Savage

by Krista Holt

  Another test. I turn around, staring at the man who raised me. “I’d cut her throat before she could beg for her life.” I don’t blink. I don’t stutter. The words sound simple, precise, yet violent, and it’s the assurance he needs. I’m still aloof, still uncompromised, still under his control.

  “Good,” he says. The tension eases between us. His eyes tell me that I’ve passed his test, and his suspicions are silent. For the moment.

  “Goodnight, sir.” I step out into the dark wood hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. I stand there, frozen. Please forgive me, Reagan.

  After a moment, I leave the house intent on doing the other thing I came into the city to do. It’s time to deal with Saul.

  * * *

  After my third call, Saul finally picks up his damn phone.

  “We need to talk,” I say evenly.

  “About what?” Loud music and poor cell service distort his reply. He’s probably already at a bar somewhere.

  “I’ll tell you when you meet me. Battery Park. One hour.” I hang up.

  When he arrives, I’m already there.

  “Nicola, why the hell are we out here in the middle of the night? What’d you want to talk to me about?” Saul stomps down the stairs to where I’m standing at the water’s edge, waiting for him.

  “Sit.” I motion to the stone bench behind us. “We need to talk about your opportunities.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” he huffs, tugging at his coat as he sits.

  I slowly sit beside him. “It means I can’t trust you anymore.” He falls quiet. The first strokes of unease paint the air around us. “You know why?”

  “The girl,” he replies. “I told your father you were in too deep with her. She’s screwing with your mind.”

  “I figured it was you that put the idea in his head.” He saw my reaction when he struck her. He knows there’s more between us.

  He stares straight ahead, looking at the water.

  “What you don’t know,” I continue, “is that I’ve been real careful about her.” My slow breaths and his rapid ones dissipate into the cool night sky. “I’ve known her for awhile. Years actually.”

  His back jerks upright.

  “You didn’t know that, did you? Don’t feel bad. No one does, I made sure of it.” I shrug. “And then she had to go and take a job with some politician trying to find a whistleblower who claims we’re bribing FBI agents, putting her right in the middle of this mess.”

  The nervous energy now rolls off of him like a tidal wave. He shifts around on the bench, the left side of his coat moving subtly.

  “Give me your phone, Saul.” My gloved hand reaches out to him. A metallic click sounds between us as I slide the safety off the gun in my other hand. “Now.”

  He hands it over. I check the screen to make sure he didn’t send a text, voice message, or smoke signal, before chucking the device into the Hudson. The splash is loud in the stillness of the night.

  “I didn’t expect to fall in love with her. Didn’t expect to want the things she makes me want. It’s crazy, really.” A dry chuckle comes out of my mouth. “So, I’m sure you get why you’re here.”

  The swallow he forces down his throat sounds painful. “Does your father know about this?” he finally summons the nerve to ask.

  “No. Of course not.” I stand, motioning with the gun for him to do the same. “He told me to kill her today. I was able to talk him out of it.”

  “That was a mistake,” he says, walking toward the metal railing that separates the pathway from the water.

  “For him, yes. For Reagan, no, it wasn’t. I’d do anything for her.”

  “Like overthrowing your father?”

  “That seems to be what he thinks, isn’t it? He’s so suspicious of me, I halfway expect to wake with a gun to my head most mornings. It hasn’t happened yet, but the thing is, I think he’d ask you to do it.” I get nothing from Saul. “Am I right?”

  “That bitch,” Saul mutters. “She’s ruining you.”

  “Is she?”

  “I saw her that night. She’ll never take you back. She hates you.” His words are flung from his mouth bitterly, and that’s how they taste to me. Putrid. Because I worry they’re true.

  “You have two choices,” I say. “Quick or painful.”

  “How about neither.” He jams his elbow into my gut.

  It catches me by surprise, distracted by thoughts of Reagan. Air leaves my lungs on impact, but I jerk the gun toward him and fire.

  It misses.

  His fist hits my face with enough force that I drop the gun, struggling to stay on my feet. A split second lets me get my bearings before I launch myself at him. The impact knocks him back, dropping us both to the ground. I kick his weak knee and a sick crunch rips through the air. He howls before landing another punch to my face, and I feel my lip split.

  We struggle, each trying to get the upper hand. He grips my throat, nails cutting into the skin. I swing my arm down on his elbow, using the joint’s weak point to drop his hand from my neck. It falls away and I throw all of my force into the punches I barrel into his face. Over and over. His nose breaks, and blood spills down his lip and into his mouth.

  He rams his head into my face. My lip tears even more. His hands grab at my throat again. I knee him in the groin, but it has no effect. He tightens his grip. His nails tear into my skin, drawing blood.

  My eyes jump to where the gun lays on the dirty ground. It’s close, but not close enough. So I do the only thing I can, I clamp my hands down on his neck. Squeezing with everything I have.

  And I remember that night.

  The jarring sound of his hand hitting Reagan’s face. His hand around her throat. Her tears. Her face changing at the first taste of blood. The homicidal urge that exploded inside of me, knowing he tore the inside of her cheek on her own damn teeth.

  I think about the bruises on her face and neck. The bruises I let happen.

  My failure.

  My fault.

  The sound of his larynx snapping pulls me out of my blind rage. His hands fall heavy to his own throat. Raspy breaths escape him as blood speckles the edges of his mouth with each reedy exhale. I squeeze again, watching his face turn purple as I pull in a lungful of air.

  I jerk his head up and slam it back into the concrete underneath us. And I do it again. He stops fighting, dazed in pain. I scramble off of him, and get the gun. My gloved finger slides against the trigger as I kneel beside him. My hand falls on his neck again because the monster inside of me can’t quite resist inflicting more pain. I squeeze, watching his pupils dilate.

  “The truth is, Saul,” I bend down close to his ear, “you were dead the second you touched her.” I press the barrel against his stomach, and my finger taps the trigger three times.

  His body rocks slightly with each shot. Blood stains the front of his green shirt, the circumference growing by the second. He gasps for air as my hand tightens on his throat, waiting for him to bleed out enough to consider the job done.

  I grab a fistful of his shirt and his belt, and I heave him up and over the railing. His body makes a splash as it hits the water’s surface. I don’t care that he’s still breathing. I don’t care that his last minutes will be excruciating. I don’t care. He’ll die with lungs full of dirty water, regretting the moment he ever laid a hand on her.

  The barrel of the gun scrapes against the concrete as I pick it up, and I fling it by the silencer into the water.

  Shoving my hands in my coat pockets, I lean against the railing as his body drifts farther into the depths of the river.

  I can’t believe I just did that, out here in plain sight where anyone could have seen me. It was sloppy. Unprofessional. Fueled by emotion. Three things that get you caught, that get you sent to prison. And I can’t go to prison.

  The current pulls his body farther from shore, but it won’t be long before he’s found. He’s too close to civilization. Maybe a day. Maybe more. It’s piss-poor plann
ing, and after everything I’ve done, this can’t be the thing that slips me up.

  A copper-tainted scent fills my nostrils. I look down and notice the blood that covers me. My shirt. Shoes. Pants. I reek of it. I’m going to have to burn everything and bathe in bleach. Shaking my head, I turn and walk away. I need to get out of here before someone notices me.

  * * *

  My parents’ home is dark when I arrive. I know my father’s out, but my mother and my sister could be here. I let myself in. Soundless footsteps lead me down the hallway and then up the stairs. The door to my childhood room closes with a squeak, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I flip on the lights and take extra care in removing my clothes, not wanting to leave a mess. I drop everything into a pile before I pull on some old jeans. They’re snug but still fit.

  In my old bathroom, I slowly clean up my face. I need stitches in my lip, but for now, I can clean up the blood around my nose and chin. The bruises covering my jaw will need to be iced when I have time.

  The door to my room creaks open, and I freeze.

  “Mother of all that is holy,” my mother gasps. “What happened to you?”

  “Ma, calm down.” I grab a shirt. “I’m fine.”

  “You aren’t fine. Look at your face! And your neck!”

  The fabric falls down my torso before her fingers trace the split in my lip. I jerk back in pain.

  “Stop it!” I smack at her hand.

  “Nicola! You need stitches.”

  “I said I was fine. I actually need to go.” I move around her, picking up the soiled clothes. I head out of the room and down two flights of stairs to the incinerator my father keeps in the basement. She waits at the top, not following me down into the pits of Hell.

  It takes a while to fire up. Flames throw red light into the dark room partially lit by a single bulb. I toss the clothes in, and it kills me a little. Ferragamo does not come cheap. When nothing but ash remains, I trek back up the stairs to face my waiting mother.

  “Not now, Ma.”

  “Who else is going to sew your lip closed?” She leads me to the kitchen.

  “I can, later.”

  “Sit,” she orders, her hands on her hips. “He won’t be back for a while.”

  I sigh, giving in. “Be quick about it, then. I need to be somewhere else.”

  She scurries away, gathering what she needs. I pull out a frozen bag of peas and press it gingerly to my face, wincing when the cold hits my skin. My ass is in a chair when she returns, and twenty minutes later, she finishes stitching my lip closed.

  “Thanks, Ma. But I got to go.” I stand. “Can you not—”

  “I won’t tell your father,” she tells me. “Nicola, you worry me. I never wanted this for you.”

  I never wanted this for me, either. And that’s the thing about being born into this life. You don’t have a choice.

  Bending down, I press a kiss against her beautiful but weathered forehead, ignoring the pain in my lip. “I know you didn’t.” I pull away, heading to the door. Guilt gnaws at me, though, making me stop. I slowly turn back to her. “If something ever happens to me, I want you to know that I love you, and I will always remember that you tried to protect me.”

  Her eyes cloud with worry. “What’s going on?”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything.”

  “What if I divorced him?”

  I do a poor job of keeping the shock from my face. “You better not say that to anyone but me. You know he would kill you.”

  She knows I’m right, even if she won’t admit it.

  “Promise me you won’t do it.” So many things would fall apart if she did, and for my own selfish reasons, I can’t let it happen. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” she says sadly.

  “Good.” I clear my throat. “This conversation never happened. I was never here.”

  “Goodbye, Son. I love you.”

  “Bye, Ma.” Quick steps take me out of the house that has become my horror, and hers as well, but it isn’t until I cross the New York state line that I breathe a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  “Garrett,” he answers after three rings.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I pace alongside the Mercedes in an empty commuter parking lot alongside the Potomac near Alexandria. The hours have bled into Monday morning, but it’s still dark out and I’m alone. “Did you have any last minute appointments over the weekend?”

  “I had one earlier tonight. He came in close to five p.m.”

  “And you didn’t think to call me?”

  “I did, jackass. Check your messages.”

  “Well, did he tell you anything important?”

  “No, Nic. You’re good. They can’t make anything stick. Not even the kidnapping. If something changes, I’ll let you know. But as of now, you’re golden.”

  Thank God.

  “There’s another one, though.” He clears his throat, and the sound of shuffling paper comes through the line.

  “Who?”

  “A woman. Reagan Cooper. She’s coming in at two p.m. today. Is this your Reagan?”

  “Yes.” Of course it’s her. Of course she’s going to do exactly what I told her not to do. My hand runs down my face. “Shit.”

  “Are you going to stop her?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Good luck, but I can’t be involved in intimidating a potential witness. Even if she’s cute.”

  “Funny.” I hang up without another word.

  “Damn it, Reagan.” The cold air absorbs my words. Don’t do this.

  CHAPTER 43

  Reagan

  My walk-in appointment is in an hour.

  Cameron, through his protection detail, set up a ride for me. The driver is polite, trying to make small talk. I think his name is John . . . or Jim. I don’t remember. I just can’t muster the ability to talk about trivial things.

  The Capitol fades behind us as we drive up Pennsylvania Avenue. We pull up in front of the Hoover building, and I thank Jim, or John, for the drive. I jump out, just steps from the front door. He idles at the curb, waiting for me to go in.

  “Reagan,” someone calls me name.

  I spin around.

  “Hey! It’s me Nate, Devin’s roommate. We had dinner that one time.”

  Oh, thank God. “Yes, I remember. Hi, Nate.”

  He moves in for a quick, if not awkward, hug. “How are you?”

  “Good, you?”

  He starts to reply, when the window on the SUV rolls down. “Miss? Are you okay?” the driver asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Want me to stay?” he offers, keeping an eye on Nate.

  “I think I can manage. I appreciate it, though.”

  He gives Nate one more death stare before rolling up the window.

  “That was weird,” Nate says, glancing at me. “Did he give you a ride?”

  “Uh, yeah. Dropping something off for the boss,” I lie. “I really should get going.” I need to get off the street. I’m exposed.

  “Oh, okay. We should all go out for dinner again. That was fun.”

  “Sure, sure,” I say hurriedly, trying to get rid of him. “Becca can let me know. Sorry, this is time-sensitive.”

  “Yeah, all right,” he says to my back. “Bye, Reagan.”

  I wave as I head toward the large imposing doors. My heart is pounding as I climb the steps, avoiding the small snowdrifts as I go. I pass the marble columns that frame the door when a hand reaches out and grabs my arm, swinging me around. Suddenly, I’m face to face with Nic.

  In a blur, his leather glove clamps over my mouth before I can scream. I scramble to get away from him, but he holds tight, hauling me back behind the column even as I struggle to get away.

  “Stop it,” he hisses in my ear. “I am not going to hurt you. Listen to me. Stop squirming and listen,” he demands, loosening his hold slightly. “I’ll drop my hand if you swear you won’t scream. Promise me?”<
br />
  I still. Then one finger at a time, he peels his hand off my mouth. Holding it an inch from my face, he waits. I scream, and he plants his hand back over my lips. I try to kick him in the shin, but he blocks it.

  “I should have known you wouldn’t listen,” he growls, arms still banded tightly around me. “You get one last chance. I’m going to take my hand off, and we’re going to talk.”

  I nod, and he slowly removes his hand. That’s when I notice his lip is torn, and his neck is all scratched up. “What happened to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter right now,” he says, stepping toward me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why?” I ask angrily. “Are you going to kill me right in front of the FBI building?”

  “No, I’m not going to kill you. I would never hurt you.”

  “Sorry,” I scoff, “it must have been some other man who kidnapped me. My mistake.” I rear back and then hit his chest hard with my fists. My movement pulls the scarf away from my skin, revealing the bruise on my neck.

  He inhales quickly. “I can’t believe he did that,” he says quietly, reaching up to softly touch the discolorations on my skin.

  “Like this wasn’t part of your intimidation plan.” I smack his hand away, glaring at him.

  “I would never, knowingly, allow someone to hurt you. I’m sorry for what happened. I wanted to keep you out of this. It was beyond my control.”

  “Which Nic is this apology from? The Boss or the Savage?”

  “It’s me, Reagan. You know me, don’t even pretend you don’t know me, the real me.”

  “I don’t know anything about you. Obviously.”

  “This is complicated. We’re complicated. I told you that when I left the first time.”

  “I don’t care. I. Don’t. Care,” I shout. “Nothing you could possibly say will change what you are, what I know about you now. Remember, you said there was nothing between us. You used me. Those were your words.”

  “I lied about that.”

  “I thought you didn’t lie to me,” I argue. “So which is it? Was it all a lie or was it not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Something about this whole thing, us . . .” He gestures to me before bringing his hand back to his chest. “It doesn’t add up. I never tried to get information from you. There’s more to this story, and I will gladly spend the rest of my life atoning for the shit I put you through the other night, if you just give me a little while longer.”