by Elaina Jadin
I can be her, the woman there staring back at me.
Yes, Draven, Bishop, and Kade have all played a part in the differences I see in her today, but they didn’t make her exist. They’ve begun peeling away the layers and walls I’ve erected to stay safe. To stay sane.
Their methods are not gentle, and it hurts more often than not, but there’s a new energy blossoming inside of me now. I press my other hand to my naked chest, feeling my heart beat steadily under my ribs.
I feel alive.
The girl in the mirror smiles broadly, and it takes my breath away. I’m smiling. I look beautiful.
I feel alive and… happy.
Tears spring to my eyes as I identify the emotion, remembering what it feels like for the first time in years. It’s bittersweet—I mourn for the girl who went so long without happiness, and cheer for the one who has finally discovered it again.
That realization stays with me throughout my shower and as I get ready for the day. When we returned from the fights, the Alphas gave me permission to move around freely, as long as I stay within the building and don’t enter any rooms with closed doors unless I have explicit permission.
I dress quickly, eager to leave my bedroom, slipping on one of the forest green tunic dresses in the closet. It’s a bit shorter than I’d normally feel comfortable wearing, but the new me wants to be brave.
She needs these men to see her, to acknowledge that she’s worthy of their attention. And she’s not afraid to draw their gazes, to invite their touches.
Maybe that’s why I decide to seek out Bishop, the self proclaimed sociopath, with my art supplies in hand. Draven is a brooding volcano, and Kade is a zealous wildfire, but Bishop... Bishop is the mountain unmoved by the earthquake. I want to find out what will make him move.
After wandering through the hallways and finding mostly closed doors, I finally give up on finding him on my own and resort to asking one of the men always stationed at the staircase landings between each floor.
The man I approach is the same one who drove us to the fight, and I offer him a soft smile. He nods at me in acknowledgement, and I ask him where Bishop is.
“The garage most likely, ma’am.”
I scrunch my face. “I actually have no idea where that is. Could you show me the way?”
His eyes are wary, as though he doesn’t want to leave his post and he hesitates for a moment, glancing down the hallway over my shoulder for several seconds. I turn to look behind me and see nothing.
Abruptly, he starts down the stairs. “This way, ma’am,” he tells me.
“Thank you.” It’s hard not to notice that my voice is positively cheerful compared to his stoic demeanor. “By the way, you can call me Jemma.”
That makes him pause in his steps for a second, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder as he replies. “Sorry, ma’am—the pack is under strict orders to address you as ma’am for as long as you’re here with the Alphas.”
He leads me down to the ground floor, and I almost think we’re going to go out the front door, but after exchanging nods with the guard posted in the foyer, he turns and leads me behind the wide staircase to a set of double doors.
“It’s strange,” I say, thinking aloud with a freedom I’ve not felt for ages. “I’ve heard of teams, squads, crews, and I’ve even encountered a few gangs before while I was dancing—but none of them ever referred to their group as a pack, or their leaders as alphas.”
He glances at me with a quizzical look as he pushes one of the doors open, as if he’s not certain he heard me right. But he goes through the door without answering and I follow, eager to see Bishop at last.
“Alpha Volkov? You have a visitor,” he calls out as we step into a brightly lit room.
My surprise at learning Bishop’s last name is only offset by the distraction of the smells that hit my nose—oil, paint thinner, gear grease, and gasoline.
There’s a nostalgic comfort in the combination of the volatile substances, and I draw in a deep breath. Images flash through my mind, taking me back to another lifetime. Skipping down the sidewalk each weekend as I carried a brown bag lunch to my father at the mechanic’s shop. Sitting on a tall toolbox, safely out of the way while he wheeled himself under cars we could never afford. The dirt and grime that stained his fingers as he took engines apart, explaining each step to me while I looked on curiously.
I close my eyes and take another long breath, letting the memories wash over me. For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t pain me to think about him. “Antonio, why aren’t you at your post?” Bishop’s voice is clipped with clear disapproval.
Before the guard can respond I step out from behind him. “I asked him to bring me here, sir,” I say with a hopeful smile as Bishop looks up from the workbench he’s standing at.
His eyes lock onto mine, but he doesn’t smile in return. I shift nervously, realizing that I’ve intruded into Bishop’s day without an invitation. I press my lips together as my expression sobers. Freedom to roam the building is not the same as being given permission to butt in wherever I want.
But Bishop’s gaze shifts to Nio, and he nods once. The man immediately turns on his heel and leaves without a single comment, quietly closing the door behind him as he exits.
As soon as we’re alone, Bishop reaches behind him and drags another stool around to the front of the workbench. He says nothing, but I know from his expression that I better plant my ass on the stool pronto. I hurry over and hop up onto it, my dress short enough that the chill of the metal bites into my thighs. But it’s worth it when I see Bishop’s gaze lingering on the long expanse of my bare legs before his eyes meet mine.
“Do you need something, Fawn?” he asks, peering at me expectantly through dark-rimmed glasses.
I shake my head, feeling a bit foolish in my assumption that he might enjoy having my company. “No, sir. I just… I wanted to see you.”
He stares at me as though he’s deciding whether my reason is enough to warrant the intrusion into his space. “Very well, you may stay,” he says finally, turning back to the workbench, his hands continuing the work he was doing.
With a start, I realize that there’s a large rifle disassembled in front of him, and it reminds me of the ones that military snipers use. My gaze roams over the parts of the weapon with curiosity, but it doesn’t hold my interest long because my eyes are drawn back to Bishop.
He’s in dark denim jeans and a black crew neck t-shirt. His toned arms are on full display, his muscles rippling as he finishes taking the rifle apart. I’ve never seen him wear glasses before, but they suit him.
I open my pencil pouch, digging through to find the right one, then flip open my sketch book. I pull my hair over one shoulder and cross my legs so I can prop the sketchbook on my knee. I’ve nearly lowered the pencil to the paper before I remember to ask permission.
“May I draw you, Alpha?”
Bishop glances at me. “You were given those supplies so you could draw, weren’t you?” he says dismissively, already focused back on the task at hand.
“Thank you, sir,” I say with a happy smile, even though his gaze is fixed elsewhere.
I watch him for a minute, taking him in, looking at how the light and shadows play across his skin, the definition of the muscles in his arms, the speed with which his hands work.
Then I put my pencil to paper, and soon we’re both lost in our respective work. I draw quickly, making small croquis-style sketches of him, focusing on one area at a time—his hands holding the pieces of the gun, his profile as he cleans each part, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he bends down, his lips and strong jaw, the t-shirt clinging to his chest as he twists, even the way his hair falls just above his ear.
Only when I finish the close-up studies of him do I flip to a clean page and finally try to capture all of him in one go. Before, I was creating puzzle pieces, as though studying him one fragment at a time would help me understand him better. Now,
I must put them all together.
Drawing Bishop requires elegant, sharp lines. He does nothing without a purpose, and it’s reflected in the way he moves.
The final clicks of the gun being reassembled pull me out of my trance, and I lift my pencil to look at the drawing of him. It’s not perfect—I haven’t had the focus to work on a large piece in quite a long time, as my aching hand is reminding me. But there’s no mistaking the subject.
Bishop lifts the large rifle from the workbench and places it in a case lined with thick foam, snapping it shut with finality before turning to me.
I turn my sketchpad around to show him the drawing, and he steps closer to inspect it.
“An acceptable resemblance,” he says.
I smile at his reaction—it’s not a raving review, but it is very… well, Bishop. I flip the book closed, feeling satisfied. As I’m tucking my pencil back into the pouch, my stomach rumbles loudly, nearly reverberating in the silence of the room.
Bishop removes his glasses and sets them on the workbench, then raises an eyebrow. “Did you not find your breakfast tray in your room this morning, Fawn?”
“I forgot about eating,” I quickly explain, my cheeks flushing. “I was too excited to come see you, sir.”
He moves toward me and the thought that he’s going to punish me for not eating makes heat flare inside my core. In my mind’s eye, he already has me bent over his workbench, a leather strap in his hand.
But all he does is reach for his jacket, hanging on the wall behind me. He slips it on, his eyes drinking me in as he does. “Since I’m the cause of your hunger, I shall rectify it. Follow me—leave your sketchbook here, no one will touch it.”
I set it next to the gun case, place my pencil pouch on top of it, then follow him through a door into a large garage.
He stops at the first vehicle, a gorgeous sports car, and unlocks it with a press of a button. It’s a sleek gunmetal black, oozing pure power and sensuality.
“Is this… wait, it is!” I breathe out, so preoccupied by the stunning Aston Martin that I ignore the passenger door Bishop opens for me as I walk around it, taking in the fine lines and exquisite craftsmanship. My father instilled a love of cars in me, and somehow, even though I rarely get to see such beauties up close, my wretched life hasn’t squashed my interest in them.
Remembering my manners, I hightail it back over to where Bishop is waiting at the passenger door. Rather than looking irritated at me, his expression is one of approval. “This is one of the very rare prototypes made for a certain British spy franchise that I have a particular indulgence for.”
“Can I drive?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize how ridiculous it is.
“Absolutely not,” he says with a snort. “Not on an empty stomach. Now get in.”
“What? Really?” I ask, my face lighting up as I slide into the car. “I can drive it after we eat?”
“Maybe,” he says noncommittally, but I catch a glimmer of amusement in his eyes before he shuts the door.
As I buckle in, I bite my lip to hold back a squeal of delight. The black leather interior is smooth and teasing against my skin, like a lover’s embrace. Bishop slides into the driver’s seat, and the car hums to life.
He looks over at me, a hint of a devilish smile on his lips, and my heart pounds against my chest. He’s so damn good looking. Frightening, unpredictable, powerful—but goddamn sexy. And he looks like he was made for this car.
“I’m thinking frittatas,” he muses as he eases the car into gear. “I know a place. Trust me?”
The garage door behind us raises, and Bishop revs the engine as we back out, the motor purring with power.
“Yes, Alpha,” I say, practically sitting on my hands to keep my excitement reined in. “I trust you.”
29
Bishop
If Jemma was concerned about staying in the car while I stepped into La Provence, she hides it.
There’s so much more I want to dig from her, to sand down the glass mountain she’s caged herself in. The last few days have put several cracks in her defenses, and if she stays long enough, one day we’ll push her far enough that she’ll shatter. Her pain, fear, pleasure, and joy will rain down, cutting into my core, and I will revel in it. I will lick her tears and the blood from her lips as she begs for release.
Breakfast is simply one more step toward her obliteration.
The food in the to-go containers floods the car with the scent of aromatic spices and savory meats. But when I pull into the park and stop the car in front of the playground, I can still smell Jemma’s fear and anticipation above everything else. Her hand immediately goes to her neck, her fingers clutching the simple necklace she always wears.
“Come,” I say, getting out before she can stew longer.
To prepare her properly for my next invasion into the glass fortress of her mind, I need her immersed in her trauma. I retrieve the bag of food and a dark chestnut box from the car, waiting impatiently for Jemma to emerge.
She makes no move to open her door, so I do it instead, reaching in to take her hand. I lead her to the picnic table closest to the play structure and she follows obediently, her head down, refusing to look at her surroundings.
There are kids laughing and chasing each other through the playground, their footsteps thudding across the wooden bridge. Joggers running to the rhythm of the music in their earbuds, couples walking their dogs, parents pushing small children on the swings, and even a pair of teenagers who’ve climbed onto the roof of the highest slide tower, drinking soda and taking in the world.
But when Jemma finally lifts her eyes and freezes beside the table, her body rigid like a statue, I know she’s seeing none of it. There are no happy scenes playing out before her eyes. For her, there are no bright rays of sunshine, no sounds of laughter, no smiling faces. It’s dark, cold, and terrifying.
“Sit.” I command, placing the bag of food and the box on the table.
I take the bench facing away from the playground. My position serves two purposes—it does not allow her to ignore the sights and sounds, but it also puts me between them and her. She still hasn’t sat as I begin to unpack the food, including a thermos of coffee.
“Fawn.” I pitch my voice low as I point at the seat across from me.
“Sorry,” she whispers as she sits down, her amber eyes stealing wary glances over my shoulder at the playground.
“Even here, I expect your complete obedience,” I state, pouring out two cups of coffee and handing her one. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Alpha,” she says, taking the cup automatically, her face slack, as though she’s numb.
I push the cream and sugar packets across to her and she picks them up, adding them to her cup with robotic motions. I wait patiently as she stirs them into the liquid and takes a sip. The warm coffee seems to pull her out of her dark cloud, and her eyes flick to me.
“Are you going to feed me here, too, sir?” she asks, her voice low, as though she’s afraid the families around us will overhear. “Or is that something we only do at home?”
My faint grin is a subtle, savage thing. She doesn’t even seem to notice that she called our compound home. Jemma is my very own geode. Before beginning to break her, she was hidden by a plain, dull exterior that allowed one’s eyes to pass over her without taking much notice. Now every crack we’ve chiseled has revealed more of her true self, and she’s magnificent.
“Would you like me to feed you?” My tone betrays nothing of my own interest, but her pupils dilate and her lips part with longing at the question.
She wears her emotions so plainly that it’s easy for me to read her. Her vulnerability is right beneath the surface. It’s no wonder Bryan fixated on her—she’s far too appealing to assholes without a conscience. Right now, she so clearly needs someone to ground her, to take control. But she’s a little spitfire waiting to be unleashed. As soon as she has a solid footing under her, she’ll be a wild one.
Draven will have his hands full with her, that much is apparent. She’s unlike any of his previous submissives, and if he thinks she’ll be perfectly obedient outside of the bedroom, he’s in for a surprise.
The control she needs from her partner isn’t absolute—she needs room to explore, but a safe place to land, someone to hold the strings of security while she blazes across the sky.
“You’re free to eat as you wish,” I tell her, pushing my own food to the side. Coffee will suffice for now.
I open the box, revealing a well-used chess set. It’s a simple thing, made of wooden pieces and a simple painted board, bequeathed to me by Miri the day she broke up a vicious fight between Kade and me. I have far grander sets, with pieces made out of crystal and marble paired with hand-carved teak boards. While I hold no true sentiment for this set, Miri does. So when I must play outside of my study, it is this box that travels with me.
“Chess?” she asks before taking a tentative bite of the frittata I ordered.
Regardless of the surroundings, her hunger is claiming her attention. But that’s not the only shift taking place—I can smell the lovely scent beginning to waft from her skin. Her arousal is growing, in spite of the anxiety this location is producing. Or perhaps our little fawn is already learning that her sharpest boundaries hold the sweetest pleasures.
“Yes,” I nod, setting up the board as I explain the game to her. “Each of the six pieces move differently. Knights can jump over other pieces, and none of the pieces can share a space at the same time. You capture an opponent’s piece by taking the place of their piece with your own.”
She’s watching the board with interest, and only when I pause does she look up at me. “The king is the most important piece, but also the weakest,” I continue, drinking in the serious gaze of her amber eyes. “The queen may only ever move straight in one direction—whichever she decides.”
I finish giving her a brief overview of the rules, the movements each piece is allowed, and the object of the game. To my great amusement, Draven hardly plays with me anymore because he hates to lose so frequently.