Blood Money: A Captive Romance (The Dirty Money Duet Book 2)

by BL Mute

  “Then what?”

  “Once we figure out a solid plan, I’ll take it. I’ll get on a plane so he thinks you’re running. Which means you both need to fly under the radar. If he figures out it’s me, then whatever we come up with will go to shit.” Hatcher says, pulling my attention to him.

  I take another deep drag from the joint. “Then let’s figure things out and get this thing out of me.”

  Blowing the smoke out, I plop onto the couch. As Hatcher pulls a knife from his boot, Cyrus moves into the kitchen. While we wait, I keep my eyes on Hatcher. I know Cyrus said we can trust him, but he also said it’s the very men and women who do what he does who would be hunting him, and that just makes me feel uneasy.

  I know this fucking giant is the last thing I should be worried about right now, and I told myself I wouldn’t think into him, but it’s hard.

  When Cyrus exits the kitchen and makes his way back to me, I push the thoughts away. Right now, I’d rather focus on something good. I may not know Hatcher, but he is risking his own life by taking this chip. That says enough. At least for now.

  “Okay,” he says, squatting in front of me with a bottle of liquor in hand. “This is going to hurt, but it should be quick.”

  I nod, take another puff of my joint, thankful it seems to be relaxing me a bit, then lean back into the couch and extend my arm to him.

  “Hatch.” He tips his head from Hatcher to me, and even in my semi-inebriated state, I know what that means.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as he moves toward me. First, I feel the cool liquid hit my arm, then I feel Hatcher’s weight on me, holding my body in place with his as his hands lock around my arm. At first the pressure is nice. It calms my haywire nerves and slows my racing heart, but then the pain comes.

  Searing fire shoots through my bicep. At least with Ghost, he made Burly Bob jab me with some Lidocaine, but the effects of it have long gone. I bite my tongue from screaming out as I feel Cyrus insert a finger into the gash. He moves around slowly, prolonging my torture, until I feel him hit the small device. Another swirl with his finger, and then he removes it.

  I wish I could say the pain leaves with it, but it doesn’t. My entire arm throbs in the most uncomfortable way. “Fuck,” I mumble, bringing my joint back to my lips with my other hand.

  I crack open my eyes as I inhale. Tears blur my vision, but when I look down, I can still see enough. Blood oozes from the cut on my upper arm, all the way down to my wrist, and pools in a small puddle on the wooden floor.

  It’s almost transfixing in a way. The crimson color, the low drip, drip, drip from each new drop hitting the puddle, but as Hatcher moves off me, my mind catches up.

  This is blood.

  Without warning, I lean over and hurl. Luckily my stomach is empty, so nothing comes out, but the pangs it sends through my midsection don’t help the queasy feeling.

  “Get her some water, Hatch.” Hatcher nods and disappears into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, but it needed to come out,” Cyrus continues, looking back at me.

  I shake my head. “I know. It’s okay. I just need to get away from that.” I point to the blood on the floor.

  I never thought blood bothered me, but then again, I’ve never seen so much of it before in my life. I’m not sure if it’s the actual sight or the smell, but regardless, I don’t want to stay by it long enough to figure it out.

  Cyrus nods, then grabs one of the shirts from the emptied contents of the duffel bag and wraps it around my arm. Once it’s secured tightly, he helps me stand and walks me to his room.

  I drop onto the edge of the bed and take a deep breath through my nose. As Hatcher walks in, I reach for the glass in his hand before he can even make it to me. When he hands it to me, the cold condensation sends a shiver down my spine. I guzzle it greedily, not even realizing how thirsty I was. Maybe it was the dry heaving, or maybe it’s the weed.

  “Tell us what happened,” Hatcher says as I gulp the last of the water down.

  I take another deep breath, willing the emotions I’ve bottled up to stay sealed. “My father—” I cringe. “—hired Ghost to kill my mother. He also informed me Alexander—the man I’ve always known as Dad—isn’t my dad after all. William, our butler, is though.” It takes everything in me not to laugh because it sounds so bizarre saying it out loud. This can’t be real life.

  Their eyes snap to each other, then back to me. “That’s why he offered you a job?” Cyrus asks.

  I shrug. “He said he can give me answers, but I don’t need them. I intend to get everything I need from Alexander. He has a lot of explaining to do at this point. All the information Ghost gave me does is provide leverage.”

  “Fuck,” Hatcher comments as he shakes his head. “That’s a lot to unload.”

  Cyrus narrows his eyes at him before looking back at me. “Are you okay?”

  I tip my head. “What do you think? I was just told my mother didn’t actually die birthing me, and the man who hates me isn’t even my father, and I have no idea why he didn’t tell me. Would you be okay?”

  “I—” he starts, but I stop him.

  “Look, right now isn’t the time to dwell on shit. I can ask him all the questions I want when we go see him.” I stand from the bed. The world tilts and makes my balance wobbly, but I correct myself quickly.

  “What do you mean go see him?” Cyrus asks.

  “Ghost wants his money. How do you expect me to get it?”

  Hatcher lays his hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “She’s right, but this doesn’t feel right.”

  “It’s because it isn’t. It’s a fucking setup,” Cyrus bites back, shaking away from Hatcher’s touch.

  “Then what do you suggest we do?” I ask, crossing my arms over my stomach.

  “We need a hacker. Someone who is able to bypass the shit Ghost has in place.” Hatcher starts thinking out loud.

  I bite my lip and debate on even voicing my thoughts, but it seems they know no one. If they did, I’m sure they’d be here by now. Right? “I know someone.”

  I hate to even think about dragging Bradley into something like this again, but we’re out of options. Cyrus’s contacts only include other hitmen, it seems.

  “Will they be worth it?” Hatcher asks, staring at me down the bridge of his nose.

  “He’s already helped a friend out of some shit before. I’m sure he won’t mind as long as I’m the one who asks,” I reply, already hating the idea.

  “If he can track where Ghost is while you talk to your dad—”

  “He isn’t my dad,” I snap.

  Hatcher holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. If he can track where Ghost is while you talk to Alexander, then I can take the chip and run. It will buy us maybe a week or two at most, but nothing else, so you need to make sure this shit is done right.”

  “What happens when we find him?” Cyrus finally adds something more to the conversation.

  “We do what we do best.” Hatcher shrugs.

  “And if he sees us coming?”

  “We go down fighting.”

  The way they look at each other tells me they’re saying more than they’re voicing, but I don’t ask what. I’m not sure I even want to know, but I can see it in their eyes. There is no other alternative or backing down.

  They plan to kill Ghost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CARMEN

  The rest of the day, Hatcher, Cyrus, and I nailed down our plan. If we strike soon, Ghost won’t be expecting it, and we’ll have the upper hand. Tomorrow, I’ll meet with Alexander, then from there, we’ll meet with Bradley. All while Hatcher takes the chip and runs. It will give us the distraction we need, but I’m still not too fond of the idea. Death is a very real possibility at this point, and I’m fucking terrified.

  Not only that, facing Alexander with all I know now makes me feel some type of way. Angry, sad, disgusted. Every emotion there is, is bundled inside of me, just waiting to explode.

  “Everything is going to be okay, Ca
rmen,” Cyrus says, wrapping his arm around my waist and dragging me from my thoughts.

  I shake my head, then push the side of my face further into the pillow. It’s a lost cause to try and sleep, but Cyrus insisted I rest.

  “I don’t think it will be,” I reply, turning in his hold to face him.

  He moves his hand and uses it to brush the hair from my face. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  I smile sadly. “It’s not nice to make promises you can’t keep.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Spitfire. I intend to keep it, no matter what I have to do.”

  I want to believe him, but all of this could go south in a matter of moments. All it takes is one wrong move, one wrong call, and everything will crash and burn around us.

  “Aren’t you scared of death?” I know he isn’t, but right now, I don’t want to argue or debate. I just want him to justify my own feelings in a way—tell me I’m not crazy for fearing the possibility.

  Death wasn’t something I even thought about a few weeks ago. I had no reason to, but now it seems that’s all that surrounds me. It’s looming and intrusive in my every thought, always hanging in the back of my mind.

  “It’s hard to fear what you are. I am death, Carmen,” he answers honestly.

  “You’re more than that.”

  The grin he wears so well graces his lips, but this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Kiss me.”

  I prop myself up on my elbow. “Cyrus, I’m serious. I’m worried and scared. I have so much going on inside of my brain and—”

  He cuts me off by pressing his lips to mine for a moment before pulling away. “I know. Let me help you forget. Just for the night.”

  I let out a breath and close my eyes, letting myself sink into the escape he’s offering. His lips move back to mine, pressing against them softly. I open my mouth, and his tongue skates over my own. With every kiss, every stroke of his tongue, my mind silences more and more, until it’s screaming again.

  This could be it—the last time you get with him. It reminds me of the very thing I don’t want to acknowledge, so I move more vigorously. I push my hands into his hair and tug him toward me, forcing him closer, even though every inch of space between us is eaten up with our bodies.

  “Calm down. I’m not going anywhere, Spitfire. I’m yours all night,” he whispers, moving his lips to my jaw.

  I pull away long enough to slip the shirt from my body. Once it’s gone, he gently pushes my shoulder, forcing me from my side to my back, and crawls over me. His hard, warm chest weighs down on me.

  “I don’t want to lose you when I’ve just gotten to know you,” I admit, cupping his face in my hands.

  “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He doesn’t know that—none of us do—but I don’t voice that thought. Instead, I push it down, burying it in the deepest corner of my mind as he leans back down, anchoring his mouth to mine.

  Suddenly, his movements mimic mine. Fast, unsteady, hungry. It’s like he’s having the same realization I am, but neither of us will say it. Because no matter how much we talk, how much we touch, how much we fuck… it will never be enough.

  His hands glide down my sides. Once they reach my waist, he keeps one locked on my hip as the other pushes inside of my panties. Two thick fingers stroke me a few times, coating themselves in my arousal before dipping inside of me.

  I push myself into the mattress and moan. “Fuck.”

  His fingers pump into me steadily, not too fast and not too slow. When he curls them, hitting the sweetest spot there is inside of me, I buck my hips.

  “That’s it. Let go, Spitfire. Forget about all the bullshit and fuck my hand.” He pushes the heel of his palm into my mound, letting it put pressure onto my clit.

  I keep moving, keep chasing my release, but it never comes. Slowly, he removes his fingers from me, then brings them to his mouth. He sucks his middle and ring finger down to his knuckle, swirling his tongue around each one so he doesn’t waste a single drop of my wetness.

  “You’ve always been so sweet.” Chills break out all over my body with his words.

  “Taste yourself, Spitfire. See what made me so fucking addicted to your cunt. Why I won’t be going anywhere.” He runs the same two fingers over my slit again, then moves them to my lips.

  I open my mouth, nervous for a reason I can’t even explain. He lays them on my tongue, letting every bead of moisture coat my palate. I taste myself first before the flavor of him takes over. My arousal and his mouth—the perfect mixture of sex and sin.

  Unhurried, he skims them across my tongue, moving further back into my mouth until the tips hit my throat. Instinctively, I gag, but it doesn’t stop him. He moves his fingers out, then slides them back in. I lock my lips around them, sucking as hard as I can while staring into his eyes.

  “Such a good girl,” he raves with hooded eyes and a devilish smirk.

  When he moves them back out, I let my teeth graze his skin. I can tell he likes it by the way his eyes roll, and it has pride blooming in my chest and heat pooling in my core. “I want you,” I pant, trying to catch the breath leaving my lungs.

  He runs his pointer finger down the side of my face, studying me, before lowering it to my neck. His fingers clamp around me hard, and I can still feel the wetness from my mouth on them. “You have me, Spitfire.”

  With his free hand, he reaches down, undoes his pants, and yanks my panties to one side, exposing my pussy. He pushes his pants down, keeping his hand locked around my throat, then without warning, shoves into me. Nothing about the way he fucks me is slow or gentle—it never is—but I can feel the desperation in his thrusts, the same desperation I have in my bones. We don’t want to lose each other.

  His grip tightens, and stars start to dance behind my eyelids with every blink, but I need this. I need to forget, even just for a second. Reaching up, I clamp my hand on one of his pectorals. The harder he squeezes, the deeper I let my nails dig into him.

  “Harder!” I gasp, using my free hand to tap the back of his holding me.

  He obeys, pressing the tips of his fingers harder into the sides of my throat. With every thrust and every ounce of new pressure, I become more aware. I feel his balls hitting my ass. I feel the head of his cock pushing into me deeper and deeper. And then, that warm, fuzzy, euphoric feeling I felt our first time together creeps back into me. I can practically taste it on my tongue.

  Chasing that sensation, I lift my hips slightly, letting him hit a new spot inside of me. That’s all it takes. As my walls start to close in on him, he lets go. Blood rushes into my brain, oxygen crashes into my lungs, and his cum spurts inside of me. Then, I pass out. Everything goes black, and my mind goes quiet.

  Finally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CARMEN

  Waking up feels different. Almost as if I’m still asleep and dreaming—that’s the best way to put it. Memories of my entire life keep flashing behind my eyes like the universe is trying to tell me something. I shake it away as I stretch. Between my thighs is sore, it feels as though I’ve swallowed an entire cup of sand, and my head is pounding.

  As I stand, I wrap the sheet around me, wincing at the aching pain that shoots through my arm. I tiptoe toward the door and stop behind it. With it cracked, I can hear Hatcher and Cyrus talking. I focus on both their baritones, ignoring all the other sounds around like the coffeepot brewing, birds chirping outside, and Tiny’s nails clattering against the floor as he moves around.

  “You have to promise me something, Hatch,” Cyrus starts.

  “Anything,” Hatcher replies.

  “If something happens to me, you have to keep her safe,” Cyrus says, dropping his voice a few octaves so it’s almost impossible to hear. Almost.

  “As long as her friend pans out, we should be fine. We’re too smart—too prepared.”

  “Should,” Cyrus emphasizes.

  Silence falls over the house for a moment before Hatcher spe
aks again. “You have my word. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Their conversation quickly dies, so I open the door further and slip out. “What’s going on?”

  Cyrus shakes his head. “Nothing. Just making sure Hatch has everything he needs before leaving. You should get dressed so we can leave too.”

  “Now?”

  “We need to strike while we have the upper hand, Carmen,” Hatcher replies.

  “I know. I just thought…” I trail off.

  “You had more time?” Cyrus finishes for me.

  I nod. More time with you, more time avoiding the inevitable, more time acting as if everything is okay, I think to myself, but I don’t say it out loud.

  “Everything will work out how we planned. Go get dressed.” Cyrus juts his chin toward the bedroom.

  I comply and slip back into the bedroom. I’ve had doubts and made them clear, but hearing how worried Cyrus sounded talking to Hatcher makes me realize this is probably worse than I thought. For a moment, I had a sliver of hope everything would work the way we want, but now I’m not so sure.

  I push the thoughts down and grab some clothes from the bag Cyrus took from Lydia. Basic tank top and shorts along with tennis shoes. Simple, comfortable, easy to blend in. That’s what I’m going for. When I exit the room for the second time, Hatcher is nowhere in sight as Cyrus leans over the kitchen counter, sipping some coffee.

  “Got any Tylenol? I have a killer headache,” I ask, walking through the threshold.

  He pulls open a drawer and tosses me the bottle. “Are you ready? If we want to make it to Bexley at a decent time, we need to get on the road.”

  I shake two pills into my hand, then pop them into my mouth. Snagging the coffee cup from his hand, I take a sip and swallow them down. “As ready as I can be. Not too fond of the idea of telling my dad I know his dirty little secret,” I reply honestly.

  He circles the counter and wraps me in his arms. “I’ll be with you. Just lay it out, get the money, and we can leave.”

  I scoff. “You make it sound so simple. There will be more to it than that.”