Cruel Water (The Dirty Heroes Collection Book 11)

by Dee Palmer

  For a good few seconds, she stares back at me, and it takes another second to register that she’s not going to put the seatbelt on. I lean in, place one hand on the seat next to her thigh and, with the other, pull the strap around her body. My face is close to hers, and my gaze locks on those bottomless blues as I blindly search for the holster with the buckle.

  She draws in a breath that makes the hairs on my neck spark to life. She exhales slowly. Her sweet breath washes over me, and her eyes darken with obvious pleasure. When I pull back, I notice a steak of blood on her pale thigh. There’s a droplet of deep red poised to fall from my watch strap. It must have come loose and the edge is clearly much rougher than I knew. The cut is small but deep and oozes blood. Her chest heaves, and dark desire swirls in the depths of her eyes, and I have never been this hard. She wipes the pooling blood with her finger and sucks it clean. Okay, now, I’ve never been this hard.

  She might not be the one who saved me, but she is… No, I have nothing. I have no idea who she is, where she’s come from, or what she wants. I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never experienced a reaction like this to anyone. All I do know is I’ve never felt this strongly about anything. Whether that is a good thing or not, I’m still undecided, and it wouldn’t be a complete lie to say I am more than a little intrigued to find out.

  4

  Two cast iron lanterns, which mark the entrance to the main gate and the start of the land surrounding the castle, are lit. Even from the end of the steep drive, I can see that Winston received my message and has prepared for my unscheduled arrival.

  My home is actually all that remains a medieval castle that once stood on this site. The keep is the only habitable part, and although a tenth of the original structure in size, it is still imposing. Impenetrable stone walls tower above us as we approach, blocking out the horizon and transporting me momentarily back to a more primitive time. It’s perhaps why I like it here so much. The interior may be more in keeping with a the comforts of twenty-first century existence, but outside, it’s very much the dark ages. Evidence of real battles mark the building like scars on a warrior. Chips and slashes in the stonework surround the loopholes where archers would defend the castle, soldiers patrolling the crowning battlement on the keep, with it’s panoramic view across the land and surrounding the bay, would alert the inhabitants of invaders

  Driving under the portcullis, the jaws of the iron gate, unmoved in a hundred years, look very much like teeth set to devour unwelcome visitors. The woman next to me dips and twists her neck to take a better look, her eyes wide with wonder, yet she shivers at the sight. The towering walls enclose a small courtyard, and there are several lights dotted around on each wall where Winston has opened up the rooms as instructed. Winston is the butler I inherited with the property, and despite being a technophobe, he is surprisingly efficient in maintaining this extraordinary property. He doesn’t manage all the upkeep himself, but he does manage the subcontracting to ensure it doesn’t crumble further into ruin.

  The living quarters are spread over several rooms, study, library, lounge, my own bedroom suite, all comfortably modern. The vast kitchen has a fireplace in which you could roast an entire cow. There is a grand hall, with a minstrels gallery, and there is a private chapel, all authentic medieval and barely changed in seven hundred years. There are also enough bedchambers to comfortably house twenty guests, if I was so inclined to invite anyone to stay. To date, I have resisted that inclination, until now. My eyes dart to the naked thighs, the nervously cupped hands, and the gap in the front of my jacket, exposing her perfect pert breasts.

  What am I doing? This is my place of solitude, my escape, a bolt hole when I need to get away from life, from work…from people.

  Easing off the gas, the car rolls to a stop at the foot of the steep stone steps that lead to the ancient oak front door. A two flaming torches on either side of the door provide some much needed light in the courtyard. I kill the engine and turn to face my guest. Her eyes are like saucers as she peers up at the tower. I guess to many it might look like something from a horror film, but to me it’s my sanctuary; it’s my home. She catches me staring at her and her cheeks flush with color. I’m reminded of the other color that she sucked clean off her finger, which, in turn, instantly causes my own blood to react, rushing not so much to my cheeks but much farther south.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I say out loud and jolt from the strength of her instant grip on my arm and almost hysterical shake of her head. She forces an encouraging smile, her eyes imploring with more depth than words could ever convey. “Okay, okay,” I soothe, another first for me, and I get a warm hit in my chest when she visibly relaxes. Pushing down the conflict of emotions currently kicking up a storm inside my head, I blink to break the eye contact and the strange pull she seems to have on me.

  “Come on, let’s see if Winston has made some of his famous soup. Not sure if you’re hungry, but I could definitely eat.” My eyes dip to the gap between her legs, where my jacket isn’t quite covering her bare pussy. Yeah, I could definitely eat.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Or maybe I should say: What the hell is right with me? I’ve never had these urges. Even in the second best sex dungeon in the city, the most I get is a respite from my constant internal torment. I never get sexual satisfaction. I never feel sexual desire. This is unpredicted. I feel like a horny fucking teenage boy, and since I never felt like a teenage boy when I was a teenage boy, I’m not sure what I should do next.

  Closing my eyes, I force myself to ignore the unruly hormones, at least until I can get some answers. My jaw clenches with the effort, and my skin prickles with the itch to touch her. I reach for the door instead and leap from the car as if my seat has been suddenly lit by the fiery flames of hell. Walking round the car, I use the precious seconds and drop in temperature to cool my burning desire and regain some control. I open her door, offering my hand to assist and manage to keep my wandering gaze away from falling between her legs. She stands and instantly buckles with silent pain, agony contorting her face as she clings to my arms to support her weight. I don’t know what’s happened. She didn’t look to be in pain when I first saw her. When she stood in the road, I wasn’t aware of any injury. I guess the adrenaline of facing down a speeding car might have masked the pain, and now that the danger is over, whatever is causing this reaction is back in full force.

  I secure my arm around her waist and take most of her weight, helping her to stand. Her eyes darken, and if I’m not mistaken, something other than pain masks a hidden smile. No, that can’t be right; I’m mistaken. I lift her into my arms and relish the way her body folds against mine. A happy silent sigh escapes from her soft pink lips, curved upward with a sweet smile, and I’m once again transported to another time, a love-struck teenager this time, and I’m not sure which manifestation is more disturbing to me.

  The front door creaks open and a warm slash of light strikes us, illuminating the way inside. Winston’s face is a picture, impassive yet curious.

  “Would you like me to take your jacket sir?” he says after closing the door behind us, his tone disinterested. He barely glances at the woman in my arms. I arch my brow high, fighting the urge to laugh when I realize he was joking.

  This is so strange that, for a moment, I have to consider whether I did actually die in that accident or I have somehow slipped into another dimension, because this is some seriously weird shit going on.

  “Thank you, Winston, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you like some supper? I have some crème de legumes soup prepared, or I could make you a sandwich.”

  “Soup would be great, thanks.”

  “And for your guest?” he asks, warmly addressing the woman in my arms.

  “She’ll have the same. She doesn’t speak.” My comment is absorbed by those knowing grey eyes, but he treats it as I would expect, that it doesn’t concern him.

  “I’ll bring it right awa
y. I lit the fire in the study…unless you would prefer the dining room?”

  “The study is fine. And if you could make up the guest room when you’re done, that would be great.”

  “Very good, sir. I have to say it’s very nice to see.”

  “What? That I have a guest, or that I’m carrying her in my arms?”

  “Neither. Actually, sir, I was going to say it’s very nice to see you smile.” His lips crack a wry smile. He holds my narrowed stare as if he is expecting a backlash at his impudence and is equally happy to take it on the chin.

  “That will be all, Winston.” I’m tempted but decide an impassive dismal is best. It’s bad enough dealing with this creature in my arms let alone insubordination in the ranks, even if it is well meaning.

  The vibrations of her light laugh ripple through me like a warm current, and I have to physically shake myself from the unsettling effects she seems to evoke in me—at least until I can figure out who the hell she is and what she wants.

  I stride across the flagstones of the cavernous entrance hall, through the arched hall toward my study. Using my elbow on the lever arch door handle, I back into the room in lieu of kicking the door open since my arms are occupied. Winston has set an impressive fire blazing, and I walk over and place her carefully in one of the winged back chairs that face the fire. When I relinquish my hold, she whimpers, not the actual sound, everything but the sound. The way her jaw drops, slack with the sudden exhale, her lips trembling as her body visibly shudders at my absence. She grasps for my hand and entwines her fingers with mine with something akin to feral desperation, her eyes pleading with me to remain close.

  I’m at a loss. I don’t ever appease people the way I feel I need to do with her. No, not just appease; I want to comfort her, protect her, and yes, I want to hurt her too.

  And there it is. My ugly demon in all it’s glory. My insides churn with the burning need to do my worst. Torment and agony fill every cell in my body until I’m consumed with it, driven by it, my own personal hell. She’s the picture of innocence. Unblemished, pure and vulnerable, and I want to mark her, dominate her. I want to hurt her.

  I turn away, snatching my hand from hers. She has no idea who she’s dealing with, and since she’s the one that is actually lost, I need to be the one to put her straight, maintain some boundaries, for her own good. The last thing this fragile human needs is a monster like me.

  I draw in a fortifying breath. It’s ridiculous to me that I need to be drawing on some mystical inner strength to simply walk away, but I do. I take a few strides to the door, and when I hear her light steps behind me, I spin around. She’s walking slowly toward me, my jacket a crumpled pile of material in the seat behind her. Her slender body trembles as she takes each tentative step toward me, her eyes fixed on mine, and I find I’m utterly mesmerized. Her skin looks smooth as porcelain, delicate and flawless. The curve of her hips, narrow waist and firm swell of her breasts makes my mouth water, my cock stir and my palm twitch. Then I notice something I’ve only ever seen when I am playing—a slice of unadulterated pain dances in the crystal blue eyes she fixes on me.

  “It hurts to walk?” I ask. She nods once, raises her chin and takes another defiant step, embracing the pain that is clearly shooting from her feet through her body. Her pupils dilate to large dark orbs filled with desire, and by the time she is flush to me, she’s the picture of wanton. My ragged breaths drown out the loud pounding in my chest. She tilts her head as if she’s waiting for me to ask another question. I have only one, yet I can’t bring myself to ask it. Not when I want to hear the answer so badly.

  No, no I won’t go there. It’s adrenalin and trauma, nothing more. She doesn’t want this; no one wants this.

  I bend and thrust my shoulder into her soft mid section. Lifting her high, the tension in her body resembles that of a surfboard, stiff, a little unbalanced and completely out of place in my study. I drop her back into the chair and scowl.

  “Don’t fucking move then.” My low grumble sounds more petulant than angry, still she visibly balks at the tone and I feel like a shit for losing my temper. She’s clearly been through a lot, and despite what my mind is racing with, she’s not my victim to torture. She needs to eat, get some rest, clothes, and then she needs to leave me the hell alone.

  When I turn this time, I don’t hesitate at the door. I walk out and pull it closed behind me. This is all wrong. What I’m feeling, what I want from her, what I think I’ve seen in her eyes, it’s all lies. I’ve lived long enough with this curse to know there is no happy ending for me. Pain and suffering are my only gifts, and even I am not that much of a monster to inflict that on her.

  I pass Winston in the hall, carrying a tray of soup, some bread that looks to be fresh out of the oven, and an open bottle of my Grand Cru, Cote de Nuits. At five thousand a bottle I’m not surprised he’s raising his grey bushy brow when I block his path.

  “Are we celebrating, Winston? Because if that’s the case I have a bottle of ship wrecked champagne that Christies valued at seven million in the cellar.”

  “I thought about it, sir, but decided that would be better suited to your wedding day.” His flat response is poorly timed.

  “Tell me, Winston… Do you enjoy working here?” I snap.

  “Very much, sir. Would you like me to get the champagne?” Impassive and polite. I feel my fists curl at his amused aloofness.

  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “Just trying to anticipate your every whim, sir, as always.”

  “Well, my whim is for you not to try my patience.” I grab a bread roll from the tray and walk past my bemused and somewhat smug looking butler.

  “Will you be joining the young lady shortly?” he calls out.

  “No, I’m going to my quarters.”

  “What about the young lady?” I can hear the disappointment in his voice, and at that moment, I make my decision. I don’t brake my gait when I reply.

  “If she’s not hungry, find her some clothes, give her some money, and kick her out.”

  “What about the guest room?”

  “Out!” I yell as I reach the end of the long corridor.

  “You don’t mean that, sir.” His voice echoes off the walls and rolls around with the uncomfortable feeling in my gut.

  “Do I look like I’m joking? Your choice, Winston. You either show her the door, or you can both leave together.”

  “Very good, sir.” He nods and smoothly turns his back before I can see the condemnation in his eyes. Fuck him. It’s the right decision.

  5

  I take the spiral staircase two at a time and thunder down the corridor, frustration, confusion, and raw rage bubbling through my blood stream like lava. My footsteps echo like a stone army on my heels, only falling silent when I enter the master bedroom suite. A large square room, stone walls a meter thick disappearing into the gods above me. Even with the mezzanine slicing the wall fifteen feet above my head for part of the room, the ceiling is incredibly high. Winston has set a small fire in here and has my favorite whiskey and crystal glass tumbler laid out next to my armchair. This room is my sanctuary, untouched and unchanged in a hundred years. A scattering of several different sofas, occasional tables and several oriental rugs soften the feel of the room. On two of the walls hang large intricate tapestries depicting local battles, dating back to the eighteenth century.

  The mezzanine, however, is a different story. I empty my pockets on the writing desk near the door and walk over to grab the un-opened whiskey bottle before heading up the open oak staircase that edges the room. My canopy bed dominates the far wall. The wall opposite is banked with seven video monitors above my hi-tech desk.

  Kicking my shoes off and loosening my belt buckle, I grab the TV remote and sit on the end of the bed, torn between craving the alcohol and needing to see what’s going on downstairs. My curiosity wins. I fire up the monitors and quickly scan the array of images that fill all the screens. All rooms, corridors, alcoves,
internal and external, every possible angle of the castle is covered and recorded. I select the study, which instantly illuminates the largest of the screens, a sixty-inch image with surround sound fills my senses. There she is. Why do I feel relief, when I’ve told Winston she has to leave? Why the hell am I happy she’s sitting with Winston? In my jacket, eating my food, being comforted by my butler.

  “Would you like some wine?” Winston holds the bottle up and motions to the empty glass on the tray he placed on the table just in front of her. She looks at him, a shy smile and tentative nod has him filling her glass with red wine, expensive red wine. She takes the glass and gulps the liquid completely down, gasping for air and holding it out for a refill before Winston has had the chance to replace the bottle on the tray.

  “Oh my, you were thirsty. Maybe you should drink some water too.” Winston pours some more wine, not quite so much this time and then offers her a glass of water. She drinks the wine and sips the water, alternating and staring at Winston as if seeking some sort of approval.

  “So, you don’t speak but you understand English?”

  She nods, and I find myself leaning forward, intrigued and irritated that I didn’t think to ask her this question, or any questions for that matter. I was too consumed with my selfish primal desires to take a moment and learn something about her. Too fucking scared by my own reactions. I have to remind myself none of it really matters. However curious I am, I still did the right thing.

  “Do you know sign language?” Winston places the wine bottle down and uses his hands to—I assume—ask the same question with sign language. Her brows furrow and she shakes her head.

  “Right, yes, and no questions it is then.” He claps his hands together and settles back into the chair opposite her. She picks at the bread, dunking in it messily into the soup and leaning close to the bowl so she can scoop the liquid into her mouth. Winston hands her a spoon, which she holds in the other hand but doesn’t use.