by Vivian Arend
It would serve him right if she slapped him instead of looking up at him with dreams in her eyes.
But she didn’t. She slid her fingers up his arm, tracing his muscles with a featherlight touch. “I don’t know how to flirt when it’s real. I don’t know how to want. Wanting was never my role.”
Goose bumps rose on his skin. “You don’t want to flirt with me, Mia.”
“Because you don’t want a whore?”
She sounded so sad, resigned. “Because you don’t want me,” he corrected gently. “Old and busted, that’s what I am.”
“So? I’m young and busted. I was cynical about sex before anyone ever touched me.” Her fingernails dug into his skin suddenly, her grip fierce. “And then no one ever did, because I was already dirty. He should have gotten a damn Rose. At least she would have known how to pretend.”
Her patron. Ford knew jack shit about the man, and he hated him. “Go to sleep, sweetheart, before the room starts spinning and you get sick.”
She clung to him a moment longer before her hand slipped away. “I should have bet a kiss, win or lose. That would have been clever. I’m supposed to be clever.”
His jeans pinched as he rose, and Ford tried to hide his wince. By the time he took a step back, her eyes had drifted shut.
By the time he reached his desk, she was snoring softly, the way only a person who was passed-out drunk could.
Later, he would have to talk to her. He would have to hear what she had been trying to say and respond like a functional human being. But for now…
All he wanted to do was hide.
Mia had a brand-new jacket, a full stomach, and a fuzzy ache in her skull that meant she needed to stay the hell away from O’Kane liquor.
Especially since fuzzy heads talked too damn much.
Little wonder Ford had opted out of taking her shopping himself. After she’d slept off the worst of the booze, he’d shoved her out of his office with Trix as fast as he could, shutting the door behind her with a haste that felt like its own statement.
At least roaming the market with Trix had been educational. She’d worked for the O’Kanes for years before becoming a member, which meant she knew the sector. Not just the places where Ford could stride, cockily unaware of how his dick kept him as safe as his ink, but the best ways to get by when you had neither.
She’d even helped Mia find a new apartment only three blocks away from the O’Kane compound. One glance at Trix’s wrists, and the landlord had “remembered” a room opening up at the end of the week, and for only a little more than Mia was paying now.
Ink talked in Sector Four. O’Kane ink screamed.
Knowing she’d be gone soon made it easy to shrug off the darkness in the stairwell of her own dingy apartment building. Mia dug into her pocket for her key as she reached the second floor, but paused on the landing. Mrs. Jones’s door was ajar, but no light spilled out of it. Footsteps scuffled just inside, and worry cinched tight in Mia’s chest. The woman was mean as hell, but she was also old. It wouldn’t take much of a fall to crack frail bones and leave her helpless.
Fisting a hand around her keys, Mia took a careful step forward. “Mrs. Jones?”
The door swung open, and she found herself with the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her forehead. “You’re nosy. Know what happens to nosy bitches?”
She’d known fear, but the unforgiving metal digging into her skin was a threat so unfamiliar she could only feel foolish in those first seconds. The terror she’d felt in Sector Two had been pale compared to this. A patron might be cruel to a girl. He might force himself on her, knowing no one would consider it rape when he’d paid for the privilege. Every day in Sector Two presented a thousand possible reasons to die on the inside.
But no one would have killed her. No one would have dared.
She tried to move her numb lips, tried to say anything, but a gloved hand came out of the darkness, closing around the wrist of the man holding the gun. “Not her. She was rolling with O’Kane’s redhead earlier.”
The thug hesitated, bared his teeth. “You sure?”
“Saw them in the market. Lay off, man.”
After an interminable moment, the pistol clicked, and the man backed away. “Looks like your lucky day, sweet cheeks.”
She didn’t move. The man brushed by, jostling her with his shoulder. More followed, streaming past her in silence, some carrying bulky bags heavy with looted goods.
One crossed into the fading light from the window, and his features were familiar. She’d seen him in the market earlier, traveling with a half-dozen friends, only memorable because they’d been swaggering, tossing glares left and right and laughing as people scurried out of their way.
Until they saw Trix.
Trix hadn’t swaggered. She’d barely acknowledged their presence, but that had been enough to deflate their bravado.
Apparently it was also enough to keep Mia alive.
One of the men laughed as they tramped down the stairs, leaving Mia counting their steps while her pulse throbbed in her ears. The slamming of the front door cracked through the night, but the sound broke her from frozen terror.
Shaking, she rushed for Mrs. Jones’s open door. It was dark inside, the usual hum of the generator silenced, but the old woman was sprawled in the dim light near one of the windows. Limp. Motionless.
Then she groaned, and Mia almost tripped over herself rushing across the intervening space. “Mrs. Jones?”
The woman heaved a shuddering breath that turned into a cough, and blood splattered her already stained white shirt. “Go,” she wheezed. “Run—”
“They’re gone,” Mia promised, tugging at the blood-soaked flannel shirt beneath her hands. Buttons pinged in all directions as she gave up and tore, but there wasn’t enough light to see the wound, and there was so much blood. Warm, wet, and still pumping sluggishly from someplace beneath Mia’s fingers.
“You’ll be okay.” They both knew it was a lie, but what else could she say? The only real comfort she could offer was the promise of vengeance—but maybe that worked in Sector Four. She found one of the old lady’s hands and curled her own around it. “We’ll find them. My boss will find them.”
But she said nothing. No last words of hope, farewell, or even anger. She just went limp, her half-closed eyes devoid of life.
A loud bang echoed from down the hall, and Mia started, letting Mrs. Jones’s hand slip from hers. She staggered to her feet and inched toward the door, and it was like walking through a dream. Nothing felt real. She pressed a hand to the doorframe to steady herself, but the bloody hand clutching at the faded wood was unfamiliar. Chipped nails, ragged cuticles, skin roughened and dry from cheap soap and a lack of the lotions and creams she’d never noticed until they were gone. It didn’t look like the hand she’d had for most of her life, and she couldn’t feel the wall beneath it.
She couldn’t feel anything.
But she remembered this sensation. Cloudy, fuzzy, barely feeling the ground beneath her shoes, unable to hear anything past her pulse throbbing in her ears. She’d walked out of Vaughn’s house like this, certain she’d be caught, dragged low, punished for thinking she deserved more, deserved better—
God, she had to get out of here. Get out and never come back, which meant finding the courage to move. She’d sleep under the bar if she had to, or plead with Ford to let her spend a few nights on the couch. He cared, under that grumpy façade. He didn’t want to, but she didn’t care. Pity was better than dying in a gutter.
She lifted her free hand to her throat. Her jacket was in the way, but she didn’t have to tug down her zipper to know her locket wasn’t there. She always left it behind, tucked away with her meager savings, afraid to wear something shiny and silver that might catch the attention of a desperate thief.
The money would be hard to pay back, but the locket—if they’d taken her locket—
Breathe. The scent of blood turned her stomach, but deep breaths got her out
into the hallway. She scurried to her door, hope withering when she saw it standing open, splintered where the lock should have been.
Inside was chaos. Her table was shattered. Someone had taken a knife to her thin mattress, ripping it apart to look for valuables. The space heater Ford had sent her was gone, along with her solar recharger and lamp.
Her box lay on its side a few feet into the room, the lid torn away. Empty.
Wet warmth ran down her cheek. A tear, which she swiped away with a shaking hand. Nothing left was worth taking with her. Nothing left was worth saving—except for her life. And if she wanted to keep that, she didn’t have time for tears.
So for the second time in a month, she choked them back, choked back terror, and put one foot in front of the other.
As long as she was breathing, that was all she could do.
Ford worked until his eyes were gritty, burning.
At first, he settled in with his charts and spreadsheets as a way to distract himself from thoughts of Mia. She was strong, he’d give her that. Stronger than he’d expected. Every time he threw a challenge her way, she met it not only with defiance but competence.
Well, except for the liquor, but he could hardly blame her for that.
The distraction served its purpose, keeping him occupied long enough for his attention to morph into something else—the sincere and utter absorption in his work. This was where he belonged, building the O’Kanes’ business, one deal at a time. Other men pounded the streets, keeping order and helping Dallas rule over the immediate, mundane concerns of a king.
Ford was building an empire.
He was damn good at it, and maybe—just maybe—he could teach Mia to do it, too. She was bright. It would only take—
Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention, and he was already rising from his chair when a shaky knock rattled his office door. He pulled it open, and his heart shot up into his throat.
Mia stood there, pale and covered with blood. “I’m sorry. I—I know it’s late—”
He dragged her inside and slammed the door behind her. “Are you hurt? What the fuck happened?”
She looked down at her bloody hands and shuddered. “The old woman who owned my building. She’s dead. They took everything.”
“Shit.” She was trembling, her skin chilled. She was slipping into shock, and he had to snap her out of it. “Mia, look at me.”
She didn’t. She barely seemed to hear him as she curled her fingers toward her palms. “I’m okay. One of them saw me with Trix, so they didn’t shoot me.”
Christ. “Did they touch you?” He resisted the urge to shake her—barely. “Is any of this blood yours?”
“No.” She blinked and lifted her chin, her eyes focusing on his with effort. “Just here,” she whispered, brushing a reddened spot on her forehead and leaving a streak of blood behind. “He pressed the—the gun—” She swallowed a choked noise. “I’m okay. I’m sorry, I’m okay.”
“No, you’re—” She wasn’t hurt, but he wasn’t helping her, either. “Sit.” He swung her around and eased her down to the couch. “I’ll just be a second.”
He snatched up the tablet from his desk, activating it with a swipe of his thumb. He tapped the screen to open the communications program. For the first time, he cursed his wide, clumsy fingers as he attempted to compose an alert.
Trouble on South Side. Time to mobilize.
Quickly, he filled in the rest of the details, sent the message to Dallas, and threw down the tablet.
Mia was still sitting on the couch, her shoulders slumped, her entire body hunched in, as if she didn’t want to take up too much space. She lifted her head, and at least there was sense in her eyes now. But there was something else, too, something too fragile to call hope.
She wet her lips and looked away. “They took the heater you gave me.”
Like he gave two shits about that. “Dallas has a dozen more in storage,” he told her as he lifted her from the couch and into his arms. “Don’t worry about it.”
He made his way into the bathroom with slow, careful steps. He dropped Mia to her feet, reached in to cut on the hot water, and began to undress her. She didn’t resist as he stripped away her bloody jacket and pulled her sweater over her head.
The thin undershirt beneath it clung to her skin as steam filled the room, and she caught his wrists, her grip desperate. “You don’t have to do this. I—I was just going to ask if I could sleep on your couch.”
“Shh. You need to get cleaned up.”
“Why?” Her voice broke, and tears gathered on her thick eyelashes faster than she could blink them away. “Why do you—?”
Care. She didn’t say it, but the word hung between them anyway. His usual flippant response—I don’t—would have been cruel, especially with a sobbing woman pressed against his chest.
The truth was, Ford did care, and that was what had him climbing into his shower fully clothed with a naked, blood-spattered woman.
He backed her under the shower spray and let the water sluice down over her head. “You’ll be all right, Mia. Trust me.”
Under the hot water and his gentle touches, her trembling finally eased. Her clothes had protected her from most of the blood, but it took time to work it out of her hair, and she buried her face against his throat as he did so, hiding her silent, heartbreaking tears.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” he told her softly. “I’ll take the couch.”
She turned her head, but didn’t lift it to look at him. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder as the last pinkish water circled the drain and her body relaxed against his. “You don’t have to.”
There was no mistaking the yearning in her voice. Whether it stemmed from fear or the need for comfort, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. “Yes, I do. You take the bed, and you’ll be square in the morning.”
She didn’t speak again until he’d cut off the water and found a towel to wrap around her. She clutched it against her breasts and finally met his gaze, and it was like the afternoon when he’d knocked the hope out of her, only worse. “It’s not just tonight. I don’t have anywhere to go until next week.”
“We’ll find you a room here, or you can bunk with one of the girls. Now stop thinking.”
Clutching her towel tighter, she gave him a tiny, lopsided smile. “You meant it, didn’t you? I’m going to be all right.”
That smile rattled his defenses. “I don’t lie, buttercup. If I say it, it’s truth.”
She didn’t answer at first, just stared at him with those gorgeous brown eyes, and he could see the struggle in her. The yearning that softened her gaze and the stubborn hope curving her lips. The lingering fear in her clenched fists and the shadows of pain in the stiff, wary set of her shoulders.
She looked tired. Beaten down but not defeated, because she was still smiling, still fighting. She wrinkled her nose at him and stared down at the towel. “I don’t have any clothes. That will be awkward for work tomorrow.”
“We’ll find you some. Now, what did I say?” He steered her out of the bathroom, but instead of taking a right down the hallway, back toward the office, he guided her to the left.
Into the bedroom.
He was the worst sort of asshole, bringing her here when he knew it would be impossible not to close his eyes and imagine her here under different circumstances. Far less traumatic circumstances. But Ford had long ago learned to accept the fact that he was a dick, so he pushed her toward the bed and pulled back the covers.
She balked again, the towel sagging as she lifted a hand to the disheveled hair curling damply against her bare shoulders. “I’ll get your pillow wet.”
He couldn’t tell her how many nights he’d trudged from the shower straight to bed, too exhausted and achy to do anything but collapse, even something as simple as drying his hair.
So he grunted and pulled the towel up to soak the worst of the water from her dark curls. “You’re high-maintenance.”
She made a choked
noise, squeaky and high—laughter edged with hysteria, as if all the tension was bubbling out of her. “If you think this is bad, wait until I can afford to pamper myself.”
“Can’t wait, buttercup.”
When the worst of the water was squeezed away, she slipped between the sheets, settling in with a soft sigh of pleasure. “I’m going to get spoiled again, and then you’ll win all the arguments by offering me fancy sheets or soft pillows. I’m on to you, Derek Ford.”
The white sheet clung to her wet skin in places, turning transparent as it molded to her curves. “I’m an O’Kane. We may not be showy, but we do like our luxuries.”
She made an amused little noise and rolled onto her side, presenting him with the smooth line of her spine as the sheet molded to her waist and barely covered the flare of her hip. “As long as you don’t expect me to be one of them. I disappointed my patron daily. Sometimes hourly.”
The words distracted him from the sight of her stretched out in his bed. “You’re not a luxury, for fuck’s sake. You’re a person.”
“I know.” She jerked the covers up to hide her body as she sprawled onto her back again. Wary this time, blinking up at him from bloodshot eyes with her hair in a damp tangle around her head. “But it’s hard,” she whispered, twisting the sheets around her trembling fingers. “It’s hard to remember I have a right to be...imperfect. It’s the first rule—never let a man see the real you.”
“So I gather.” The rules were different for men, but no less restrictive. Never let them see you weak—the reason Ford had been hiding away in his office. “But fuck ’em, right?”
She reached out and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. “Do you have to go?”
He hesitated. Best to go before either of them started getting ideas about anything. “I can stay,” he said finally. At least until she fell asleep.
She wiggled to the opposite side of the bed in silence, and Ford stared down at her for a moment before stripping his wet shirt over his head. It only made sense to undress. He was dripping all over the damn floor, making a mess, and what was he going to do anyway? Stand there beside the bed and gawk at her all night?