by S. Massery
I stifle my surprise—and secret delight—when Marco hits the steering wheel.
“Well?” he snaps, attention on me.
“It’s a fortress,” I mumble. “Everyone knows who he is.”
Marco leans back in his seat. “Interesting.”
Frank grunts. “We gonna wait for him to leave or what?”
“No.” Marco winks at me. “We’re going to bring the bait home.”
I gulp. “You don’t mean me?”
He reaches out and touches my cheek with the backs of his knuckles, then grabs my chin and yanks my face toward him. “Such a pretty blush, Grace. Are you flattered that you’ve caught Morning Star’s eye?”
“No,” I mutter. “Let go of me.”
He pinches me tighter. “What did I say about lying?”
I try to pull away from him, tempted to leap out of the car and rush back into the club. I can clearly see how I would’ve reacted before our dynamic changed. I would’ve shoved him away, maybe I would’ve laughed through my fear.
Now, I can’t even move.
He releases me, and I let out a small breath. He puts the car in drive and guns it into the street. I lean against the window and try to see the stars, and it keeps my eyes busy enough until we get to Marco’s house.
Javier’s property is two streets over from mine, but it feels light-years away. It’s been updated much more recently than ours, and it’s much bigger—including a sprawling backyard and pool house where Marco lives.
He sees me eyeing the path around the house and snickers at me. “Not till we’re married.”
I make a face at his back. Sex with Marco? No thank you.
Never.
I haven’t been in their house in weeks. I came with Dad and sat in the hallway while he talked to Javier. The twins were home—I could hear them laughing from one of the rooms—and silence dropped over the house when they saw I was there.
In their space.
It had always been like that, but I didn’t realize the lengths of their distain until we were older. I picked out the slights from the fake politeness. I saw their laughing as what it really was: mocking. For some unknown reason.
I put up with it for my father’s sake. He never wanted us to stand out, because his position as Javier’s right-hand man was… tenuous. He proved his loyalty over and over again, but I had to do the same.
And I never did it right.
Marco gestures for me to follow him. Like that afternoon, tonight the house is silent. I suppress another shiver, wrapping my jacket tighter around me. Frank walks behind me. They flip on lights as we move through the house.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
I’ve never seen it so… empty.
“Dad’s out of town,” Marco says. “Frank, call the guys, would you?”
“And your sisters?” I ask.
Frank leaves the room.
We stop on the second floor, at one of the guest rooms. Marco gestures for me to go inside.
I slip past him, glancing around before I turn back to him. His hand on the doorknob, he shoots me a smirk and closes the door in my face.
There’s a distinct snick.
I lunge for the knob, not even surprised to find that it’s locked. “Seriously?” I yell. “You’re locking me in a bedroom?” I smack my palm against the door.
Nothing.
Resigned, I scour the room for anything useful. A fallen bobby pin, an errant sewing needle… Nothing. The room is spotless. I go to the window and shove it open, knocking the screen out. It makes an awful racket on the way down, landing with a clatter on the concrete patio. I lean my head and shoulders out, holding on to the edge of the window frame, and try to see if there’s any way I can climb down—or up.
There’s nothing except smooth wall. I pull my body back inside and close the window.
I check my watch, surprised to see it’s after midnight. Did I really start off the night working? It’s been eons since I dropped that whiskey bottle, since I ran out of the private room. There’s nothing better to do, so I shove the bed into the far corner and climb onto it. I sit cross-legged, half minded to meditate and draw the handgun from its holster. I shrug out of my jacket and lay it across my lap.
Carefully, I chamber a cartridge and set it on the bed in front of me, the barrel aimed at the door. I am Grace Leigh Jones, I tell myself. I am badass and powerful and won’t agree to being locked in a room. The longer I sit here, the angrier I get.
The next person who barges in here is getting a bullet in them—whether it be Marco or Frank or someone else. That’ll teach them not to freaking mess with me.
My dad must be going mental—if he even realizes I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Tonight should’ve ended like all the others: I’d check my house for any sign of him, then do a drive-by of his favorite bars. At some point in the night, one of the bartenders would call my cell. There was always an edge of fear in their voice, like Dad was going to flip and destroy the bar.
Hey, that had only happened a few times.
In reality, tonight he won’t realize I’m missing. He’ll stumble home from whichever bar kicks him out last and pass out on the couch. He might wake up by noon—and then where will I be? Still trapped in this room?
That’s the likely scenario.
My thoughts slow down, and my mind drifts. My eyes close. I’m half asleep when a yell from downstairs startles me awake. I pull my legs up close to my chest. The door to my room is kicked open, and one of Marco’s friends stands in the threshold. I forget about wanting to shoot the first person to enter.
“Get up. We’re under—”
The window glass shatters, and the man falls backward, into the hallway. Half of his face is…
Gone.
Marco appears in the doorway, flashing across it and flattening himself against the wall. He yells to me, “For God’s sake, Grace, move. Get out here.”
“You want me to get shot?” I yell. It’s the strangest thing—there are no gunshots, just the whiz of bullets and the noise of their impact.
Marco peers into the room, jerking back a second later. I pick up the slightest whistle, then the crack of wood being split open.
“Fuck. He stole you away once—he’s here to do it again. Get out here or so help me, I will break your legs and make sure you can never escape.”
I shudder.
Then, slowly, I peel myself away from the wall. I grab my gun and jacket, crouch, and make a run for it. Marco’s hand is outstretched toward me. I would never, in a million years, find myself reaching for his hand… but I hope his hand will get shot off.
And then he’d never be able to touch you with it.
Something hits my left arm. It feels like a hammer, knocking me forward. I stumble, hitting the hallway wall, and look down. My arm is bleeding.
He shot me.
It doesn’t hurt yet, but I can’t stop staring at the gash in my arm.
Marco glares at me from his position in the hallway. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. “Frank, take her.”
I didn’t notice him in the hallway, but he drags me toward the stairs by my uninjured arm. He shoves my head down as we pass a window, then another, and glass shatters over us.
He grunts, his hold on me loosening, and I shake him off. Wild with anger, I fly down the stairs. I don’t look behind me, just keep my hand on my bleeding arm and check each room. I pause in Javier’s office. There’s blood on the wood… but his desk is more interesting. I scan it, then turn back to the hallway.
It’s silent. Everything is silent. There’s no sign of Marco, none of his guys…
The front door blasts inward. Wood from the frame splinters, flying in with it. In the doorway, glaring at me, is the devil himself. He marches toward me, a pistol in his hand and pointed at the ground.
I raise my own firearm, suddenly remembering I grabbed it off the bed, and he just laughs. I squeeze the trigger, but my hands are shaking so much, my shots swing wide. I keep shoot
ing until its empty, and then… it’s too late.
He’s right in front of me.
“You have terrible aim,” he says. “Should we see how you do with a knife?”
I glare at him. “Sure.”
He chuckles and sighs, taking the gun from my hand like I’m a child. He disassembles it and drops the pieces around me. “Don’t play with toys you don’t know how to use.”
“You shot me.”
He shrugs. “You deserved it.” In one swift motion, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
“Let go of me, you asshole,” I yell. I squirm, hoping he’ll drop me, but he just slaps my ass.
The shock of it makes me go quiet.
“So much yelling,” he mutters. “I don’t really like yelling.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” I say. His arms bind my legs to his chest, ending my dream of kicking him in the balls. Or anywhere, for that matter. “You’re going to hell.”
He sighs. “We’re already there. Clearly.”
He carries me outside. Half the windows of Javier’s house are either shattered or have bullet holes and spiderweb cracks in them.
“Where did Marco go?”
“Concerned about your fiancé?”
I punch his back. “Not in the slightest. But if he’s gone, I need—”
He stops walking and leans forward, dumping me to the ground. My knees buckle, my ass hitting the concrete walkway. I glare up at him.
“You need what?”
“To get something,” I murmur.
He groans, looking left and right, then back at me. “If you’re not back out here in two minutes, I’m coming after you.” He helps me stand, pulling me close. His breath hits my face. “And trust me, darlin’. It won’t be pretty.”
8
DALTON
I double check my pistol and uncover my rifle from where I stashed it in the bushes, brushing off leaves. I quickly unload it before putting it on my back. The neighborhood is quiet. It was too easy to break into the house across the street, to get to the attic and get multiple lines of sight into the house. That’s my job, after all.
But it’s like they wanted this to happen. Marco and his guys were staked out in the house—which I assumed was going to happen—and Grace… she was locked in a room upstairs. I wouldn’t have been able to tell, because a few had lights on, until a man threw open a door.
It was too easy.
Grace walks out with a pair of boots and the jacket she was wearing earlier in her arms.
I grimace. “Really? You took your shoes off?”
We both look down at her feet, and I scowl. She could’ve stepped on glass. Not to mention the blood pouring from just below her shoulder, where I shot her.
Shooting her is going to be a highlight of my evening, I can just tell.
“I-I think I might be going into shock,” she mutters, swaying.
“Put your boots on.”
I grab her as her eyes roll back, plucking the jacket from her hands. I shove her jacket in my bike’s storage, and when I turn back around, her boots are on her feet. I carry her to the motorcycle and sit her on it in front of me, wrapping my arm around her. Her head tilts back, falling on my shoulder.
Why does she look so innocent like this?
“Wake up,” I say in her ear. “Or else you’ll probably fall off this bike, and I’m not stopping.”
I rip a piece of her shirt and tie it around the wound. I only grazed her arm, but it’s an ugly one.
Eh, might’ve done a little more than graze it. Once the makeshift bandage is secure, and she’s settled against my chest, I push the helmet on her head, start up the bike, and peel out onto the road. I could take her back to the club, but I have a feeling that even that won’t be a good defense.
I bite the inside of my cheek, silently wishing for a cigarette. She shifts in front of me, and I press her harder. The last thing I need is for her to freak out and crash us.
“Don’t move,” I growl through the helmet and over the wind.
She stiffens, but then her hand goes to her arm.
She takes one glance back at me, her eyes accusing, but I don’t react. Can’t, this close to her. I get on the highway and speed back toward Colin’s.
He’s going to kill me upon arrival.
Yep. I’m gonna get murdered.
But what other choice do I have? They’d all left her as soon as the bullets started flying. Sure, Marco made some daring rescue attempt—he’d held out his hand for her and tested my resolve. I almost shot his fucking fingers off.
Instead, I put a bullet through Grace. Payback for turning me in to her fiancé and his evil family. The guilt doesn’t even register until we’re halfway to Colin’s.
Grace is shaking.
Fuck.
I pull off, turn down a few streets, and find a diner. Diners are the best fucking thing to have ever existed—especially the twenty-four-hour ones. Those waitresses don’t give a shit who comes in, as long as you leave a tip.
She sags to the side as I shut everything down, and I lift the helmet off her head. I’m tempted to say sorry, but her eyes cut through me.
I push my shoulders back. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, putting her hand on my thigh and swinging her leg over.
I watch her take a step, then two, before she slowly sinks to her knees.
“Just a bit dizzy.”
“Right.” I hop off, setting the helmet on the seat, and quickly put my rifle in the storage under the seat. I slide a full magazine into my pocket for my handgun, then lock the storage unit. Once it’s secure, I go to her and put her arm over my shoulders. “Up you go. We’ll clean you up in the bathroom and get some food in you, then…”
She looks at me. “Are you kidnapping me?”
“I’m fairly certain you asked for this.”
She lifts one shoulder, then winces. “Not after you shot me.”
Ugh. Women. “Are you going to go on and on about that?”
“Probably,” she groans. “Because it fucking hurts, and you’re an asshole.”
I smile. “Yep.”
We walk into the diner, and I wave to the waitress.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I smile. “Yes. Hot chocolate for the lady.”
“You got it, sugar.”
Grace groans in my ear. “You are the worst.”
Once we’re in the bathroom, I release her. My skin is hot from where she touched me. The sleeve of her shirt is just long enough to be in the wound, soaked in her blood. “Take off your shirt.”
“Excuse me?”
My medical skills aren’t as great as some of my friends, but I can stitch a wound to hold someone over until a professional can redo it. Still, she just gapes at me like I asked for the impossible.
“I can rip it off of you if you’d like.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off.”
“I’d love to. But there’s just something about a damsel in distress that makes me want to push all of her buttons.”
She looks down, and I realize it’s to hide a smile. I almost go over there and lift her chin, just to see it clearly.
After a few seconds of silence, she clears her throat. “This is for the…?”
“The wound on your arm.” I present her with a small bottle of mouthwash. “Don’t worry, this will only hurt like a bitch for a minute.”
Her hands are covered in blood. She seems to realize that right as she’s going to wipe a tear from her eye, because suddenly she sucks in a huge gulp of air. “Why didn’t you leave me there?”
“Why, indeed?” I set down the bottle and venture closer. “I saved your life.”
She puts her hand on my chest, shoving me out of her face.
I hadn’t realized how close I got until right this moment. “You ruined everything.”
I straighten. “Take off your shirt so I can clean this wound.”
“Just let me go home.”
> “You shot back,” I say in a low voice. “Just remember that.”
“What—”
I grab her shirt at the collar and rip it down the center. She gasps, glaring at me as I peel away the fabric. She goes pale when I raise her arm, looking at the damage.
Damn. Okay… this might be out of my comfort zone.
She glances down at it and gags. “Oh my god.”
The skin is shredded, like fire carved a path through muscle and tissue. Honestly, it’s a miracle she hasn’t passed out from lack of blood. I shake the bottle of mouthwash, and she glares. “Absolutely not.”
“What do you want, to go to a hospital? Pretty sure your big bad fiancé would be pissed that you ran off with me again.”
She glares at me.
“You came to me. To my club—a place that Argentos aren’t allowed. Why?”
“So full of questions,” she mutters. “I can do this myself.”
I scowl. I should just leave her here.
I yank a sewing kit—the small ones they give you at hotels—from my pocket and toss it at her. Walking right out of the bathroom is the most satisfaction I’ve had tonight, minus putting a bullet in her skin. I pause once the door swings closed behind me.
Breathe, I remind myself. She gets under my skin like she has her own map.
I lean against the doorjamb, smiling at the waitress who passes by. I guess I should go get Grace her jacket so she doesn’t flash the whole diner.
“Your drinks are on the table,” the waitress says, pointing. Her steps pause when a groan seeps through the door.
“Pretty sure she has food poisoning. Poor girl.”
I jog out to my bike, grabbing her jacket, and come back inside. Maybe I should make her walk out here in her bra, just for the shock factor. Eh. I knock twice on the door before I open it, shoving her jacket through the crack.
She grabs it and pushes the door closed, growling under her breath.
I leave her and slide into a booth, keeping one eye on the diner’s entrance and most of my awareness on the bathroom. When Jackson got himself into a mess with Delia, I won’t lie—I thought he was an idiot. Mixing himself up with some girl he didn’t know, just to save her?