Devil's Bargain

by Natasha Knight

  It’s not an American number. And although it’s not a number I have stored on my phone, I recognize the country code.

  Scotland.

  “You gonna get that?” Axel asks when I just watch it ring and ring.

  I should.

  Today’s a good day. Today, I bought that last of the shares I need of the MacLeod Distillery, gaining control of the family business.

  Today’s the day my dear half-brother learns he lost. This should be his call to concede because I’ve won.

  But something feels off.

  My fingers move without my authorization and I swipe the green bar and put the phone to my ear.

  It’s not Declan.

  The accent is heavier than my brother’s. Too hard for many English speakers to understand. It makes something inside me ache.

  As the man is talking, I remember how people looked at me when I first got here, asking me to slow down. How Mr. Lanigan got a kick out of it. How easy it was to get women into your bed when you talked nonsense to them just because of that accent.

  It’s what I’m thinking when I listen to what he has to say. When those few words turn my world upside down.

  22

  Melissa

  I’m dozing when Hawk’s shadow falls over me.

  “You’re burnt,” he says.

  He’s like a giant, blocking out the whole of the sun.

  “You need to put on sunscreen. Where’s your sunscreen?” He crouches down to look through the straw bag I brought to the pool with me.

  “Relax,” I say, sitting up, straddling the seat. “It’s here. And I did put it on.” I find the tube of sunscreen under my towel and look down at my chest and he’s right, I did burn. But it’s not bad.

  He sits on the edge of the chaise and takes the tube, squeezes some on his hand and starts to rub it into my chest. He’s been like this since he got back. Attentive. Sometimes overly so.

  And always watching me.

  “Hawk, stop. It’s fine. It’s not bad and I’m going inside anyway.” I stay his hand, but he seems anxious. And I realize how totally out of place he looks up here in his suit while people are splashing around in the pool. Pop music is playing probably louder than he likes.

  “I hate this fucking music,” he says as if he read my mind.

  I smile. “It’s your hotel. They’ll play whatever you tell them to.” He’s moved on from my chest to my stomach and seems to be taking special care there. His gaze is fixated on my belly button as he gently rubs the sunscreen in. “Hawk, stop. It’s fine. I’m going inside anyway. I don’t need more sunscreen.”

  He stands up abruptly like he’s just realized where he is. What he’s doing. He shoves my towel into my bag. “Let’s go.”

  I reach out, grab his hand. “Wait.”

  When he looks impatiently down at me, I can’t tell what’s in his eyes. It’s like a storm of emotions and it’s strange, that storm. Like it carries him away from me and the feeling that comes over me, it’s like a weight settling in my belly.

  “Did something happen?” I ask, forgetting what I was going to say.

  It’s like he’s not here, not hearing me.

  Like he’s a world away.

  “Hawk?”

  He gives a shake of his head. “Let’s go, Melissa,” he finally says.

  I rise, pick up my cell phone from the table.

  He hurries me along as we make our way to the elevator.

  When I meet my reflection in the mirrored doors, I look at myself in the skimpy bikini—he didn’t even give me time to put my wrap on. My skin gleams with sunscreen and sweat while he stands beside me, impeccable in his suit. Unreadable. Like nothing can penetrate him.

  I wonder what it’s like to be like that. To be so confident and comfortable and unafraid.

  The elevator doors open and we step into the penthouse.

  His gaze sweeps over me, takes in the three triangles at the front, one more at the back. It’s black, just a simple black bikini. And it’s like he’s just realized how naked I am.

  He pushes my hair behind my ear, then slides his hand down my back and two tugs later, I feel the top of the bikini fall away, just a wisp, and the only thing between us is the tiny bit of fabric between my legs.

  My skin is warm and sticky from the sunscreen, but I don’t think he cares.

  Hawk looks down at my breasts, pale against my slightly burnt skin. He touches one, cups it, weighs it, takes the nipple in his fingers and manipulates it so it hardens, sending sensation down to my belly, my core.

  “Wait,” I say, putting my hands against him as he pushes me backward into the wall.

  He undoes his belt, his pants. “Wait for what?” he asks, smashing his mouth over mine.

  The sweet coconut of the sunscreen mixes with his aftershave and I think about the physical differences between us, him big and hard, all muscle, and I think how much I like it. How safe I feel when he holds me.

  I feel his cock at my belly and one hand moves to grip my hip as his other cups my jaw.

  “Wait for what?” he repeats before lifting me a little, positioning me, his fingers pushing the slip of fabric between my legs aside so he can thrust into me. Hurrying. Like he’s desperate.

  It’s hard and it forces the breath from me. I’m not yet ready, but I like it. I always like the first thrusts. The hurt.

  I can come from that hurt alone.

  “Look at me, Melissa.”

  My eyes zero in on his and he’s watching me. His pupils are dilated so all I see are the rings of green and blue, that gray banished now as he fucks me, and I wonder how I’m not split in two. How someone so big doesn’t just tear me in two.

  I dip my head into his shoulder.

  With his chest against mine, he keeps me trapped at the wall as he takes my face in both hands.

  “I said look at me.” He squeezes.

  “Hawk?”

  His thumbs press into my cheeks. I notice he’s not blinking. Something’s wrong. I know it.

  “What’s happened?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, shifts his grip to cup my ass, pulling me open. I feel his finger press against my tight hole. He licks my mouth, my lips, then kisses me the way he does when he’s going to come and we’re so close. Connected.

  “You don’t know how much I need this,” he says.

  I never thought I’d like sex. I never thought it was possible for someone like me to like it. Take pleasure from it. But with him, I come. With him inside me, I come.

  And when he comes, it’s abrupt and almost punishing, that last thrust. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and I feel his breath on me as his cock throbs inside me, releasing, releasing. Filling me up.

  I’m panting for breath and when he finally pulls out of me, cum slides down my thighs. Then he’s far away again. Silent but holding me close, holding my face, his fingers pressing into my skin.

  He’s distant again. In that other world. It’s as if an ocean divides us and I’m left cold.

  He steps backward, looks away from me.

  I touch his face.

  “What’s going on?”

  When he finally returns his gaze to mine, it’s like he has to drag it.

  “Hawk?”

  “My father was buried yesterday.”

  23

  Melissa

  We’re packed, flight booked and at the airport in record time.

  All he’s said about his father is that he was buried yesterday. After that, he took a call which I assume was a secretary telling him she’d confirmed our flights and told me I had twenty minutes.

  Twenty minutes to shower and pack and leave for Scotland.

  And somehow, here I am, wet hair in a clip on top of my head, wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and the only sweater I have.

  Hawk went into my tote to get my passport earlier, which makes me wonder how he knew it was in there at all, but I don’t ask him. He’s too distracted. Shocked maybe by the news.

&n
bsp; He’s wearing jeans and a thin, charcoal, V-neck sweater with a sport coat. It’s probably the most casual I’ve seen him.

  “Flight leaves in fifteen minutes. They’re holding it for you,” Axel says as soon as we pull up along the curb at the airport.

  Hawk is out and walking to my side with a leather duffel slung over his shoulder. There’s a long line at the counter, but we bypass economy and head to the first-class check in counter.

  Hawk hands over our passports and tells the woman his name. She’s obviously expecting us.

  She looks at him a moment too long before doing her job and we’re soon escorted through security and to our gate where we’re the last to board.

  Hawk puts his duffel and my tote in the overhead and gives me the window seat.

  It’s such a whirlwind that I’m still buckling my seatbelt when he orders a whiskey.

  Not fifteen minutes later, our flight is taking off for London where we’ll have a short layover before catching a connection to Inverness.

  “Get some sleep, Melissa. It’s going to be a long trip.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He swallows the whiskey, signals the attendant for more. “I’m fine.”

  He’s not fine. He’s nowhere close to fine. But I remain silent as he orders glass after glass of whiskey before finally closing his eyes and laying his head back. He’s not sleeping though. His forehead is furrowed, and I know he’s deep in thought.

  “Sleep,” he says, as if he can see me staring at him.

  I do. Or try to at least. By the time we arrive in Inverness, I’m exhausted. I probably got about two hours of sleep on the various flights, and am only staying awake now because of the coffee I managed to drink in London. I’m not sure how Hawk’s standing as he loads the duffel into the trunk of our rented SUV.

  He walks me to the wrong side of the car, and it takes me a moment to realize the steering wheel is on the other side here. They drive on the opposite side of the road.

  We’ve barely spoken during the long trip, but once he situates himself in the driver’s seat and starts the car, I put a hand on his forearm.

  “Should you drive?” I ask. Every time I opened my eyes, it seemed he had a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.

  He looks over at me. “I’m fine.”

  “I just don’t know if it’s—”

  “I can hold my liquor,” he snaps, and I quiet as he expertly pulls out of the tight parking spot, seeming completely at home with this opposite way of driving, shifting gears easily with his left hand, the SUV taking us smoothly onto the road.

  It’s almost another three hours of driving until we near our destination. The sun and the rain intermingle, each giving way to the other as we near the western coast. There are fewer and fewer cars on the hilly roads as we seem to drive farther and farther from civilization.

  And the nearer we get to our destination, the heavier Hawk’s mood grows, the quieter he becomes.

  I look out the window, take in the beauty of this wild land.

  Las Vegas has a dry climate. Here, the hills are the greenest I’ve ever seen and they seem to go on for miles.

  “We’re in the Highlands,” he says, as if reading my mind.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He makes a gruff sound of acknowledgement. “We’re almost there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “The MacLeod home. This is the nearest village. Mallaig.”

  I sit up when I see the sign marking the boundary of the village.

  I’ve never been out of the country. I haven’t seen most of the US and never anything like this quaint village along the coast with its stone houses and small bakery and butcher. A tea shop with pretty cakes displayed in the windows.

  But we’re through it before I realize and I swear the weather in the direction we’re driving is darker, the unpaved road narrower.

  Hawk’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. We bump along the road and after climbing one of the steepest hills, I see a lone structure in the distance. It’s ten more minutes until we reach the long stone bridge that connects what appears to be an island, upon which the MacLeod house is situated, to the mainland.

  And I’m in awe.

  “This is your…house?”

  He only nods once and when I glance at him, I see how his brows are knitted together.

  House.

  This house takes my breath away. It’s not a house at all, but a fortress or castle, even. It must be hundreds of years old with stone walls that match the current color of the dark sky. And as we drive over the bridge, I wonder if we should, it’s so old.

  I glance at Hawk again and I see him differently. In Las Vegas, he’s big. He’s brutal. He’s in command.

  Here, he’s all of those things, but he’s a Highlander first. Born and bred here. It’s obvious now. Rough and rugged and fierce, but different.

  Less sophisticated, less polished. Wild, like the landscape.

  Even his name, it fits.

  “Mother-fucker,” he mutters, his lip curling as he looks at the house.

  The bridge gives way to a large circular courtyard. There are two other vehicles parked here. It’s strange, the cars too modern for this ancient place.

  I’m distracted by the beauty of the castle that appears to be part ruin. The far walls have crumbled into the water beneath, but there’s smoke coming from two of the six chimneys and lights are on in the small windows of the first floor.

  There are three floors in the front part of the building, more in that tower in the distance. But is the tower, too, crumbling? I can’t tell from here.

  Hawk climbs out of the SUV and I open my door. He doesn’t retrieve the duffel but comes directly to my side, eyes locked on the castle.

  “It’s cold here,” I say, hugging my arms to myself. It’s nowhere near as warm as Vegas.

  “It’s always cold here,” he almost snaps, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck.

  I stop, make him turn to me.

  “Why did you bring me?”

  He doesn’t answer right away but smiles a rueful smile and his eyes, even though they’re on me, are distant.

  He leans down, squeezes his hand around my neck and brings his mouth to my ear.

  “Because I’m going to need to fuck the desire to murder my half-brother out of me.”

  With that, he pulls back.

  I know I should be offended but this is the first insight I’ve had into his life. And it’s a big one.

  He has a half-brother.

  And he hates him.

  I remember the photograph I’d found tucked inside his book. Remember the man holding the baby. Is that his brother?

  I open my mouth to ask him more, but the sudden sound of dogs barking breaks into the quiet day, interrupting us. I startle and I don’t know if Hawk sees that, but he takes my wrist, pulls me behind him.

  We both turn to what a quick count tells me are eight golden retrievers running our way, six puppies and two adults.

  “I don’t believe it,” I hear Hawk say and I see the smile on his face. It’s one that makes his eyes shine.

  He releases me and crouches down to greet the dogs, petting them and even laughing when the pups lick his face.

  When they come to me, I pet them too, but am more curious about Hawk’s reaction to them. So different to the cool, collected man I’ve come to know. The one who doesn’t let anything personal show. Ever. A man who is passionate, but so guarded.

  I realize I don’t know anything about him that doesn’t have to do with me.

  He finally straightens, giving one of the mature dogs a final pat on the head. “There was a pup I left behind,” he says. “I’m going to guess these are the next generation.”

  “They’re sweet,” I say, as one of the puppies, tail wagging frantically, licks my face. “And enthusiastic.”

  I stand, and when he turns to the door, the smile and ease from a moment ago vanishes, replaced by something heavier
.

  We walk toward the imposing front doors, two heavy wooden doors with black ornate iron hinges and studs, almost as if they came from a century ago. Maybe they did.

  He doesn’t bother to knock, which surprises me, but pushes the door open and immediately I smell the scent of wood burning and food cooking.

  We step into the entry and stand on a carpet so worn, it’s almost threadbare. I can see the stones beneath in some places. The walls, too, are draped with carpets or maybe they’re made especially for the walls. I’m not sure, but I don’t have time to think or ask about it because I hear footsteps. And soon, a man appears.

  A man as tall as Hawk.

  As big.

  As beautiful.

  The one from that photograph, just a little older from when that was taken.

  And each man, upon seeing the other, stops, eyes hardening.

  Tension thins the air around us.

  No, not tension.

  This is something else.

  Something more.

  Hate.

  The man must be a few years younger than Hawk but the similarities in features, in stance, in the ferocity of their gazes, leaves no question that these two are related.

  “Well, well,” the man says in his heavy Scottish accent. “The prodigal son returns.”

  Hawk releases me and steps toward him. “Prodigal or not, I’m laird of this house.”

  “Not yet, you’re not, brother.”

  I grip Hawk’s arm when he takes another menacing step forward. But when we hear another set of footsteps, he stops.

  An older man appears. He must be in his seventies and he’s dressed formally in a dark suit. He stops upon seeing Hawk, surprise in his eyes. A moment later, he smiles warmly.

  Hawk takes him in, and nods in greeting.

  I wonder if he can speak. If he’s able to because his eyes betray his emotions. I wonder if the others can see it. See the loss.

  “Welcome home, Hawk,” he says, extending his hand to shake Hawk’s before moving in to hug him. It takes Hawk a moment to hug him back. “Your father would have wanted you here.”

  “Don’t humor me, old man,” Hawk says, stepping backward. “My father turned his back on me.” His accent, it’s stronger here, that deep burr that belongs only to the Scots making me sit up and take notice.