by Sophie Davis
Pint scanned her palm at a door labeled ‘581’. I counted to three before her identity was confirmed and the airlocks released. The door swung open on its reinforced hinges.
“Settle in. An auction this large will likely go until morning,” Pint said. She turned to Mole. “Go on, remove her cuffs.”
The guard’s blonde brows arched, but she made no verbal comment as she complied with Pint’s order.
I, too, was surprised at the small kindness, if not a little wary.
How tight must security be if my captors are willing to leave me unrestrained?
Even before the second metal bracelet was free of my wrist, Pint was shoving me through the open doorway. The twisted grin of pure pleasure on her face made all the more maniacal by the bruises she couldn’t hide.
Vicious freaking biotch. Soon, you’ll be the one at my mercy.
Stumbling blindly into the dark room, I tripped over the hem of my dress. Clumsy by nature and still preoccupied with thoughts of Francie, James, and the 1001 ways I would one day take revenge on the Poachers, I never even tried to break my fall with my hands. I landed awkwardly on my hip instead.
Seriously? Give a girl a break already.
Wincing, I bit my lip to hold back a moan. Pint’s nails-on-a-chalkboard laughter was the last sound I heard before the door whooshed shut. The locks clicked into place and I officially became the newest resident of cube 581.
The glass prison was eerily quiet. The walls must have been soundproofed, because I couldn’t hear even a hint of the roar from below. The darkness was all-consuming and incredibly disorienting. No matter which direction I looked, all I saw was blackness and more blackness.
A scraping sound made my next breath hitch in my throat.
The noise reminded me of the one the victim always hears in the old horror films that Alana loved to watch. The one the killer somehow makes to taunt his prey in those tension-filled moments just before he reveals himself. And just like the ditzy female character always did, I called out.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
The grating clang came again. If this were really a movie, I’d investigate the sound. But I wasn’t a moron. I scuttled towards the door, putting as much distance as possible between me and the potential homicidal maniac. Unfortunately, I’d lost my bearings in the darkness. I kept moving in, what I hoped was, the opposite direction of the masked madman who’d just escaped from a mental asylum and wielded a chainsaw. My shoulder collided with the rear wall. I pressed my back against the smooth surface, knees pulled up to my chest in an effort to make myself as small as possible.
Okay, clearly a chainsaw was crazy. It would be entirely too loud in this tiny space and give him away in an instant. So, a scythe. The masked madman—the one who would lop my head off with a single swing of Death’s long curved blade—clattered for a third time.
When he spoke, it was only three words. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been in a crypt for a hundred years.
“Hey there, Chief.”
Suddenly my mind’s attempt at levity in the terrifying situation seemed cavalier and insensitive.
“James?” I gasped, choking out his name on a sob.
Scrambling to my feet, I whirled in a circle, expecting him to miraculously appear in front of me like an apparition.
“Over here, Kenly,” James said softly.
A beam of light sliced across the cube, illuminating the raised platform where James sat. He was holding back one of the heavy red drapes that covered the front pane of the cube. In the light streaming in from the window facing the arena, the swelling around James’s mouth and eye were visible. Inwardly, I cringed.
My fault. The damage to his beautiful face is my fault.
“I-I-I…” I stuttered, at a loss for words. What exactly was the appropriate response in this sort of a situation? Sorry sounded lame. So did telling him I’d missed him. Even though I had.
“Hey.”
A computer for a brain and that is your best response? You’re a real wordsmith, Kenly.
“Come here.” James cocked his head, beckoning me over.
I hurried to join him, so relieved not to be alone in this hellhole anymore that I didn’t notice the chains affixed to the middle of the platform. Somehow my ankle tangled in the links and I pitched forward, landing right in James’s lap. That wouldn’t have been the worst place to end up, except all of my momentum slammed into his chest. Together we fell backwards, James’s head bouncing off the platform.
Anxious, I quickly sat up. James’s hand flew to his head, his low groan gradually becoming a hearty chuckle. Surprise and embarrassment turned into delight as he descended into a fit of long, roaring laughter. The sound reverberated off the four glass walls.
It was music to my ears.
That I was the one to make James laugh like that—even if it was at me, not with me—made my heart lighter than should have been possible given our predicament.
From where I sat, still perched in his lap, I grinned down at James like a fool and wished we could hit life’s pause button. Corny and school-girl as the notion was, I wanted to hold on to the feeling of pure joy that had infiltrated my heart and mind.
When James caught me smiling at him, his eyebrows drew together in feigned disapproval.
“Hey,” he said in a mock-stern tone.
I mimicked both the expression and his tone.
“Hey,” I replied.
No sooner had the word left my mouth than I found myself falling forward as he grabbed my hand and pulled me impossibly closer.
“I said, ‘Come here,’” James declared gruffly.
The barest hint of a smirk remained on his swollen, parted lips. But his eyes had turned serious and thoughtful, his tone no longer playful.
Before I could fire off a retort, James curled his fingers around the back of my neck and pulled my face down to meet his. There was no pausing, no hesitation, no warning. Only the sudden crush of his lips on mine.
For several long, perfect seconds James’s exquisite mouth moved hungrily against mine, teasing and taunting with a pressure that was both overwhelming and thrilling. Then, abruptly, James broke contact. Skin that had previously become warm and tingly suddenly felt cold without his touch. He arched his neck back, putting as much distance between us as was possible given our respective positions—my body pinning his to the platform.
Did I do something wrong? Can you do something wrong in a five second make-out session?
Cupping my cheek in his rough palm, James gently pushed me back a little farther. The small distance he put between us felt like a great chasm.
I panicked. Like actually panicked.
He’s rejecting me. Am I a bad kisser? Do I have bad breath? Or had the kiss simply been the result of the past, tumultuous, twenty-four hours? A byproduct of his body’s natural response to a heightened emotional state—the need to feel close to another human being. Oh no. Maybe he hadn’t meant to kiss me at all. Maybe I’d misinterpreted his intentions. Like he’d actually been going in for a hug and I’d attached my lips to his like a leech.
At least you got to kiss him, the optimistic part of me reasoned.
Attempting to salvage some dignity, I sat up. James did too. But when I tried to stand, to move off of his lap, James’s strong hands closed around the silk fabric at my waist and held me firmly in place. Embarrassed and unprepared to completely break contact with this guy that I so wanted to touch—even if the feelings were not mutual—I remained seated, painfully aware of how quickly the situation was becoming awkward. Still, this possibly being my last voluntary human contact ever I wanted to savor the moment. Carefully studying the collar of his starched white shirt, I staunchly refused to meet his eyes.
Mortifying. The entire experience was downright mortifying.
As if you needed anymore humiliation today.
Though I felt James’s eyes on me, I feigned ignorance.
When he’d neither said anything nor moved after a fu
ll sixty seconds, I decided enough was enough. No way was I waiting for him to unceremoniously dump me on the ground.
Just as I started to stand, James reached for my hand and laced our fingers together. His thumb began to trace those small circles just below the knuckles of my index and middle finger. Oddly, after only a short time, that little gesture comforted and reassured me more than anything in the world.
As James continued to work his magic, I felt myself smile and the tension and worry that had accumulated since our kiss vanished. Without thinking, I brought our interlocked hands to my mouth and gently brushed my lips over the same spot on the back of his hand.
It felt natural, like we were a longtime couple instead of in the midst of a budding romance.
James froze. I could feel him staring steadily at me.
I couldn’t help myself…I looked.
His gaze locked with mine. That perfect platinum darted back and forth, searching for something in my brown counterparts. In the silver depths, though, I found emotions that I hadn’t expected: Trepidation. Uncertainty. Longing.
Are you sure you’re not imagining what you want to see, crazypants?
I’d memorized every one of James’s expressions without even trying. He kept so much inside, was so closely guarded, that it had been necessary if I ever wanted to know what was going on inside that gorgeous head of his.
I recalled where I’d seen each of those emotions before.
Trepidation—when we were at the bar with Tug’s friends, hearing about the round-up. Uncertainty—when we’d first met, during our late night heart-to-hearts, along with a million other times, he’d thrown me that look. Longing—only when James spoke of a car he really wanted, or of his mother.
James’s eyes flitted to my lips.
Checkmate.
Without any more thinking, analyzing, assessing, or calculating, I leaned in and softly pressed my lips to his. James’s hesitation was brief, and then his arm snaked around my waist and pulled me flush against the chest that I’d so admired when he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
He tangled his fingers in my hair. No doubt undoing all the aunties’ hard work. My arms were around his neck. The kiss was desperate and hungry, both of us aware that our time together was limited—likely finite. Both of us intent on making every second count, every touch last.
James ran a palm down my back, over my ribs, before bringing it to rest at my waist. Everywhere his skin made contact with mine was on fire. I felt alive. I felt free. I felt defiant—UNITED, the Poachers, the ignorant people of the world, had all taken so much from me. And yet, they couldn’t, wouldn’t take this—take him—from me. Despite the less-than-ideal location and dismal circumstances, I’d never felt closer to another human being as I felt to James Wellington in that moment.
Pressed tightly together there in that display box—the spotlight off so the crowd couldn’t see us—we ignored our troubles and let the world fall away.
Unbidden, the fact I’d almost lost him floated through my mind. Had almost never seen him again. Never felt this.
That would have been tragic.
I clung to James with the desperation of one who knows her number is about to be called. Just in case this was both the beginning and the end for us.
“YOU DIDN’T HAVE to literally throw yourself at me, you know,” James said. “I was already planning on kissing you the moment I laid eyes on you again.”
“I tripped!” I protested, purposely not commenting on the second half of his statement. The profuse blush on my cheeks was enough to tell him what I thought of it.
“You’re terribly uncoordinated for someone trained at that fancy school of yours,” James teased.
If the depiction wasn’t absolutely deserved, I might have been offended. Though I doubted anything that James said to me right then would have come across as offensive. He was a really good kisser.
We’d moved away from the platform and were propped up against the side wall of the cube. At least, he still was. As soon as we sat down, James had snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me closer, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With his arm still wrapped around my waist, I curled into James, my knees resting on his outstretched legs and my head on his broad shoulder.
Two attempts to break apart and be serious were both followed by one of us instigating another little show for anyone in the security division who might be tasked with monitoring the cube. With the end of life as we knew it imminent, neither one of us could muster an ounce of concern that there might be an audience for our PG-13 display on the other end of the video feed.
If the Poachers were smart, which they obviously were, they’d never make a spectacle of us by broadcasting our images onto the enormous wallscreen. No one would pay top dollar for a girl, even a Created, with such wanton behavior, even if said wanton behavior was with her boyfriend. It would only lead to trouble, and not the good kind.
He’s not your boyfriend nutso, my inner voice admonished. This doesn’t mean you’re in love and getting married. Get it together, girl.
Even the dose of reality didn’t hamper my enjoyment of the moment. I was relishing the feeling of being so close to James and finally finding out for myself exactly how soft his lips were. For his part, James didn’t seem to be in a hurry to break apart, either. Pint’s taunt when she shoved me through the door had been meant to scare me, and at the time they had. But now I liked the idea of being left alone in that cube for a while. So, it seemed, did James. Given that, neither one of us was in hurry to begin talking.
No longer being alone made all the difference. Having anyone there would have made me feel better. Had they thrown me in with Francie, I would have been less scared, steadier. But being near him fortified me, gave me strength and renewed my willpower. It pushed all of the atrocities I’d seen and faced to the back of my mind, as though they were in the distant past.
Unfortunately, the leather band with a circular hook was still on his ankle and connected to the platform just in front of us. Though I didn’t want to rupture our comfortable quiet, didn’t want to move from the most contented embrace that I could imagine, the chain was a harsh reminder of where we were and what we were facing.
Being so close to James, even in this hellhole, meant I could think of nothing beyond his strong arms, smooth lips, and the butterflies that kept fluttering in my belly. Calling upon every ounce of determination I could muster, I pushed myself up. Unable to resist, I stopped to brush a kiss against his cheek. In response, he turned and pressed those amazing lips to mine, lingering. When I forced myself to pull back, I knew my face was a mirror image of his happy smile.
My hand reached up without a conscious thought to brush James’s hair back from where a piece had fallen near his enviable eyelashes. And my breath hitched in my throat.
Though I tried to be gentle, we both winced when my fingertips skimmed over the deep purple skin just below his right eye.
“Is this from the thugs in the study?” I quietly asked, puzzled.
As far as I’d seen, Monroe’s men had been careful to direct the blows at his torso, where the evidence would not be visible with clothes on.
James tried to avert his gaze. With me only inches away from him, he had few options.
“James?”
“No,” he quietly answered, finally meeting my eyes.
We remained locked that silent battle of wills, both of us searching for the answers to questions we didn’t want to ask.
“Tell me,” I finally whispered.
Truth be told, I was terrified for him to answer. The feeling was partly because I was scared to hear what additional pain I’d caused him and partly because I was frightened of the quiet resentment I’d surely see in those platinum of his eyes.
“While Pint was parading you about on the auction floor, Jaylen and his father came round to pay me a visit. It seems they thought you might’ve told me some bits about that Talia girl or the child,” James shrugged nonchalantly, but
my chest was already aching with guilt. “When I declined to say one way or the other…. I suppose my silence was not appreciated.”
“I’m so sorry, James,” I blurted out. “This is totally my fault, all of it. I…I never should’ve let you guys help me.”
To my horror, I started to cry. It was excruciating to think of what he’d been through because of me. Though it was also unbearable to think that he’d have been better off if we’d never met. The thought of having never met James…it was heart wrenching.
“Shhh, Kenly…Kenly…it’s okay, love,” James soothed, drawing me in to an embrace.
I should’ve been the one comforting him, but somehow I’d inadvertently turned the situation around to make it all about me. This just made me cry harder. Which of course made me feel even more blameworthy.
My head rested in the crook of his neck, and I could smell that wonderful scent that was all him. Enveloping me with both of his strong arms, James gripped me tightly. The act was reassuring, but I was still tearing up.
“Kenly, you can’t blame yourself for this,” he continued, pulling back so he could look at me while he spoke. “You simply can’t, Chief. Sadly, Poachers have been in force for decades. The foremost players all come from aristocratic families. Hunting is in their blood. Remember what the Duke said about his great-whatever aunt? The one who became Queen?”
Not yet trusting myself to speak, I nodded.
“Anabel’s sale to King Jensen was the start of modern day Poaching. Can you imagine? Her own father was willing to toss her aside for his personal gain. It just proves that no Chrome is safe from the self-seeking prigs, they have no qualms whatsoever. So perhaps it wouldn’t have been last night, but ultimately they would have netted me. With or without you.”
Contemplating the truth of his statement, I found that I still felt entirely responsible for him being in this mess. No matter what he said, James wouldn’t have been here if he hadn’t been with me. Trying to protect me. His presence in the Monroe’s house of cruelties was because of me. And we both knew it.