I laughed softly. “I have to have optimism—especially where you’re concerned. Otherwise how could I spend so much time with you, begging for you to notice me—with the amount of times you push me away?”
He sighed, ignoring that. “Even the negative traits I found adorable.”
“Negative?” I tensed for the worst.
“You’re restless, impatient, tactless, and overconfident.”
“Ouch.”
Art moved to sit back on the bed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “But it’s those traits that make you my Buttercup. Never give up on me. Never stop being impatient or overconfident in my love for you. I’ll give in one day, Cleo. Sooner than you think.”
The flashback ended as Arthur placed the mood ring back on my middle finger. “How do you have it? Wasn’t it on me the night I disappeared?”
Arthur gritted his jaw, anger deep in his green eyes. “I found it in the wreckage of the house. I had just enough time to put it somewhere safe before the police arrested me the following morning.”
Questions lined up in chaotic fashion. I wanted to hear his story—to figure out why they arrested him and the trial he must’ve been subjected to.
But the flashback had drained me. I had no more tenacious drive other than to show this man what he meant to me.
I moved forward into his embrace. His arms wrapped immediately around me, squeezing hard.
A minute passed and we just hugged, drawing and giving much-needed serenity.
Finally, Art pulled back. “Let’s go to bed.”
I nodded.
“Just let me lock up.” Moving away, he gathered the photographs and placed them back in the safe. Locking it, he turned to face me, but my eyes landed on a glossy image hidden partly by the couch.
Without a word, I ducked down and retrieved it.
My heart swooped with gossamer wings then hurtled me into hell.
Me and him.
Young, slightly sunburned, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, surrounded by a swarm of family. My mom and dad. His mom, dad, and older brother. We were the perfect postcard of togetherness.
My eyes fell on his father.
Hatred coiled in my gut, hissing and twisting, wanting to strike him down for what he did.
Tears bruised my eyes to see my parents again. A flash of a memory appeared. My mother had been called Petal—Sandra “Petal” Price. She’d been too pure and precious to die.
A single tear rolled down my cheek as I drank in the love on their doting faces, the happiness we’d had as a family. Knowing I would never see them again ripped out my heart and left it bleeding on the floor.
It hurt.
So, so much.
“Shit.” Arthur plucked the image from my fingertips, taking away my home, leaving me alone once again.
In a flash, he picked me up from the tiles and carried me toward the door. “I can’t stand to see you in pain.”
I didn’t protest as he carted me from the room.
Over his shoulder, I noticed another photograph peeking up from the floor.
A picture of me laughing in Scott “Rubix” Killian’s arms. I’d loved him. I’d trusted him.
He’d been an uncle to me but destroyed my family all for greed.
Tiredness stole everything from me; I burrowed my face into the crook of Arthur’s neck. No words were spoken as he carried me back to bed.
Placing me gently on the mattress, I cupped his cheek. “I’ve always wondered why your mom called you Arthur. Do you know?”
His face turned soft. “Yes, I know.” Throwing back the covers, he climbed in beside me, pulling me into his powerful body. “She named me after Arthur Cayley. A famous mathematician who wrote a number of papers on rules we use abundantly today.”
I smiled in the dark, holding his arm around my breasts. “So she’s the reason why you’re fascinated with numbers.”
He laughed quietly. “You could say that. I suppose she jinxed me in a way.”
“Or gave you a better life path than the one your father envisioned.”
Somehow I remembered Arthur’s childhood wasn’t as happy as mine. His family home had always been fraught with danger and nervousness. I’d never come out and asked, but I had a feeling his father did more than just raise his fists to his son. I had a feeling his older brother hurt him, too.
His voice turned to a whisper. “Perhaps.”
“How did she die?” I murmured, hating to think his mother had been murdered like mine. There had been too much death. Too much unnecessary waste.
Arthur flinched behind me, taking his time to reply. “Breast cancer.”
I hugged his arm closer. “I’m so sorry, Art.”
Holding me tight, he growled, “No more talking, go to sleep.”
I wanted to offer condolences. I wanted to turn in his arms and kiss him senseless and force him to forget the pain of being locked in prison while his mother died of cancer.
Instead, I allowed him to keep me pinned and welcomed sleep to steal me.
I made a pact as silence fell thick and soothing around us that the moment we woke tomorrow, I would show Arthur how much I adored him. How precious his undying devotion was to my memory and heart.
I would wrap my lips around his cock and adore him until I drank everything he gave me.
I would show him how much I worshiped, not just his soul and mind, but his body, too.
Sleep stole its fuzzy tentacles through my mind. The only sounds were the gentle thud of our heartbeats, once again syncing into rhythm.
I let the gentle intimacy lull me closer to dreamland, but in the last moment before succumbing, I whispered, “Don’t fear the truth around me, Art. Please don’t be afraid.”
I never expected a reply.
I never expected him hear me.
I only wanted the vow to trickle into his subconscious and hopefully ease some of the affliction inside.
Time ticked past, sleep came for me again.
In the final second before I fell into clouds, a tortured whisper breathed in my ear, “I’m more than afraid, Buttercup. I’m absolutely fucking terrified.”
The truth of his confession trickled into my mind, numbing my heart with horror. I curled tighter in his embrace. “Why?” I murmured.
He took forever to answer and when he finally did, I wished I weren’t awake to hear it.
This was what I was afraid of.
This hell masquerading as heaven.
“Because when you know what I did, Cleo. When you find out what a traitor I am, you’ll leave me. You’ll despise me and curse me; you’ll cut out my heart and disappear.”
His arms clutched me, panic drenching his muscles. “You’ll leave me, Buttercup, and this time, I’ll truly be ruined.
“You’ll destroy me forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Arthur
She said she knew me from her nightmares.
I never let on how fucking true that really was.
She thought I was her protector. Her confidant and soul mate.
She believed a lie worse than all the rest I’d spun.
I hated to think how I’d betrayed her. How I’d done something completely unforgivable. I never let on how far I’d fallen.
Every time I came inside her, I wanted to beg for forgiveness.
Every time she touched me or smiled, I wanted to fold to my knees and spill the truth.
I couldn’t tell her what I’d done.
But I couldn’t keep it a secret much longer.
It gnawed at my soul, descending me deeper into darkness. She was my light, my hope, my heart—and I’d ruined it all before I found her.
She thought she’d awoken from her nightmares. That reality would set her free and truth would dispel the evil in her past.
But she didn’t know the worst of them was me.
The one demon she should’ve shot the moment she opened her eyes.
The charade had gone on long enough.
&
nbsp; But I didn’t have the strength to end it.
There would be no second chances. No moving past my heinous sins.
She would steal back her love and leave me destitute.
I would have only my anger.
I would have only my vengeance.
But ultimately, I would have nothing.
Eight Years Ago
Some say everything happens for a reason. That bad things happen to good people. That evil comes for the purest of us, and destinies can change in a blink.
I call bullshit.
I say we’re all fucking puppets being controlled by others. There’s no such thing as freedom. No such thing as fate. They’re all carefully maintained illusions.
I believed the lie once. I looked forward to my future. I held hope in my heart.
Now…
My eyes are open.
And I’ll never be so fucking naïve again.
“Take it, Killian.”
My eyes snapped up to latch onto the convict who’d tried to ass-rape me the day I arrived at Florida State. The key word in that sentence being he tried.
And failed.
Painfully and miserably.
Men had jumped on me from all corners. My pants were ripped down. My body pummeled with fists.
I’d lain there—ass naked and ready to be raped—when I’d seen two roads.
So distinct and real, I’d felt the roughness of dirt beneath my fingertips and the gleam of concrete in the sun.
Two choices.
One was to give up and let my life become a series of rapings and beatings until I died from either suicide or murder.
Or…
Kill every inch of the boy left inside me who believed he might one day be free of this life. Destroy any hope of ever having a pristine office overlooking Wall Street. That dream had been stolen the moment the handcuffs sliced around my wrists.
There was no trading for criminals.
My earliest dream had become unobtainable. It was torn away, and no matter what I did I wouldn’t achieve it. So my only option was to join them.
The choice had felt like it took years to make with my bare ass in the air and men fumbling with their waistbands, but in reality it only took microseconds.
I’d chosen the second path.
The one covered in dirt and filth.
The one destined to ruin me.
“Just take the fucking tray, will ya?” The jagged scar across the convict’s cheek was only just fading after a year. I’d done that to him with no remorse or second thoughts. He’d attacked and I’d defended.
Needless to say, I’d been given a wide berth ever since. No one wanted to mess with a man who’d murdered not one but three lives, and all before his eighteenth birthday.
Not even the guards tormented me. They knew I was in here for the long haul—it was best to get along, seeing as they were my family now.
Taking the tray of slop, I grinned coldly. “Thanks, Bradley. Hope there’s no extra in my mac and cheese. Else you and me… we’re gonna have another issue to solve.”
Bradley swallowed, anger glowing in his muddy eyes. “One year you’ve been in here, Killian. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. I wouldn’t be so keen to make such firm enemies if I were you.”
I cocked my head, grabbing a plastic knife and fork from the container. “Oh, really? So I should’ve let you rape me?” I sighed dramatically. “Don’t see your logic, but I’m happy to teach you another lesson.”
Fisting my cutlery and shitty lunch, I glowered. “See ya round, Bradley.”
I stalked away before he could mutter another word. My eyes scanned the dismal excuse of a cafeteria with uncomfortable bolted stools and metal tables. Everything was metal and cream or bolts and bars. It wasn’t fucking inspiring—shit, it was downright “slice your jugular and just give the fuck up right now” décor.
Life.
I have life in this godforsaken place.
Not for the first time and definitely not for the last, my hands curled, almost cracking the brittle plastic of the tray.
So fucking unfair.
So fucking painful.
She’s dead.
Don’t think about it.
My mind turned to the dark cesspit of memories. Hatred that never failed to choke me with blackness cloaked over my shoulders.
The betrayal. The dishonor. The manipulation.
I wanted to slam my tray to the floor and let loose the rage inside.
The day I’d walked in here, I ceased to be human and lived for only one thing.
One throbbing, vicious thing.
Vengeance.
Revenge.
Every fucking word that meant getting my own back.
That was me. I ate it. I breathed it. I fucking made love to it while I jerked off in my cell. It was the only love permitted in my soul—the only substance that kept me rising from my awful cot and facing yet another day in purgatory.
The only way I could survive every day knowing Cleo was no longer in it.
“Killian. He wants to see you.” A balding man in his late fifties appeared in my line of sight, barricading me from sitting at one of the identical depressing benches.
I gritted my teeth. “Get out of my way.”
Prisoner #FS788791shook his head, showing the scribbling prison tats decorating his neck. The embroidered number on his orange jumpsuit couldn’t be more demeaning. We might as well be livestock ready for the slaughter.
I refuse to fucking die in here.
The oath resonated in my heart for the millionth time since the seven a.m. wake-up bell. I won’t. I refused to die without their blood on my hands and justice being served.
“I suggest you come with me. You get one shot. He wants to see you. Don’t fuck this up.” He leaned forward, smelling of grease and armpit stench. “One chance, brother. You really going to throw that away?”
My heart thudded. “He doesn’t have any power. Unless he can get me out of here before I’m a wrinkly old bastard who has to piss twenty times a night, then I’m not going anywhere near him.”
I’d heard the tales. The shankings. The mysterious poisonings. He wasn’t someone I wanted to piss off or get chummy with.
That was how enemies started. By picking sides.
I was my own fucking side.
Vengeance.
The prisoner smiled. “You have to trust someone.”
“No, I don’t.”
Never again. I would never be that weak.
“You need a friend in here. Life imprisonment is a long time.”
I rolled my eyes. “No shit, it’s a long time. Lucky for me, I prefer my own company.” I tried to push past, but his bony hand clutched my forearm.
“One meeting. One chance. Don’t fuck it up and he might have the power to do what you need.”
Our eyes locked and I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp—the anger, hurt, and betrayal sliced my veins with every pump of my heart. I wasn’t a prisoner of this penitentiary, I was a prisoner of what they’d done to me.
One chance.
If I did this, maybe, just maybe, I might get what I needed. To make them suffer.
I tore my arm from his grip. “Fine.” Throwing my tray and congealed mac and cheese on the closest table, I snarled, “He gets three minutes. He tries anything, and I’m not the one who pays. Got it?”
For an eighteen-, about to turn nineteen-year-old, I was grateful I’d filled out, grown to over six foot three, and my long hair came across as slightly crazy, completely delinquent. My voice was deep—my balls had dropped years ago, and I’d been raised to use my fists first and mind later.
Too bad for my father, who taught me—he never understood my brain was the biggest, baddest part of me. Another reason why people in here avoided me. No one liked a genius murderer with a high IQ.
Double threat. Triple danger.
Prisoner #FS788791 nodded. “Deal. One meeting. Then it’s up to you.”
Him.
The awe-inspiring, nail-biting majesty himself.
Wallstreet to his fellow inmates, even to the guards. No one used his real name. No one dared disrespect him that way—even local politicians called him Wallstreet out of respect. Respect for what he’d created, even if it wasn’t exactly legal.
Wallstreet smiled, interlocking his fingers on top of the table. His usual spot was at the back of the cafeteria, wedged in the corner of the room to protect his back and side. Two men, looking like matching carrots in their orange jumpsuits, glared as I came closer.
No one could get to Wallstreet unless he wanted them to. Money bought more than respect—it brought longevity in a place where cutthroats and psychopaths wanted you dead.
His wrinkled face and greying hair were manicured and healthy. His eyes were bright and well rested, his jumpsuit ironed—fucking ironed—and dental hygiene top-notch. He was the magistrate in here. Even the prison officials let him be in charge of the criminal population.
Cigarettes? He got them.
Drugs? He got them, too.
Women? He’d hook you up, but offered no guarantee you wouldn’t die of fucking syphilis.
“Hello, Arthur. Lovely of you to join me.”
Prisoner #FS788791 pressed on my shoulder—or tried, seeing as he was like Pee-wee fucking Herman—coaxing me onto the bench. I shrugged him off, preferring to tower over the man at least forty years my senior.
“Name’s not Arthur. It’s Killian.” Arthur had died the moment Cleo had. No one would ever address me that way again. It hurt too fucking much.
I crossed my arms, planting my legs wide, hoping I looked angry as hell and just as terrifying. “Why me?”
“Excuse me?” Wallstreet chuckled, reclining a little and placing his hands in his lap. There were no dirty dishes or trays—either this douche didn’t eat, or his cronies had already cleaned the table.
“Why pick me? What did I do to deserve an audience with His Grace?”
He laughed again, raising an eyebrow. “Why not you?”
“No. Answer the fucking question.” I unwound my arms and wagged a finger in his face. “No cryptic crap. No bullshit. No games of any kind.” Slinging my leg over the metal stool, I sat and splayed my hands on the table. “I’m sitting. I’m listening. I’m giving you exactly three minutes to tell me why the fuck you wanted to see me on the anniversary of my arrival into this hellhole, and then maybe I’ll stick around and listen to more.”
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