The Secrets We Keep: Secrets and Revelations Book One

by Selina Marie

  I can’t help but laugh and I glance over at Nate whose shoulders are shaking.

  “It’s called faking it. I doubt he could turn on a tap let alone make a pussy come seventeen times,” Nate sniggers, though one of the guys hears him and pipes up.

  Wrong fucking decision.

  “What did you say, asshole?” one of the guys starts, his chest puffed out, standing tall trying to intimidate us, which is comedy in itself. The guy is about three inches shorter than me, four for Nate, he has a beer belly and looks like he’s pushing fourty years old.

  His loud ass voice gets the attention of his buddies and they all take a step closer. Nate and I both let out a deep breath, already knowing how this is going to end. Them bloody, and on the floor.

  “Hey! Asshole, you deaf? The fuck you say about my boy?” he taunts, rolling up his sleeves, clearly unaware that he might as well be signing his own death sentence. Especially with the mood I’m in.

  Blood boils in my veins, anticipation and adrenaline flowing through me, ready and eager to throw my weight around.

  We sit there, still with our backs to them, Nate speaks but still doesn’t bother turning, like they aren’t worth his time. They aren’t. His voice is deep but loud enough for them to hear.

  “I said it’s called faking it, I doubt he could turn on a tap let alone make a pussy—” the sound of a bottle smashing against the bar-top stops Nate mid-sentence. I smile up at him, he shakes his head sniggering, knowing shit’s going down. The beast inside is salivating at the mouth, ready to break some bones and shed some blood.

  Slowly turning around, still sitting on our stools, loud-mouth number one stands in front of me with a broken bottle pointed at my face, the shards of glass still dripping beer onto the floor. He clearly hasn’t done this before, the poor motherfucker is trembling, his hands shake as he stands a few too many steps away, making it easy for me to backhand the bottle straight out of his hand, smashing it into the wall behind me. His eyes widen, realization dawning on him that he is now very fucked.

  Was he seriously going to bottle me?

  “Wait, I know you.” He looks between Nate and me, his face is now white as a sheet as it dawns on him who he just messed with. My eyes scan around the bar quickly, taking note of how many witnesses there are, and it’s my lucky night because apart from an older, overweight man who has already passed out in a booth in the corner, and the bartender who is nowhere to be seen, there are zero witnesses. I shift my eyes over to Nate as he does the same to me, he meets my grin with a smirk of his own.

  Then we play.

  Loud-mouth number one reaches for another bottle, because he really does have a death wish. In the same second that he smashes the beer bottle against the bar I reach into my boot, flipping my blade out, my tongue sweeping across my teeth, hungry for the fight. The man across from me looks between me, my knife and his bottle—he doesn’t take a stab at me though.

  “One of two things are going to happen right now. You’re going to try to bottle me, maybe in the neck? But you’ll lose. Or… nah. Either way, you’ll still lose.”

  I grin and my taunt has the desired effect. He steps forward rushing me, rearing his arm back, still clutching the bottle. In the corner of my eye, I see one of his friends coming at me from the left, and just before either of them make contact I swing my arm around grabbing the guy’s arm with the shards of glass pointing at me, hurling it around into the other guy’s neck. The scream and spurts of blood are deeply satisfying, not as much as the feeling of the skin of his jugular splitting under the pressure of my knife, slicing across his throat. They drop to the floor and when I look over to Nate, the bastard is sitting, lounging in a corner booth, wiping his knife with a dishcloth that came from fuck knows where. The two other guys are currently lying on the floor, their faces ashen. Judging from the amount of blood pooling around their bodies and merging together, they’re both dead.

  Pulling out my phone I dial Sergio, he picks up after two rings.

  “Sir?” he says.

  “I need the clean-up crew in the bar you dropped me off at,” I tell him and all I hear on the other end is a quiet laugh.

  “Got it, Boss. I’ll call it in.” Sergio knows how we roll. He also knows me, and that tonight, blood and a body count was inevitable.

  “I’ll be there in exactly ninety seconds.” I hang up as my eyes glance over to the man in the corner, still passed out. He is so still he might actually be dead, either way I don’t really care. Nate and I make our way out just as Sergio pulls up. I get in the car, but Nate stays on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, a frown on his face.

  “I’ll catch you later, man, got to pay someone a visit.” His lip curls up into a grin. Fucking bastard. I know exactly where he’s going; he got his hands bloody, now he’s going to get his dick wet.

  I don’t know who with, but I have a suspicion that there is something going on between Nate and Emilia’s friend Melody. Nate doesn’t usually do the same girl more than once, but I know him, and he’s definitely been a little more invested in Melody, fuck knows why.

  I gotta say though, the girl is sassy, and yeah, she’s hot but nobody has anything compared to Emilia. When I showed up at Melody Carmichael’s house earlier tonight, she told me that she knew thirteen ways of how to slowly and painfully castrate a man and was willing to exercise all of them if I hurt Emilia. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, but I appreciate the dedication and spunk she showed, considering she knows who I am.

  When we get back to the house, I take a shower and wash the blood off my hands—literally and theoretically. I was brought up and trained not to feel guilt. Life and death are both inevitable and whether it’s by my hand or not, isn’t my problem.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist and grabbing my phone to check for any messages, I make my way down the hall, finding myself outside of Emilia’s room. Opening the door, I instantly regret it because it still smells like her, like delicious exotic fruits and mangoes.

  I’d wanted to talk to her, explain the things that I could today; but I could see she was past her breaking point tonight, and I couldn’t be mad at that. She’d been through so much and found out her life was pretty much a lie.

  I’m not mad at her for that at all—what I am mad about is the fact that she still won’t accept how I feel about her. She still won’t trust me, and I know—I fucking know—I haven’t earned it. I lied, fuck I’m still lying, but I don’t have a choice. I might look like the king from where everyone else is sitting, but Alexander Grayson still has a hold of the puppet strings.

  The truth is that I want her to trust me, not so that I can use her like before. I need her to trust me because she owns my fucking heart, I left it in her soft little hands a few hours ago, before I had to take a step away.

  It kills me to do it, but I will give her time. I know she needs it, but I am me after all, and I’ve never been a very patient person. I will give her a few days to think things over, and then she’s mine. She knows it, deep down, I know it. Emilia Blake will be mine, but next time it’ll be because she snaps out of her need to be right.

  I told her how I feel in the best way I could, I told her the reason I chose not to tell her my real name, and every single word was the truth.

  Nobody looked at me, saw me the way she did, and it was fucking refreshing not to have every single person in my life wanting something from me whether it be money, sex, status, opportunities, the list goes on.

  Emilia Blake didn’t want any of those things from me, maybe the sex, but that was after she fought me on pretty much everything else. For the first time ever, I had actually wanted to help her, to give her whatever she wanted, but I need her to want that too.

  Eventually, she did end up wanting something—not the materialistic crap though, the raw and real shit—my heart. Which definitely isn’t sitting in my chest right now, it’s fifteen miles away at the Carmichael estate.

  I lie down on her bed and her scent is everywhere. Ov
er every inch of her pillow her natural perfume is infused in the silk of the pillowcase and the bedding, it’s captivating and addictive. Like the creep I am, I stay here breathing her in, in the only way I’m able to without her actually being here. I told myself I would give her a few days but right now I’ll be lucky if I last all night without her. I’ve already gone long enough, and I fucking miss her. The next few days are going to be hell. I need to distract myself and luckily, I have a lot of work to do.

  The Empire keeps me more than busy at the best of times, and we always have enemies plotting against us, trying to get their fingers sticky where they’re not allowed to be. It’s always politicians, opposing mafia members, people who have a vendetta against us, and we are not short of those. It is easy enough though, and as the last reigning Elin, my job is to keep the relationships between the Russian mafia—my distant family, I guess you could say—and our connections with a few different factions dotted all over the United States.

  Money and drugs speak volumes in this world, and I am fucking good at my job and have a smart mouth. I can always talk my way out of any situation—that would usually result in a very high body count and a lot of angry gang members all over the world.

  Call it a gut feeling or intuition or whatever, but something feels off. Something’s coming.

  This is the calm before the storm, and I have a feeling it reeks of Alexander Grayson.

  ◆◆◆

  Buzzing vibrates my ass cheek, disturbing me from my coma. Slowly squinting my eyes open, the light violates my vision, my disorientation palpable when I realize I must have fallen asleep in Emilia’s bed last night.

  The towel still wrapped around my waist, I reach under and pull out my phone, Nate’s name flashes on the screen. What the fuck is he doing awake?

  It’s five in the fucking morning on a Sunday.

  “What?” I bark into the phone after hitting accept.

  “Something’s fucking wrong, brother.” That gets my attention. I sit up, swinging my body around till I’m sitting on the edge of Emilia’s bed.

  “I know, man. You think it’s your dad fucking around, or something bigger?” I ask, concern twisting in my stomach. I feel it, which means something is most probably off. We both feel it? Something’s fucking wrong, not a guess—it’s concrete.

  “He’s up to something, man. I went into his office last night after I got back. I uh…” He stops, I can hear him hesitate over the phone. Nate doesn’t hesitate over anything.

  “You what?” I ask him, not sure if I want to know what he’s unsure about telling me.

  “I found something in his desk drawer. A photo.” He pauses and the suspense is pissing me off.

  “Nate, what fucking photo?” I start pacing the floor, fully awake now and my pulse thunders beneath my skin, preparing for whatever is coming.

  “He has a photo of Emilia.” Nate pauses. “I didn’t even know he knew who the fuck she was. Hell, I don’t even know much about her apart from the fact you’ve been fucking her.” I can hear movement on his end, is he driving? The fuck?

  “What fucking photo?” I hear a door slam.

  “Looks like she’s about sixteen. Why would he even have a photo of her? No offense, man, but she doesn’t mean shit in our world—”

  “Yeah. I don’t know, but something’s not right. Ready to do some digging?” I ask, irritation and anxiety swimming around my body as I make a dent in the floor with all the pacing I’m doing.

  “Yup. We still on for Thursday? I need a fucking sesh, man.” A heavy exhale leaves him,

  “Sounds good. You okay?” I ask as I make my way back to my room. I’m wide awake and there is no way I’ll be getting any sleep now. We don’t usually do the whole feelings shit, but I know when something is bothering him. Despite what a lot of people think, Nate and I aren’t actually big drinkers. It’s a good stress reliever sure, but we don’t overindulge like the majority of privileged assholes we know.

  Losing grip on our control is not an option, so Nate actively wanting to go out and get wasted is out of character.

  “You know me, man, all good here. Just playing with fire and got a little burned.” He laughs but it lacks any emotion. “You good, man? Anything from your girl?” he asks, deflecting the attention away from himself—a classic Nate move.

  “No, nothing. Gonna give her some time, not much though.” We both laugh because yeah, we both know how much of a patient man I am, especially when it comes to getting something I want.

  “Right. Time. I’m coming by the office tomorrow. We can discuss dear old dad then. See you then,” Nate tells me, then I end the call, readying myself for the day.

  Priority number one, after checking my phone again to make sure I haven’t missed any calls or texts from Emilia—which I didn’t—is to grab my cock, pumping it till I come in my hand, imagining that it’s all over Emilia’s perfect tits.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Emilia

  The last few days have gone by in a blur, and I have literally been so bored out of my mind I contemplated going back to college, grovelling a little and pretending I had a funny five minutes. I didn’t in the end; what I did do was take out all of pent-up energy out in the home gym at Melody’s. I have been needing this for a long time and had only just realized Lukas had one, and then everything turned to shit.

  I’ve spent every day in here, running until I can’t feel my legs, beating the punching bag until my fingers and my wrists ache in the gloves. I’ve watched a few self-defense videos and worked out a little with Mel, who started teaching me how to throw knives. Because my best friend fucking knife throws like it’s a normal hobby. Maybe in her world it is, and if I am completely honest, I actually love it. It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I’m getting on pretty well. I have a few cuts on my hands from missed calculations when I have tried to be a smartass and spin the blade between my fingers, which is harder than it might look.

  It’s Thursday now, and Mel and I decided last night that we are going out tonight. We both need to let our hair down and have some fun.

  Something’s up with Mel too, I can see it when she thinks I’m not looking. She is constantly on her phone, a frown etched in place, somberness filling her eyes.

  After realizing I’ve been practicing with the knives for a solid six hours and taking a shower, I run downstairs to grab something to eat before Mel gets home.

  Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael are almost never here. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen them, and that’s including the two times they were hosting their beloved charity events, any excuse to boast their riches. Mr. Carmichael doesn’t seem too bad, he is more like a shadow though—barely there and if he is, it’s fleeting and tedious, but bearable. Mrs. Carmichael, however, is like a screeching alarm clock that you don’t waste any time hitting to silence as fast as humanly possible. If only hitting her in real life would shut her up, but a girl can fantasize.

  I wolf down a sandwich and grab a bottle of water before making my way back upstairs. Just as I’m rounding the corner, the front door flies open wide with so much force it hits the wall sending a photo crashing to the floor. I watch as my best friend marches in, murder in her eyes.

  “That fucking asshole! I swear to God if I see either of their faces again, they won’t have a face left!” she shouts, her voice echoing throughout the house.

  “I might need a little more than that, babe. Who are we defacing and why?” I ask, starting up the stairs with Mel right behind.

  “I can’t even think about it without wanting to vomit.” Mel deflects and doesn’t answer my question, throwing her bag into her closet and pulling out her hair tie, the strawberry blonde locks falling down past her shoulders in waves.

  “So… we still going out or—” I ask, unsure of her mood.

  “Damn fucking right we are. We are going to La Rouge. We are going to drink, dance, grind up on some hot ass men and we are going to have fun, and look hot as shit while we do i
t!”

  I still don’t know what happened, but I’m going to guess that this has Lukas’s friend Nate’s name written all over it. This is out of character for Mel. She doesn’t care this much about a lot of things, especially when it comes to a guy.

  The only other time I remember Mel being really affected by a boy was in high school. I hadn’t met him, and she didn’t want to talk about it much. I just knew he was a dick to her, a bully, and made her school life hell.

  I always kept to myself, hiding away in the library, very much the introvert which I still am, so I never witnessed any of the events that upset Melody so much. Then after Alexis had gone missing, I shut myself off to the world for a very long time and would barely go out.

  ◆◆◆

  A couple of hours and a dozen shots later, we are standing beside one another in the full-length mirror, once again admiring our not too shabby hair and makeup skills, and by that, I mean they are fucking amazing.

  We went all out tonight. Mel’s wearing a strapless, sweetheart fitted, black jumpsuit. Her hair sleek and dead straight down to her tailbone. She went for a neutral lip and sparkly navy-blue eyes. She grabs her heels from the floor, struggling to balance as she hops around trying to fit her stiletto onto her foot. I snigger as she wobbles around. Glancing back at my reflection, I feel disconnected from the girl staring back at me. She looks confident, perfect, standing next to her knockout of a best friend. She resembles everything I want to be, everything I want to embody right now, and maybe I can. Maybe for tonight I can be free, whatever that means.

  I run my hands down my body, over my little black dress that Mel insisted I get, and I’m not mad at her for it. It’s a Hervé Léger, and it hugs my body in all the right places, accentuating my hips and little waist.

  My hair has been expertly spun into a fishtail braid that hangs over my left shoulder with some loose wavy tendrils framing my face. Eyes with a shimmery pearl shade on the lid, a little eyeliner and mascara, with a blood red lip. We’re a little overdressed for La Rouge tonight, but we don’t care.