The Deception

by Nikki Sloane

  And I was still upset from earlier, when he hadn’t listened when I’d told him I didn’t want to talk about it. What Royce had said was likely right. His stepmother wasn’t interested in my forgiveness, only pleasing her husband.

  I rolled back over to face my fiancé, doing it noisily to try to wake him, but it didn’t work. His face was peaceful, and although he looked gorgeous like that, resentment itched across my skin. I was exhausted, but he made sleeping impossible. The least he could do was wake up and keep me company.

  My mind kept going back to the chess set.

  It was foolish, but I was becoming desperate. Maybe I’d be able to sleep if the set was gone, out of my room. I tossed back the covers and climbed out of bed. Royce didn’t even stir as I padded on bare feet to the door and slipped out.

  The hallway was dark; the only source of light came from the arched window at the end. The moonlight cast panes of silver over the rich red carpet, which looked like a swath of blood flowing to fill every corner. It was incessantly cold in the house, and I shivered in my cotton tank top and shorts.

  When a black shadow stepped into my path, my lungs seized. It was a full second before my heart came back to life.

  “Lucifer,” I scolded the cat in a whisper. “You scared me.”

  He was unconcerned. He brushed against my leg and meowed softly, happy to see another soul awake at this hour, and he didn’t care who it was. I let out my tight breath, reached down, and scratched him behind his ears. His deep purr was . . . satisfying.

  The only pets I’d had growing up were fish, and they hadn’t really been mine. For a while, Emily had wanted to be a marine biologist, so my parents had bought her a huge saltwater tank, complete with living coral and tropical fish, and hired a man who came twice a week to do all the things needed to keep everything alive.

  My sister had let me name some of the shrimp and one of the purple-yellow fish. He’d been Poseidon, of course. The shrimp were Oceanids—sea nymphs in Greek mythology. The tank had been gorgeous, but as I thought back on it, all I could see was the frivolous money behind it. By the time it was set up, Emily had begun to move on to the next thing. My parents didn’t care. They loved us fiercely and gave my sister and me anything we wanted.

  But if they had exercised a little restraint, it was possible I wouldn’t have been wandering the halls of the Hale mansion right now at two in the morning.

  I scowled at myself. That wasn’t fair to blame them for my situation. No one had forced me. No one had made me agree to the life I now lived except me.

  Lucifer followed me optimistically as I went into my bedroom, hoping for more attention, but my focus had already moved to the chessboard. I pushed the pieces to the center of the board and carefully picked it up. He meowed quietly while I carried it down the hall and into the library.

  As I stepped inside, my gaze flew to the imposing figure looming at the window. The board tilted in my hands, pieces slid off the side, and clattered noisily to the floor.

  My heart lurched to a stop.

  FIVE

  The chess pieces crashed like stones against the hardwood, some with a loud bang and others with barely a ping, but the noise was enough to startle Lucifer and send the cat running.

  Macalister turned at the sound, and pale moonlight cast across his face. It made him look even less human. Like he was a statue of unmovable granite. Helping that idea was the fact he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Only a pair of loose black lounge pants that hugged his hips.

  Not that he was ever the type of man to ‘lounge.’

  It was the most casual and undressed I’d ever seen him, and I found it terrifying.

  Beneath the dusting of dark hair on his chest, his muscles were toned, and his waist was trim. It didn’t look like the typical body of a fifty-one-year-old man, but one much younger. He obviously worked hard to maintain his physique. I’d been told he exercised religiously with weights, ate a strict diet and jogged on the treadmill most evenings after dinner, catching up on emails and watching the opening of the Japanese stock markets.

  And he sometimes ran on the treadmill in the middle of the night because, unlike his son who was dead asleep down the hall, Macalister suffered from insomnia.

  “Marist.” He looked as surprised to see me as I was him, but that was where our similarity stopped. He gazed at me as an unexpected gift, and I viewed him like I was the prey caught in his trap.

  I didn’t want him to see the fear he caused in me, so I used a harsh tone. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  He didn’t apologize. He simply watched me as I bent down and began to collect the scattered chess pieces. Hopefully, he didn’t see the nervous tremble working its way up my spine. It was impossible not to feel the danger that still lingered in the library. The memory of what had happened just three days ago clung to the air like sickly-sweet perfume. It hadn’t had enough time to air out.

  “Did you come to play?” he asked.

  “No.” I set one of the rooks—a Greek column—down on the board with too much force. “I wanted this out of my room.”

  “You don’t like it?” It was impossible to tell if he was hurt or angry or offended.

  “No, it’s just—” I put my hands on my knees, sat back on my heels, and gave him a hard look. “I don’t like the memories that goes with it.”

  He nodded with understanding. “Ah. That was a difficult night for you.”

  Of course, he thought I meant the part where I’d been drugged by his jealous wife, and not where he’d demanded I come to his room wearing only my masquerade mask.

  You will give me anything I ask for, he’d demanded.

  He crouched down in front of me, bringing our gazes level. “It was difficult for me as well.”

  I opened my mouth to spew my angry vitriol at him, but he wasn’t done speaking.

  “Are you aware I was the one who found Julia after her accident?” His expression was calm, but it was like beautiful ice over a river, hiding the dangerous current roaring beneath it. “I held her in my arms as the life slipped out of her.” The blue of his eyes deepened as he lowered the shield he typically held over himself. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to experience that again, but then I found you on the stairs.”

  His statement filled me with both sadness and dread. No one should have to live through what he had. Watching the woman he’d clearly loved—and the mother of his children—fade away right before his eyes.

  But to equate me with his first wife . . . was horrifying.

  I scrambled to steer him away from the comparison. “I wasn’t talking about that. I meant what happened after you lost our chess match.”

  His gaze turned down to the floor, and he picked up the upended Zeus, setting the king back on the board. “The craftsmanship on this set is excellent, don’t you think?”

  My jaw hurt from how hard I had it clenched. Wasn’t he going to acknowledge what I’d said?

  The answer was no. I snatched up the figure closest to me, and the sharp edge bit into my fingers. The words came out before I realized the double-meaning. “Hera’s broken.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  There was a treacherous current flowing through the room, and it grew stronger when his gaze pinned me in place. He held me hostage as he studied me, his focus gliding down from my eyes, coasting over my lips, and slipping down the line of my throat. I felt every flick of his eyes as they worked me over, taking in the hurried, uneven breath I drew in and the peaks my nipples made through my white tank top in the cold room.

  My voice faltered when I wanted it to sound confident. “You promised.”

  He scowled. “I haven’t done anything.”

  But the way he was looking at me was a clear violation, and we both knew it. He tore his gaze away, picked up the board, and set it on the desk. The moonlight rippled across his bare, strong back.

  “I’ll have it fixed or replaced,” he said, arranging the pieces in
the proper place. And then he moved a white pawn forward two spaces, the same opening from earlier.

  I shot to my feet. “No. I’m not playing with you.”

  He turned, giving me the full intensity of his expression, and my mouth went dry. “And I am done playing with you, Marist. You told me you loved me. You can lie and say you thought it was him, but we both know better. What you confessed was the truth. You were dying and had nothing left to lose.”

  Fire smoldered in my bones and locked up my body. “No,” I seethed. “I don’t love you, Macalister. I can’t, because I hate you.”

  The smile that spread across his face was slow and wicked. “You’re young. You don’t understand the way you feel about me, and that’s all right. I can be patient. In time, you’ll say it again.”

  My eyes went so wide, it was painful. “You’re fucking delusional.”

  His eyebrow arrowed up in irritation, although I wasn’t sure if it was the language I’d used, or the concept, or both. “Hate and love are nearly the same emotion—a powerfully strong reaction.” His tone was sharp and cutting. “Every one of the myths you enjoy is fueled by one or the other. How quickly does Persephone’s hate turn to love for Hades?”

  Did he see himself as Hades? The desire to run filled every inch of my body, and I turned, practically sprinting toward the door.

  “Marist,” he called after me, slowing my escape. “There’ve been exactly two other women in my lifetime who’ve said they hated me.” He was all intense eyes, gleaming in the low light of the room. “You should know, I married both of them.”

  I ran from the library, not stopping until I was in my own room and I’d turned the bolt on the lock to my door.

  As if it could keep out the horrible things Macalister had said.

  I sent a text to Royce in the morning on my way to class.

  Me: Sorry I left last night. Couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you.

  Royce: It’s okay.

  But was it? That was the only reply I got all morning, and I spent a good portion of my day overanalyzing it. Had he woken up, discovered an empty bed, and felt bad? Or had he been relieved? I chewed at my nails during the lecture on corporate finance.

  I’d missed several hours of class on Monday and Tuesday, but my professors were understanding. I was given reading assignments and notes from teaching assistants, and as soon as I returned home, I went to my room and delved in—determined to get caught up.

  So determined, in fact, that it was after eight o’clock when I checked the time on my phone. Royce was typically home by seven, and we usually ate dinner together when we didn’t have a social obligation. Had he returned from the office and decided not to bother me? Or was he avoiding me?

  His bedroom door was left open so Lucifer could come and go, but I could see the light wasn’t on.

  Me: Are you still at the office?

  Royce: Sorry. Working late.

  Bubbles appeared as he continued to type.

  Royce: Working on Ascension with my dad. Will be home late.

  Disappointment I wouldn’t see him was slightly offset by the fact I wouldn’t have to see Macalister either.

  As I ate dinner, I devised a plan. I didn’t have much experience in the art of seduction, but the only way to get better at it was to practice. It was just another form of manipulation, and I was a bit eager to try that kind out on the man who excelled at it.

  He’d been my first in nearly everything.

  So he could be the first to make love to me too.

  And I’d make it impossible for him to avoid me. Armed with my course of action, I went into his room, all the way into his closet. The dress shirt he’d worn yesterday was still in the basket to be laundered, so I dug it out.

  I stripped off the clothes I’d been wearing, dropping them in a heap on his closet floor, everything except the lacy panties I wore, then pulled on the white shirt that was too big for me.

  It smelled like him. Woodsy and masculine.

  The shirt hem barely covered my ass, and I only did up the bottom few buttons, leaving the top open so it was clear what I was and wasn’t wearing beneath it. The final piece was the green tie he’d worn the night he’d appeared in the library. I looped it around my neck and tied it loosely so the knot hung between my breasts.

  Then I climbed into his big bed and waited.

  Anticipation crawled up my spine. It made me hyperaware of my body and the way the silk of his tie and the soft bedding felt against my skin. It had me imagining all the different scenarios that could play out when he got home and discovered me in his bed. Would he drop everything and crawl on top of me? Would he be upset I’d come in here without his permission?

  Would he punish me for it?

  A sexy shiver glanced through my shoulders.

  Without making a conscious decision, my fingertips crept down the front of my panties, moving to alleviate the ache. Royce had spent a lot of nights in this bed thinking about me while he touched himself, and I liked how I was now doing the same.

  I swallowed thickly as my fingers glided over my clit, bringing warmth and satisfaction. My eyes fluttered closed, and I relaxed back against the pillows, settling in to enjoy myself. Not too much, though. Hopefully, he would arrive soon and finish me off.

  A sigh slipped from my lips. As I rubbed faster, the sensation caused me to arch my back. I wanted to writhe with pleasure. Give myself over to it and find release, but I controlled myself. The teasing was delicious and awful.

  Time passed, although I wasn’t sure how long. I wasn’t aware of anything other than the heat building inside my body and the craving for him. When I got too close, I pulled my hand away and pressed it to the mattress, gulping down air. My heart raced, sweat dampened my temples, and—

  New, different awareness rolled through me. A tingle activated an alarm, and my eyes popped open to discover Royce’s blue eyes fixed on me. His expression dripped with sex and lust and want. He looked at me like I was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Warmth flooded my face. He’d seen me touch myself before, but that was when we’d been in the shower and during sex. This was different. I wasn’t embarrassed, but I was surprisingly shy. Vulnerable and exposed and showing him something no one else had seen.

  I was showing him the effect he had over me. Did he realize how much power he held?

  His penetrative stare was a heat lamp, both exposing and lighting me up, and two words fell from his mouth in a dark command that could have easily been a growl. “Don’t stop.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  Fire ripped through me, and goosebumps burst all along my legs. I had my knees drawn up and my feet on the bed, causing his shirt to gape wide, the edges caught on my breasts. It made the tie hang between them like a long necklace. I held his gaze through my parted legs as my fingers oh-so-slowly dipped back beneath the lace. Electricity swirled between us while I followed his order. His jaw set, and I wondered if he’d done it to hold back a groan.

  But I only complied long enough to watch the satisfaction twist on his face. We’d spent too much time thinking about each other while satisfying ourselves. Desire thickened my voice. “Make love to me.”

  His answer was immediate. “No.”

  I froze. What did he mean, no? Breath caught in my lungs.

  It released when his hands went to the tie he wore and jerked the knot free. It was thrown to the floor, and then he went to work, shedding the suit jacket, and his nimble fingers sped down the buttons of his shirt.

  “That’s not what I want,” he said. “Not what I think about when I picture you in my bed.” A dark look burned in his eyes. It was dangerous and thrilling. “I’m not going to be delicate or gentle. That was yesterday. Tonight, I’m going to be hard and rough and exactly how I’ve imagined it, where you’re shaking and moaning, and I get to find out if I can make you scream. That’s how you want it, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.
There was no other answer.

  He smirked as he tugged off his shoes, undid his pants, and kicked them off. I started to undo the tie I wore, but he shook his head. “Oh, no, Marist. You put that on for me, so it fucking stays on.”

  I touched the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth, keeping a moan from leaking out.

  He was a blur as he climbed onto the bed and crawled up my body, and when his hot mouth closed over mine, I didn’t have a chance at keeping my moan at bay. His hands . . . his fucking hands went everywhere. He wasn’t exploring, he was triumphant. Ares reveling in the spoils of war.

  His palm was warm against my thigh, and he curled it behind my knee, pulling my leg up until it was hooked around his waist. Pleasure slipped through me as his erection pressed against my center, right where I was aching.

  Once his hands were inside the shirt I wore, he began to make good on his promise. Royce’s touch was rough and urgent. He pinched and gripped me so hard, it stole my breath. And as I’d done the last time we’d been together, I matched his intensity. My arms were around his shoulders, and I moved them to score my nails down his back.

  He sank his teeth into my neck, biting hard enough it made me cry out, and I knew it would leave a mark. He heard my hiss of pain, but he didn’t apologize or ease up, and thank God. I’d thought I wanted him to make love because I wanted passion, but there was so much of it here it ran through his mean hands and dripped from his cruel kiss.

  I fucking loved it.

  “Were you thinking about me?” He pawed at the open collar of the shirt and buried his face inside, nosing the tie out of his way. “When you were touching yourself in my bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You better have been.” He sucked hard at me, releasing my nipple from his lips with a soft pop. His hips thrust forward, stabbing himself at the seam of my legs, and my eyes threatened to roll back in my head. We weren’t even having sex yet, and it still felt so good.

  He jammed a hand in his underwear, stretching it down just enough to free himself, hooked a finger in the side of my panties to shove them out of his way, and lined his cock up so he could push inside me with one rough thrust.