by Aubrey Irons
I cry.
The tears come hot, trickling down my cheeks as the sob wrenches from my throat.
“Please,” I gasp out, curling into a ball. “Please don’t do this.”
I close my eyes tight, and the room goes quiet.
Finally, I open them to see him staring at me, frowning, his lips tight. He shakes his head.
“Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“I - I don’t know.”
“Who.”
“I don’t know!” I scream. “A bad person!”
I gasp as he lunges at me, his arms going to either side of me as he half hovers over me on the bed.
“You’re right, little girl,” he snarls, making my heart leap into my throat. “I am a bad person. I’m a very bad man.” His hands move to my wrists, and my traitorous body betrays me again as I shiver at the sound of that baritone in my ear.
“But I’m not that kind of bad man.”
His powerful hands yank my arms above my head. He grabs a cord of some kind - this one fabric, not plastic, and ties it firmly around one wrist before he loops it over the metal of his headboard and then does the same to the other wrist.
He moves off of me, grabbing more ties and doing the same to each foot individually, keeping me pinned on my back to the bed.
“Please,” I whisper. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he says evenly, his eyes fixed on me. “But keep breaking my fucking furniture and we’re going to have problems.”
He whirls and strides to the far side of the room. He flips a switch, killing the lights in my half of the loft before he slumps down onto one of the sofas.
The adrenaline is fading. The booze is fleeing my body. And slowly, my eyelids feel like cement.
I’m barely aware of giving up fighting it as I slowly let my body sink into the darkness.
Chapter Seven
Connor
She struggles for another half an hour, still pulling at those binds as if she’s going to break free.
She won’t. Leaving her alone before was a mistake, one that I won’t make again.
The thing is, I don’t make mistakes. Not ever.
It’s so wrong I could laugh. Because it seems tonight has been my night to finally cash in my chips on “mistakes.” Going to that meet tonight without knowing exactly what I was getting into. Having Mikhail with me, instead of one of the Saints. Not seeing the obvious setup until I’d walked right into it.
And her. Literally every single thing about her since the second she yanked me around by the shirt in that bar. And from that second on, there isn’t a single thing I haven’t fucked up where she’s concerned.
I shouldn’t have kissed her - not before I walked into something as serious as that meet. I shouldn’t have taken her after, either. A single bullet, an extra shot of whiskey tonight, and an extra prayer with Father Murray on Sunday, and that should have been that.
And I can keep going.
Shouldn’t have left her alone when I went out to call Liam, and I sure as shit shouldn’t have put my hands on her like I did when I caught her trying to escape.
And here I am doing another thing I shouldn’t be doing where she’s concerned.
Thinking about her like this.
Thinking about that small, tight, lithe little body writhing against me. Or those pillow-soft lips whimpering into mine, or the way her breath caught when my hands touched the bare skin of her hip.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and tensing and waiting. Eventually, the creaking of my metal bed stops. Her panted strains stop. I almost want to go check on her, like she’s a fucking infant or something, but I restrain myself.
She goes quiet, and when I strain my ears, I slowly start to hear the rhythmic breathing.
She’s out.
I exhale slowly, groaning and laying back on the sofa. There’s no adrenaline rush here, I lost that a long time ago. Sure, I’m still worked up about the gun fight earlier, but where a younger me would still be buzzing from it like I’d just done a whole gram of coke myself, the older me who’s seen too much is just tired.
Another day, another mess to clean up.
It’s funny to think how we all ended up doing what we do in the Saints. For Liam, it was easy I guess. The enforcer. The muscle. He’s not a thug by any means - I mean my kid brother’s got brains that under different parenting and with different formative years might have gone on to kick some serious ass at college. But then, this ain’t that, and “what ifs” mean shit in Southie. And as it happens, Liam just happens to also be that guy who excels at knocking sense into those who don’t want to see reason.
Me? Well, I’ve always fixed problems. At first, it was “how to get us food” when Mom was drunk somewhere and Dad didn’t come home for a week. Later it was how to convince our teachers that everything was fine, and that, no, our dad wasn’t gone, he was just working double shifts these days, so there was no need to call CPS.
Fixing problems is in my blood. Cleaning up the messes, sweeping the dirt under the rug, and making issues go away is what I do, and I’ve done it well since becoming a Saint.
Gray, our youngest brother, was just too young when we all got caught up in this. When our dad finally took off, and when Aela’s father, Jack Reilly, stepped up and found a family in Southie to basically adopt us instead of letting us get lost in the foster system, it was an easy next step into the Saints. He didn’t recruit us, and to be fair, Jack was pretty against kids like us having anything to do with the life until we were old enough to make more rational decisions about our lives.
But then, you grow up fast on the streets of Southie, especially back then with the ever-present looming turf war with the Russians, not to mention the Feds crawling up everyone’s asses and knocking down doors every other day.
Liam and I fell into doing what we did well. Gray was too young, but he got caught up in it anyways. Caught up, chewed up, and spit out.
And now he’s in jail. Busted and tossed in the same night Sheila died.
I rise from the couch and stride to the small bar cart by one of the big factory windows. I grab a glass and a bottle of Jameson and head back to drop myself onto the couch. I pour and raise a toast to my youngest brother.
“Sláinte, buddy,” I murmur, gritting my teeth before knocking the drink back.
The booze courses through me, burning, erasing - trying to give me some clarity.
I set the glass on the coffee table in front of me and glance over my shoulder, frowning. I yank my t-shirt up over my body, tossing it away and twisting my arm to get a look at the wound. I’ll be fine. No stitches needed, which is always a plus.
I’m not shaken up from earlier, but that doesn’t mean my mind isn’t fucking racing. I’m thinking of the warning signs I should have seen - the meet set where it was, the fact that I walked into a meeting like that with a guy I don’t actually know that well as my side man.
The cagey way Oleg was acting the second we walked in that room.
Warning signs I ignored, just because I was still lost in my own head over the drunk, hot little innocent college chick who’d just shoved her tongue down my throat.
The one that’s currently tied to my fucking bed.
The one I just had squirming against me, pressing her ass back into my cock and wriggling in my grip in a way that just does things to a man.
I wasn’t lying, I’m not “that” guy. I’m aware I’m stronger than her, by a mile. I’m aware that she’s weak, and drunk, and tied to my bed, and I’m aware that the skirt she’s wearing rode up more than a few times tonight enough for me to catch a glimpse of those panties.
Red.
I’m completely aware of what I could do right now, but that ain’t me. Not a fucking chance.
But just the same, shit. There’s no denying how fucking hard I am. There’s no denying the lingering feeling of that tight, tiny little body of hers writhing against mine.
The
sounds of her gasps.
The way her tongue felt. The way her lips tasted.
Fuck.
I reach for the glass, take another big slug of the whiskey, and give myself one more top-off before pushing the bottle away and leaning back into the couch with my drink.
The fuck is this, reverse Stockholm syndrome?
I made mistakes tonight. Big mistakes. And it damn well all started with that fucking kiss.
She snores across the room, and I grin, shaking my head. She fought pretty hard for being so drunk.
I sigh.
Tomorrow, I’m going to figure this out, but tonight?
I sigh, pushing the drink onto the table.
Tonight I’m sleeping on my own couch while my gorgeous little hostage snores across the room, tied to my bed.
Chapter Eight
Sierra
I wake up to the single worst hangover in the history of hangovers.
It’s not just the whiskey. It’s not just the feeling of being drained and wrung out. It’s not the cottonmouth and sore eyes or feeling like I fell down a flight or five of stairs.
It’s what happened to me last night.
It’s being taken, and bound, and brought here.
My mind remembers the night in blurry flashbacks - coming here, my attempt at escape, him grabbing me and tying me to his bed. I remember fighting it, and screaming and thrashing until I finally lost all strength.
I slept eventually, I guess. Who would’ve thought.
But it’s morning, and I’m still alive. He hasn’t chopped me into little pieces yet.
I glance around the empty loft, blinking the haze of my hangover away as I turn to glance at the glaringly bright morning light coming through the big factory windows. I try and swallow, my mouth feeling parched and dry.
“Morning.”
His rumbling, dark baritone makes me gasp, and wincing as I whirl to see him sitting in a chair next to the bed.
I shiver, realizing he’s been watching me sleep. I also realize my skirt is practically riding up to my fucking underwear.
My arm jerks to pull it down, and that’s when I remember him tying me up.
I scowl at him. “Do I really need to be tied?”
“I tried to be accommodating last night, and-” He nods his chin at his at the now righted side table I went crashing over last night, now sans lamp.
“Someone couldn’t behave.”
I say nothing, trying to swallow the thickness in my throat as he eyes me.
“Fine.”
“Do not try that again, Sierra.”
I freeze, the color draining from my face.
He shrugs. “I went through your purse. My name’s Connor, by the way.”
He stands, and I flinch as he leans towards me, but his hands go to the bind on my hands, pulling them loose and freeing my arms. His strong fingers find my wrists, rubbing me there as if to get the blood flow going, but I shrug his hands away.
He chuckles.
“So now what, Connor. I’m going to need food, you know, if you plan on keeping me here.”
“Yep.”
“Plan this out?”
He shoots me a look. “It’s being handled.”
“Oh, so you do this a lot?” I force the strength into my voice, swallowing back my fear.
“Do what a lot.”
“Take a lot of girls here and tie them to your bed?”
He smirks, looking right at me. “Seems a little personal.”
My face goes red. “I didn’t mean- I mean-”
He raises a brow at me, smiling like he’s amused by my stammering. “Yes?”
My mouth snaps shut, and he grins. He’s teasing me. He’s enjoying watching me squirm on the hook like this.
“My family is going to worry about me, you know. There are people who will look for me.”
He nods.
“People who care about me. Friends, and family, and teachers, and classmates, and people I work with, and-”
“Hey, princess?”
I scowl.
“I get it, people like you.”
“Yeah,” I sneer. “They do.”
“Of course they do.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You are very likable.”
“That’d feel more like a compliment if I wasn’t tied up.”
He grins a small, tight smile. “Where are you from?”
“Oh, are we getting to know each other now?”
“We could sit here in silence if you want,” he says evenly. “I could also gag you again.”
I glare at him.
He grins that infuriatingly cocky grin again as he taps his chin. “Let me guess. You’re a…college kid? What are you studying, fucking, liberal save-the-planet-nomics with a minor in feminist literature?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?”
“All the time, sweetheart.”
He sips the coffee in his hand, and I eye it, wanting a sip of it so badly it hurts almost as bad as my hangover and adrenaline crash.
“Want a cup?”
“No,” I spit.
He grins, his eyes saying he knows full well I’m just saying it to be spiteful. “Suit yourself. So, college kid, am I right?”
I say nothing.
He grins. “A college kid, parents’ money-”
“I pay my own way, thanks.”
“So you are a college student.”
I scowl.
“You don’t come from a poor family though.”
“Says who.”
He smiles thinly. “Trust me, I know you don’t.”
I glance up at him, my eyes quickly taking him in in the light of day. The scruff on his chiseled, defined jaw. His strong, commanding dark eyes. The softness of his lips. The ink of the tattoos peeking out of the sleeves and neck of the t-shirt that’s stretched tight in all the right places.
I frown, looking away.
“I’m guessing you’re from, what, small town Idaho?”
I smirk. “Nope.”
He taps his chin again. “Hmmm…some nice little spot somewhere, I can tell. I bet no one locks their doors, or their cars, and they all wave to fuckin’ strangers on the street, right?”
I look down, my mind instantly going to my hometown of Shelter Harbor, north of Boston. The small town with the small-town flow, where - of course - no one locks their doors, and we wave to everyone.
I glance up, and he’s grinning broadly.
I frown. “Yes?”
“Nothing, I’m just enjoying this game. “
I say nothing for a minute before I swallow and bring my eyes to his.
“Why am I here?” I say quietly.
“I’m pretty sure you’d prefer this to the alternative.”
I swallow thickly, and something crosses his face.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he says gruffly.
“Gee, thanks.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking.”
He smiles at me patronizingly. “Right.”
“You don’t know a thing about me, actually,” I suddenly spit out, glaring at him. “I know you think you’ve got me all figured out, but you are so wrong about all of it.”
“Are you or are you not a college student.”
I scowl. “Not.”
He raises a brow at me like he doesn’t believe me, and I look away.
“I’m in grad school, thank you very much.”
He laughs.
“And where are you from.”
“Why on earth would I tell you that?”
“You worried I might come find you and carry you back to my loft and tie you up?”
My eyes dart to his face to see him grinning a cocky, smug grin.
“Oh, right, I’ve already done that.”
“Why are you such an ass?”
“Why won’t you just answer the question? Prove me wrong, princess. Tell me you’re from
fuckin’ Detroit or something, and take away all my little preconceived notions of you being this perfect little-”
“Fine, I’m from Shelter Harbor.”
He starts to laugh.
“Oh fuck you.”
Of course, I’m from the most quaint, adorable seaside town on the Massachusetts coast you could possibly imagine. A haven for city tourists in the summer, a destination spot for retirees going leaf-peeping in the fall, a “New England wintery wonderland” in the cold months, according to the Travel and Leisure article that came out a few years back.
I am from the most non-edgy, safest, vanilla, small-town in the world, and for some reason, I hate that he was so right about that.
“You’re from Shelter fucking Harbor? Of course you are.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The place where you can ride the ferry, and eat fuckin’ lobster rolls on the pier, take the walking tour of the old Benjamin Franklin house?” He smirks. “Of course that’s where you’re from.”
“John Adams.”
He frowns. “What?”
“It’s John Adams’s house, not Ben Franklin.”
Connor snickers.
“Oh fuck off. This doesn’t mean you know anything about me.”
“Oh, trust me, I still have plenty of questions.”
“Well, good for you.”
“Like why I could smell gasoline on you last night and maybe why you have soot under your fingernails?”
I swallow, immediately covering and twisting my fingers in my lap to hide my nails.
Connor sighs. “Look, you want some coffee or would you rather sit there petulantly. Here’s a spoiler: you refusing my coffee doesn’t actually hurt my feelings, princess.”
My head throbs with the hangover, and the coffee addict inside of me screams at me to just shut the hell up and accept what’s being offered.
“Fine,” I spit.
He chuckles. “Jesus Christ, I’m from Southie and I’ve got better manners than the girl from Shelter fucking Harbor. Don’t they teach please and thank you on the Ben Franklin tour?”
“John Ada- forget it. Can I please have some coffee,” I mumble.