The cheek. “Well . . .” I point a finger at her, trying to focus on the tip as it circles the air all by itself. On a sigh, she takes it and holds it steady for me.
“Well, what?” she asks.
“Well.” I draw a blank, rummaging through my head for what I was going to say. “Oh yeah.” I sniff, forcing my face into scowling. Or something close. “Well, I don’t like you slicing your arms open. A-a-and I don’t like it that it doesn’t hurt you, because it fucking hurts me.” I yank the sleeve of my shirt up clumsily and rip the bandage off, as if to show her my agony. “I did this because of you.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Brad dips to get his face up close, and probably a bit clearer for me too. His eyebrows are high. Accusing. “Time for bed.”
“Fuck you. I don’t have a bed.” I throw my arm out and catch Rose on the arm. “Put me in her room.” Brad looks to Rose, and it riles me. “Why you looking at her for? I fucking tol . . . old you, put me in her room. In her bed.” I start to scramble up, swatting their hands away when they both move in to help me. “It’s my fucking house. My fucking bed. My fucking life.” I stagger to the door, smacking my arm on the frame. “And she”—I whirl around too fast, dizziness sending me staggering a few paces before I right myself and narrow my eyes on Rose as best I can—“is mine too. Anyone got a problem with that?” I hear no protests, though I can’t see any faces clearly to gage reactions. So I start walking, pin-balling off the walls as I make my way down the corridor. Fuck me, I’m a mess.
I see Esther coming out of the kitchen across the hallway, a tray in her hands. “Mother,” I sing, and she startles, stopping in her tracks and looking past me. I follow her stare over my shoulder and find not only Brad and Rose, but all my other men too. The fact that they are completely unaware as to Esther’s true identity is escaping me now. I shrug and return my attention to my mum. “Today I buried the man who saved me,” I declare. “The only . . . only fu . . . fucking person in this world whooooo had any t . . . ime for me.” I sway forward, getting my face up close to Esther’s. “Because you bloody didn’t, did you, huh? My own fucking mmmmotherrrr leaving me to be beat . . . beaten, raped, and tortured.” I think I hear a few gasps from behind me. I can’t be sure. “Thanks a million, Mum,” I sneer, blindly reaching for the handrail leading up the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good idea,” she says flatly, and I snort to myself, gazing up the stairs. There must be a million fucking steps.
I tackle the first, squinting, lifting my foot and settling it down on the same step. I hear a collection of gasps from behind me and swing around, a bit to quickly for my pissed head’s liking. Down I go with a whack, my arse hitting the edge of a step hard, my body sprawled, spanning at least ten of the million steps. “When did I get so many stairs?” I ask no one in particular.
“Ready?” Rose’s voice sounds thick and distant. Is she leaving? Fuck, she can’t.
“Someone stop her,” I demand. “She’s my prisoner.”
“Shut up, you jerk.” She’s close now, and I grapple thin air for her, feeling her breath on my cheek. “Ringo, get him under his legs. Brad, you get his arms. Esther, would you mind bringing some water to my room?”
“It’s my fucking room,” I spit, feeling my body leave the ground. “And I can walk.” I’m a joke. I can barely talk. “Youuuu are my prisoner.” My body starts to bob mildly, and Brad chuckles his way up the million steps, his face suspended above mine.
“What’s so fucking funny?” I snipe.
“The only prisoner I see around here is you, Danny.”
“Go fuck y—”
“I’ve fucked myself enough today, thanks.”
I land on something soft, my sense of smell bombarded with the sweet, stunning smell of her. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, getting as much of it as I can. My eyes become impossible to keep open, and my mouth dries quickly from hanging open.
Rose. Rose Lillian Cassidy. Oh, how you’ve fucked me over good and proper. I fucking hate you. I hate everything. But I especially hate you.
No, you don’t.
Yes, I do.
You don’t.
I do.
Don’t.
Do.
“I don’t hate you,” I slur, my voice even more muffled, my body on the move. I drag myself to the edge of the bed, tossing my legs off the side and sitting up. The fucking room spins at a hundred miles an hour, around and around, forcing my hand to come up and cling to my head. “Fuck.” Where am I? What the fuck’s going on? I hear the door close and peek up through squinting eyes. The slim silhouette of a female figure approaches, finally coming into view when she’s just a foot away. I look up and lift my hand, reaching for Rose and tugging her forward until she’s standing between my legs. My head falls onto her stomach. I feel her hands in my hair. I settle against her. “I told you ev . . . everything about meeee,” I mumble. “And you won’t tell me anything about you.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, pacifying me, rubbing soothing circles through my hair with her fingers.
“No, now,” I order, forcing my limp body away from hers. “Talk to me now.”
She smiles. It’s the smile that makes me truly happy. A rare and precious smile. And I put it there. Her hand cups my cheek and she dips a little, coming close to my slumped form. “You won’t remember a damn thing if I tell you anything now.”
“You wanted to die.”
“I want the impossible, and that makes me want to die.”
“Nothing is impossible,” I argue. “Nothing.”
“Everything is impossible.” She rests her lips on my scarred cheek, and I seize her, pulling her down to the bed with me. I can do no more than hold her to me, my body now done for the day.
“One day, I’m going to prove you wrong.” I close my eyes and fight my way through the room spin.
“I hope I’m here to see you do that,” she replies, making me frown into my darkness.
“Why, where else would you be?” She’s my prisoner. Why does everyone keep forgetting that detail? “You’re going nowhere, Rose L . . . L . . . Lillian Cassidyyy. Unless . . . unless it’s with me.”
Chapter 20
ROSE
* * *
I should feel great. I don’t. I had to pry myself from his arms last night. Strip him down. Redress the cuts on his arms after he ripped the bandages off, knowing I caused those. Watch him murmur and whimper in his sleep. Seeing him like that—so drunk, so raw, open and vulnerable . . .
It hurt. He won’t remember a thing. He won’t wake up and recall any of the things he said, what he did, how he held on to me with all he had.
That’s why I don’t feel great.
And the message on my phone is the reason I have to leave. Now.
* * *
Stupid Rose
* * *
There’s a picture of me. I’m with Danny. On his terrace. I close my eyes briefly. Nowhere is safe. Not even Danny’s mansion. His lips are on my chest. The photo is taken from above. From the sky. A drone? Here, in this moment in the picture, I’m a different woman. And to Nox, I am a dangerous woman.
He’s texted me. He never texts me. He’s taken a risk, and that alone shows his state of mind. The phone buzzes in my hand again, making me startle, and another picture appears. A low, broken sob escapes me when I see a photo of my son. He’s getting on a school bus, a backpack being dragged behind him, some soccer cleats slung over his shoulder, joined by the laces. I don’t have a second to appreciate him. This isn’t a reward. This is the end. My thumbs work without thought, bashing the keys across the screen.
* * *
I’ll call you. Give me five.
* * *
I click send and squeeze my hand around the phone, crushing it so hard it could crack. I was so sure I could do this. So certain I could fix this mess with Danny’s help. But as long as Nox plays his ace card, I can’t fix anything. No one can.
I peer out of the bathro
om, seeing Danny still unconscious on the bed. I softly close the door and dial Nox. He doesn’t speak when he answers, leaving me to explain. “It’s been impossible to get in touch,” I say. “There’s always someone watching me, and Black takes me everywhere with him.”
“You’re lying. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed your son.”
“No,” I sob. “I’ll get you what you want, I swear.”
Nox hesitates for a second, humming. He knows he has me. I hate him with every fiber of my being. Hate him. “You have one chance to redeem yourself. And if you do, I might make sure you’re out of the firing line in future.”
“You knew I was on the balcony?” The drone.
“I want to know when the exchange with the Russians is happening. I want a time and a place. Or the next picture you get will be of your son in a coffin. And then I will kill you and find myself another whore.”
“I’ll get the information.” I assure him. “I promise.”
He hangs up, and a ragged cry escapes, forcing me to cover my mouth to muffle the sound. I’m going to lead Nox directly to his prey. I may as well be loading the gun and pulling the trigger. This is it. I look up to the mirror, seeing my bottom lip trembling terribly. “Shit,” I curse, rubbing at it, sniffing and generally trying to compose myself. I need to be together. I have no fucking clue how I’m going to get the information Nox wants. No clue. But I must.
Hiding the phone, I roll my shoulders and pull the door open. Danny’s starfished, his body stretched and spread far and wide, his face rough, his hair rougher. I creep toward him. I don’t know why, as I don’t think an atomic bomb would wake him. As I near, I stare at his beautiful, scarred face, replays of our time together flipping through my mind—the angry times, the times we looked at each other and understood each other, the times we kissed, made love, comforted each other.
I breathe in some resolution and settle on the edge of the bed. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want to disturb his slumber and bring him back to a place where his head is likely to feel like it’s falling off. I don’t want to set in motion what will be the end for us. The end of him.
I’m about to gently nudge him when the door knocks, and I shoot up, pulling my robe in. “Come in.”
Brad pokes his head around the door, eyeing up his boss on the bed. “It fucking stinks like a distillery in here.”
I hadn’t noticed. All I can smell is my regret. “Everything okay?”
“Sleeping beauty needs to get his ass up. It’s past twelve, for fuck’s sake.”
My curious mind gets the better of me. “You need to be somewhere?” I ask, striving to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“You could say that.” Brad walks over to Danny and pokes him in the arm, and something deeply protective inside of me rises.
I move in to nudge him away. “I’ll deal with him.”
“I bet you will.”
I ignore his sarcasm and press more, being delicate and casual. “He’s probably still drunk. I doubt he’ll be up for anything today other than recovering.”
“He hasn’t got any choice. It’s important.”
Important. Like an exchange important? God, is it today? Brad moves in to poke Danny again, but I block his path, standing firm. He gives me a curious look. “I’ll wake him. He’s going to need the gentle approach, and you don’t look like you’re in the mood for gentle.”
Brad winks, and it riles me, because I know something obscene and inappropriate is coming.
“Don’t,” I warn, turning away from him. “I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” And as soon as Danny’s gone from my room, I’ll be making a call that I so don’t want to make. Guilt is a vise around my heart as my gaze jumps across the sheets of the bed.
“You got it,” Brad replies, almost mocking. “And Rose?”
I lift my eyes and stare at Danny’s sleeping form, unable to look at Brad, worried he’ll see my agony. “What?”
“You ever try to cut yourself again, it won’t just be Danny all over your ass.”
I pivot, a little stunned. His face is straight, as if he means for his blank, emotionless expression to contradict his soft words. “Danny doesn’t give a shit about me,” I say, knowing it’s bullshit. We all know it. Especially after last night. But I go on, nevertheless, maybe hoping that Brad might confirm what I’m wishing. “I’m here out of convenience.”
“And that’s why he tore his arm up with a knife, is it?” He doesn’t give me the opportunity to refute him, bringing the wood between us.
I drop back down to the edge of the bed, my mind in turmoil as I stare at Danny’s comatose form. The ache in my heart, the kick in my gut, the butterflies that have taken up residence in my tummy. It’s love. I’ve fallen in love with the monster. I should ask myself how, but the answer is very easy. He sees me. Feels what I feel. Thinks how I think. And that makes what I’m going to do to him unforgiveable. Yet, I really do not have a choice.
Danny coughs, and for a split second, I worry that he might throw up. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles, rolling onto his side and sinking his face into a pillow. I smile, a little amused, a little sad, reaching for his shoulder, but quickly retracting my hand. I shouldn’t touch him. I shouldn’t light the spark.
“You’re wanted,” I say, practically on a whisper, aware that every sound might be amplified by a million decibels, making it sound like I’m screaming.
One eye opens, and it squints. I can see his poor, battered head trying to locate the memories he needs to tell him why he’s in my bed and why I’m here. And he obviously can’t find them. Brusque Danny appears, though I can tell it takes some effort, his face bunched in disgust as he wrestles his uncooperative body into a sitting position. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You mean in this room?” I ask, standing and letting him take in the space. “Because you demanded it. Because I’m your prisoner. Because this is your house, your room, your life.” I smile sickly sweetly, the natural feistiness in me that he spikes racing forward and smacking him around his hungover face. “That’s why.”
He looks down at his arm, taking in the bandages I wrapped carefully and lovingly. Then he scoffs and rips them off. It’s a message. “I fucking hate you,” he spits, wincing his way to the edge of the bed.
“Join the club, Danny,” I retort, heading for the bathroom. I hate myself too, and his stunned eyes as he looks up when I’m shutting the door tells me he’s grasped my hidden meaning. I slam the door and heave for a few seconds, my blood boiling. How does he do this? Get this rise from me? I suddenly feel like I have so much more to say, to remind him of every drunken slur that fell out of his stupid mouth last night. Why, I don’t know, but the urge is there, and when I have urges where Danny Black is concerned, I can’t seem to restrain them.
I yank the door open and put one foot in front of the other, charging right into his naked chest. I ricochet off his mass of muscles, forcing him to grab my wrist. The cuts on his forearm make me wince, and I drop my eyes, every word I had ready to fire disintegrating under his closeness. Under my guilt.
A firm grip takes my jaw, squeezing as he forces my face to his. I make it as difficult as possible, but he wins. I hope he always wins. Blue fire rains down on me through red-rimmed eyes, his torso subtly rippling from his labored breathing. Today is the day I’m sentencing him to die, and he’s not even in full working order. He’s not alert enough. If he was operating at full Danny Black ability, he might stand a chance. Yet, in reality, I know that the moment our paths crossed, we were both sentenced to death.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper mindlessly, my voice groggy with regret.
His head tilts in question, his forehead weighed down with confusion. I see softness breaking past his sharp face, but he quickly reins it back in. “Get dressed.” He drops my face and passes me, removing his boxers and getting in the shower.
My panic is instant. “Where are we going?”
“To the boatyard.”
> “But I . . .” But I what? Can’t? “I’d like to stay here. I’m not feeling too well.” It isn’t a lie. I feel sick all of a sudden. I can’t go. I can’t watch everything unfold and know it’s all my fault. I can’t watch him die.
Danny’s soaping hands pause on his stomach, an incredulous look passing over him. “You don’t feel too well?” He snorts, turning away from me and continuing with his shower, his ass glistening like a perfect pair of hard, smooth rocks. “Join the fucking club, Rose,” he retorts nastily, turning the spray onto his face. He trails his palms all over his cheeks, his arms, his stomach, his thighs.
He steps out of the stall, grabbing a towel and rubbing it over his hair, standing utterly bare and beautiful before me. “Didn’t fancy joining me, then?” he asks, pure, infuriating malice in his tone. He steps forward and pulls the front of my robe away, exposing my breasts. I breathe in, searching for my veil of protection. It’s lost with Danny. Lost forever. “Shame,” he whispers. “A good fuck against the wall to let off some steam before my day would have been welcomed.” I’m too angry to be turned on. He’s trying to make me feel worthless, cheap, and I hate that he’s succeeding. Any other man I wouldn’t care. But Danny? After I’ve experienced him at his very best, I just want to slap his bastard face for being so hurtful. “Maybe I’ll call Amber.” He drops my robe and steps back, looking down at his cock. It’s twitching. He pouts.
The heat in my veins might burn them to nothing. “Maybe you should do that.” I grind out the words, ignoring how painful they are to say. I’m chasing myself in circles here, swaying between love and hate. I’m supposed to be getting information from him. Retaliating to his asshole behavior isn’t the way to get it, but the man infuriates me. I square up to him, getting close, my face pushed up to his. I have to get on my tiptoes to do it, but it’s worth the effort. “This whore is done with you.” I pivot and get exactly two paces away before I’m tackled and thrown against the wall. I hit it with force, the impact dislodging a cry of shock from me.
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