

  Her message dripped cynicism, and the timbre made his palm twitch. Instinctively, he wanted to spank that sassy tone out of her, but still, he couldn’t blame her cautious approach.

  That’s easy, he typed, licking the remaining whiskey from his lower lip as his fingers flew over the keys.
He was typing with a new intensity now; one he had come to associate with Molly. My final words to you were this: I have to go, but this isn’t done, kitten. And you told me that you knew, and that this can never be done.

  He pressed enter, sending his words hurtling through cyber space to his little pet. That should do it. Those had been his exact words, and he knew none of their private conversations had been reported in the press. Evidently, neither he nor Molly had ever divulged those precious words, and Connor had spent a lot of time reading the crass reporting after he was broken out of jail. He knew there wasn’t another living soul except Molly, who would know what he had said to her that day. As he considered the fact, a new message presented itself in his brain, his digits already shifting to communicate it.

  And you were right, kitten, Connor continued. This can never be done. I might be out of prison, but there’s no freedom without you.

  That was a risk, and as he sent her the message, his heart raced in anticipation. Would she believe it was really him now, and even if his words had convinced her, what the fuck would she think about her ex-captor contacting her via the same medium he’d used to get in touch with her in the first place? All of a sudden, the whole thing felt precarious; a gamble he might lose. And Connor hated to lose.

  A new reply popped up in front of him, sending his anxiety ricocheting through his body. His eyes flew to the message box, finding only one word in response.

  Fuck.

  He arched a brow at that, his lips curling at her reply. It appeared his first question was answered; she knew it was him alright. Connor waited, resisting the urge to offer some slick come-back to her profanity. The message that appeared next made him want to cheer out loud.

  It’s really you, Master?