by Frost, Thea
Contents
Title
What His Darkness Reveals #5
What His Darkness Reveals #5
By Thea Frost
Copyright © 2015, Thea Frost, all rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This book contains sexual situations and explicit language, and is suitable for readers over 18.
BRYCE
I sit frozen with shock, my mind reeling and trying to put together all the pieces. No matter how I try, however, I can't make sense of the tangled web into which I've fallen. Blake and Jack were classmates. Blake hired me to check out Jack and now seems anxious to pin Detective Wilkinson's murder on his former classmate. What else had Blake left out? How about the fact that I looked almost exactly like Jack's last dealer, Jackie? Who ended up gruesomely murdered?
I climb to my feet and manage to maintain enough presence of mind to put away the yearbook. Then I just stand there, unable to decide what to do next. Creep back into bed with Jack? Pretend nothing happened and just snuggle up tight? No. I can't do that. I can't pretend the world isn't rapidly becoming a more frightening and dangerous place. That there are forces at play I can't comprehend.
I need to confront Blake. I need to know the truth. He's my handler. My only contact with the real world. The only person who can vouch for me and convince the authorities that I'm not a drug dealer but an undercover cop. If he turns on me, I'm done. My last connection with my real life will vanish and I'll be a criminal forever.
My mouth is dry, my stomach clenched into an little acidic ball. I want to bolt, to run, to hide, but I know there's nowhere for me to go. I take a deep breath. I need to know the truth. I need to confront Blake, and get him to finally tell me what he's been hiding all this time.
I sneak out of the office and into Jack's hallway. Down past his bedroom, as quiet as a mouse, terrified that he'll call out, ask me what I'm up to, and then see my pale face and trembling hands and figure out the truth. But he doesn't wake and I step into the living room unhindered. I cross on tiptoes to the sliding door and let myself out onto the tiny balcony where there's a single potted plant and a reclining chair.
I dig out my phone. I've only got two numbers in it: Jack's and Blake's. I dial the latter, and then wait, breathless.
Your handler is supposed to always answer. There is no bad time. When your life could depend on his being there to help, you need to always be able to count on him to answer the phone. Yet already yesterday he hadn't answered once. Would he fail to answer again?
"Hello?"
I breathe a sigh of relief. "Blake. It's Bryce."
"I know. What's going on?" As always, his voice is as friendly as an iceberg. In the beginning I'd told myself this was a means of protecting himself, of not getting close to someone who might get killed the next day. It was him being professional. Now I think maybe he's just a jerk or worse: maybe he can't be nice to me because he knows he's screwing me over.
"You didn't tell me you were classmates with Jack." There. It's out in the open.
"What?" Is that a moment of panic I hear in his voice?
"Classmates. In police academy. I saw your face in the class photo. Standing behind Jack."
"Oh. Yeah. That's right." He's sounding too casual now. He's swung from panicked to extra cool, but it doesn't convince me. "So what?"
"So what? I'm investigating Jack. I'm risking my life out here, and you don't tell me you knew him personally?"
"Personally?" He laughs, a cold sound. "Nobody knew Jack 'personally'. He was the fucking golden boy, best grades, best at everything. Nobody got close except all the female police cadets he fucked and discarded. His bedroom door should have been one of those hotel revolving ones from the number of women he had going in and out."
Silence. That last had been almost an outburst, bitterness seeping through. "Blake. You're telling me it's a complete coincidence you're handling an agent that's checking out your old classmate?"
"No, Bryce. What I'm telling you is that you're seeing ghosts where there are none. That you need to keep your eyes on the prize and clear Jack of Wilkinson's murder before I bring him in and put him away for good."
I want to raise my voice, but even on this balcony with hurricane-proof glass between Jack and I, I don't want to risk waking him up. I sit down instead, hand cupped over the mouthpiece of my phone. "Fuck that, Blake. You picked me for this job because I looked like Jackie. You knew I was Jack's type. You knew my appearance would fuck him up. What game are you playing? Why are you after Jack like this?"
Hollow laughter. "Fine, all right? I admit it. When I saw how you looked exactly like his lover at the time, I knew you'd be fucking perfect to line up to take her place if she ever died. And it worked, didn't it? You're in. So don't yell at me for doing a good job. I did exactly what I had to do."
"You picked me because you knew Jack would want to fuck me," I say, hardly believing the words now that they're being said out in the open.
"Right. And I was right to do so. You guys are fucking, aren't you? Did he make you believe you were special? That he loved you for who you are?"
Ice runs through my veins. How can someone's voice be so cruel?
"Because trust me, sweetheart, you ain't nothing. You just resemble a dead woman. A dead woman he loved much more than you. You're a bridge to his past, but unlike most bridges, you've conveniently got a cunt that might help Jack open his mouth and tell us what we need to know. So quit wasting my time, and go back to his bedroom and suck his cock till he tells us if he's still working for us or gone rogue."
And like that, he hangs up.
I sit there, shocked, appalled, stunned. I stare out over Midtown, at the sea of lights, and feel tears burn my eyes. I'd spent six months in prison to position myself for this assignment. And every night I'd lain in my cell I told myself I was doing this because I'd been chosen for a special job. That I was unique, that I was needed. That I was doing something good, worth the sacrifice.
How little I'd known. I'd been pulled out of Police Academy just because I looked like a dead woman. And worse yet, Blake had been right. His plan had worked. I'd grabbed Jack's eye. He'd pulled me into his world, sucked me down into his darkness, and like a little fool I'd fallen for his charisma and burning hunger.
Trust. Can I trust Jack if he doesn't want me for who I am, but for whom I remind him of? Can I trust Blake when he manipulated me so coldly? Can I even trust myself when all my instincts have been so wrong, when I hadn't seen the trap I'm walking into?
I stood up. What should I do? I'm in too deep. I can't back out now. I have to stop reacting and start taking control. I'm lost in a maze of mirrors and I have to find the way out. Blake will never tell me the truth. Jack needs to see me for who I am, not the woman I remind him of.
It's time for radical action.
Heart hammering in my chest, unable to breathe, I slide open the door and step back into Jack's living room. It's too easy to see our ghosts here. The many times Jack had taken ownership of my body. The many times Jack had fucked me. Here. There. If I close my eyes I can almost hear my screams. Screams of pleasure.
I walk down the hall to the bedroom. Stand in the doorway. Jack is a powerfully muscled shape on the bed, tangled in the sheets, one arm tossed behind his head. his bare chest exposed, face turned to one side.
I stare at him. He's beautiful. Dangerous. An enigma. I study the sweep and curls of his tattoos. They look primal, primitive, savage. Like warning signs: stay away. I bite my lower lip. Even now I can still creep back into his bed. Close my
eyes. Take the passive way out. Let him own my body and slowly take claim of my soul. Wait for him to give me the information Blake wants, and then feed it to my handler. Be a good little girl. Not make waves. Not break the rules.
Fuck that.
"Jack," I say. "Jack, wake up."
He sits up, eyes flicking open. No disorientation there. No confusion. One moment he's relaxed, the next he's coiled as if prepared for a fight. He sees me in the doorway and relaxes just a fraction.
"Bryce. What's going on?"
I move to the foot of the bed. The moment of truth. No more lying. No more hiding. Time to put all my cards on the table and deal with whatever may happen next.
"Jack, why did you pick me out of the crowd that night? At the bar? When you fucked me in that alley?"
He frowns, and I can see him trying to divine why I'm asking. Where I'm going with this. "Why? I told you why. I was drawn to you. Your innocence. Your vulnerability. I needed to have you before anybody else."
"But why else? There are a thousand vulnerable and innocent women in this city. Why me?"
His expression darkens. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "What are you getting at, Bryce?"
"Jackie," I whisper and move around the bed to his side. The sheet is coiled in his lap, hiding his glorious cock and muscled thighs. I feel almost feverish, like I'm in a dream. Detached from my own body, calm and confident. "I look like her, don't I?"
His frown becomes a scowl. "What are you talking about?"
I smile at him. "Did you think I'd not notice? In that photograph I showed you? Of her death? That she could be my sister? No, that she could be my reflection?"
He tenses and I get a sense of prickling fear. This man is dangerous. This man could very well be a killer.
"You are your own person, Bryce. You aren't Jackie."
"I know that. But tell me. You who've put so much emphasis on truth. Did you pick me out in that crowd that night because I looked like her?"
He leaps from the bed, a sudden explosion of movement that shocks me. Strides away, toward the door, and I think he's going to leave me. At the last, he turns to stare back at me. Reluctant. Angry for being cornered. Eyes slitted. "You don't want to ask these questions."
I stand up. "Oh, you're wrong, Jack Deckard. I do. I need to know. Tell me."
"Did I pick you because you looked like Jackie O?" His voice has become cruel. What is it about men that they can hurt so easily? He steps up to me, stands before me, naked, his stunning body mere inches from mine. Takes my face in his hand, raises my chin, stares right into my eyes. "Yes."
I shiver, my knees going weak. I tear my chin away from his hand. Step back. "When you fucked me that first night. Did you fuck me, or were you fucking Jackie?"
Jack laughs, a cruel sound, harsh and bitter. "Both. At first her. Then you."
Tears. I hate my tears. Why can't I be as cold and cruel as these men I'm forced to deal with? I feel betrayed. Hollow.
"Bryce."
I turn from him. All my other concerns, my other questions, they flee my mind like autumn leaves before a winter wind. I'm too weak. I'm too vulnerable. I should never have signed up for this job. I turn away from him, grabbing for my clothing. Why ask questions when you can't handle the answers, Bryce? Why?
"Bryce!" He grabs my arm and spins me around. I try to shove him away, but he's too strong and holds me by both arms. "Listen to me, dammit!"
"No!" The tears spill down my cheeks. "Let me go!"
"Bryce! Do you know how much it hurt?" The raw pain in his voice shocks me. He lets go of me and I stumble back, but I can't tear my eyes from his. "Do you know how much it hurt to see you? To see her? To fuck you and realize I was only further damning my soul? That she was gone forever?"
I don't know what to say.
"And do you know how sweet the realization was when I started to see you for who you were? Your own person? Not Jackie, no; never her, never again. She's dead and gone, but you, you're here. I don't know what brought us together. Fate? Coincidence? But whatever it was, I bless it. You've brought me a second chance. A way to the future. To forge a new hope for myself. To put Jackie behind me, and love again. Love anew. To love you, Bryce."
I shake my head. The bedroom is spinning. "No. You don't know what you're saying."
"Don't I?" He sounds amused. "I know what I feel. I've only just met you, but already we've been through more than most couples go through in a lifetime. I love you. I trust you. When I see you, I see a brave, sexual, wonderful woman. Not Jackie. But Bryce."
"That's not my name." I say the words before I can stop myself. Blurt them out, and immediately I want to draw them back, to rewind time.
Silence. Jack's eyes narrow again, but this time in confusion. "What?"
"I can't do this anymore." I feel like I'm being torn in two. "I can't. I thought I could. I thought I could do this forever. But I can't. Not when I feel the way I do about you. When you feel the way you do about me."
"Bryce?" There's a warning note to his voice.
"I told you," I say with a panicked laugh. "That's not my name."
"What are you talking about? I had you checked out. Your background."
"All fake. Like yours, Jack. Like your background and story. Fake. Contrived. Put together by the very best liars in the whole country." It's such a relief to finally say these words. No matter what comes from this, at least I will have finally made my own decision. Finally taken an action that is all mine.
He's gone terribly still. Like a statue. But I feel the potential for violence, explosive action just simmering beneath his skin. He's one split second from lashing out. "Who are you?"
My heart's in my throat. "I'm an undercover cop, Jack. Just like you."
There. I said it. Forever ruined my career. Committed the one cardinal sin. Spoken the truth.
Jack staggers back as if struck. He passes his hand over his face, over his hair, and shakes his head. "No. You can't be."
I'm the one who feels cruel now. "Yes. I am."
He laughs. Bewildered, amused, horrified. "But I thought--you were so--did I call you vulnerable? Innocent?"
"Jack." I step forward.
But he shakes his head. "I've got to give it to you, Bryce, or whomever you are. You're good. Oh yes, you're fucking good. I've never been played so well."
"Jack," I say, reaching for him. "I wasn't playing you--"
He snatches his hands away from me. "When I was fucking you and felt in control--damn. That's cold. Those tears. Those moments when you seemed so lost and alone--damn, woman. That's cold."
"They were real!" My voice is a cry in the night, desperate, but I can see it doesn't reach him. His eyes have gone glassy, his grin predatory.
"I've got to commend you. Shit. They're graduating some top talent these days. You're the best I've ever seen. So, what is it? The brass doesn't trust me? They sent you in to check out if I was still legit?"
"Jack, they did, but--"
"And the detective. The one you claimed was killed. He must have known who you were from the get go." He's putting it together, eyes darting from one side to the other. "He must have known--as did you. You two were meeting to exchange notes. Is he still alive, then? Was that some kind of setup? Test?"
Even in my hurricane of emotions, I realize one shining truth: he really didn't kill Wilkinson. He didn't even know if he was dead or alive. Jack was innocent of that murder, at the very least.
"Jack, he is dead, he really did assault me, I promise--"
"There's no need to keep lying," he says, and his smile is that of a stranger. "From one professional to another, do me that courtesy at least."
"No, Jack, he really did--"
"Sure. Because that makes no sense. So what next, Ms. Whomever you are? What now?"
I stand there, reeling. "Jack. I told you the truth because there's more going on here than I understand. I'm being played. We're both being played, by my handler."
"Your handler? And who's t
hat?"
"Blake."
"Blake?" A moment of confusion, and then understanding dawns. "Blake is your handler?"
I nod. "He's been lying to me. Using me. I don't know to what end. But I couldn't stand lying to you any more. I had to tell you. I had to tell you the truth."
"Truth." Jack's smile cuts like a knife. "I don't even know what that word means anymore. Truth." He shakes his head in amusement. "Like what you're telling me right now. You're so good, I wouldn't put it past you to use this revelation as a double blind. Tricking me into lowering my walls. Piling vulnerability on vulnerability. Wait." He leans forward, peering at me. "Do you expect me to still believe these tears? That you care for me?"
"Jack!" I'm drowning. How can telling the truth only make things worse? "It's the only reason I told you. I love you, and I can't lie to you anymore!"
"Enough." His voice becomes a clenched fist. "You had your laugh. You fucked with me good and proper. You made me believe, and trust me, nobody has pulled that trick off in a long, long time." He gets in close. His face an inch from mine. "But if you think you can keep fucking with me, making me dance to your tune, you're fucking mistaken."
I take a deep breath, bite my lower lip, fight for control. "All right. Fine." My voice shakes, but I'm not crying anymore. "Just tell me one thing. Are you still on the side of the angels? Or have you gone rogue?"
"Oh, Bryce." He cups my cheek. I see amusement and despair warring in the depths of his eyes. "Nice try."
"Please," I say. "They're going to blame Wilkinson's death on you. They're going to arrest you and make all the charges stick. Blake gave me twenty-four hours to clear your name--"
"Enough. You're good. But you're not that good. I'm done with you. I'm done with your tricks and lies. With your manipulations." His hand slips into my hair and clenches, drawing my head back, bringing tears of pain into my eyes. I gasp.
He leans in close, brushing his lips over my cheeks. "You were the best fuck I've ever had, Bryce. I thought we were going places. You fooled me so good I still haven't processed it. But you'd better get out."