Only now he was annoyingly distracted by Tatum purring against his ear as she took all the credit for the further hardening in his jeans, her hand squeezing the bulge that pushed against her palm, her other hand tightening on the nape of his neck as her tongue lapped at his ear.
He breathed deeply through his nose, keeping himself as calm as he could, refusing to let Tatum bring him to the climax she was working so hard to achieve.
His restraint was made easier as Jessie’s head remaining downturned, being felt-up in front of her leaving him feeling like shit. And it wasn’t purely due to concern about the renewed distance between them again, his strategy failing – it was concern about her. It was concern about how she was feeling about herself when, so soon after their intimate moment together, he’d not only revealed that he wanted her for nothing more than what Pummel wanted her for, but that Tatum’s persistent hand working its way into his jeans only hours later was making a mockery of their brief intimacy.
Pummel was enjoying the show though, his eyes blatant with approval. It was a different story for Homer. Homer’s eyes glinted with jealousy, with resentment – yet another complication he could do without. And it was resentment that escalated as Tatum picked up pace, not caring who was watching.
But Eden cared. He cared about what he sensed in Jessie’s composure as she sat there, the flush of her cheeks confirming that what had happened between them hadn’t solely made an impact on him. It was unspoken, unexplained, hard to define, but it was there. And it was never more apparent as he looked across Tatum’s shoulder again, out of sight of the others, to see that, behind her shield of hair, Jessie’s absorbing brown eyes had instinctively looked up to meet his.
She was the first to break away, doing so with a cool edge of dismissal, like feuding lovers, and her claiming closure.
He wanted to push Tatum aside, grab Jessie’s jaw, force her to look at him to question those eyes more, let alone why it had created such a deep stab in his chest. More so, he wanted her to see that, despite Tatum’s attention, his remained focused on her. Not least because he got the feeling resentment exuded from her for more reasons than their altercation; something he was convinced of when Tatum finally opened his jeans completely and pulled down the front of his shorts to take him fully in her hand.
Jessie pulled her headphones out of her ear, tucked her novel back down the side of the chair and stood.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Pummel asked.
‘I’m tired,’ Jessie claimed.
Pummel held her gaze for a torturous few moments. ‘But you didn’t ask permission.’
Eden’s attention snapped from Jessie to Pummel.
Homer, Chemist and Dice all fixed their oppressive stares on her as Jessie stilled immediately. Her lowered head, the tension in her hands, sparked an unpleasant stirring deep in his gut.
‘Sit back down,’ Pummel said.
He heard Dice chuckle. But it was Chemist, the sweep of his tongue along his lower lip as he dragged his lascivious and amused gaze over her, that made Eden’s lower spine ache.
This was the dynamic he hadn’t yet seen. This was the materialisation of the unexplained control Pummel had over her. If he hadn’t been convinced of it before, then he was now. It was never more obvious than when the defiant, brave, bolshie female he had had to fight to subdue in the lock-up sat back into her sofa-seat without further argument. As she perched on the edge in a move that was uncharacteristically compliant from what he’d seen of her so far, it was a compliance he didn’t like. A compliance he now sensed was there only out of self-preservation, to avoid further humiliation.
He could see she’d experienced this before: the unpleasant consequences of noncompliance. Like someone’s pet used to being scolded, she’d suppressed every instinct to bite back.
This was Pummel’s power. And it was the type of power that sickened him to his core. Eden absorbed her humiliation, his jaw clenching at the cruelty in Pummel’s eyes.
‘There’s a good girl,’ Pummel said, his voice soft, mockingly playful before he blew a sequence of smoke rings into the air. ‘Now, ask my permission.’
Eden dug his nails into his palm, Tatum’s grasp on his now waning erection even more of an irritation.
Jessie looked across at Pummel with an impassive yet, at the same time, impressively steely look in her eyes. She wasn’t just brave, she was smart. She knew how to play this game. She knew how to swallow her pride.
‘Please may I go to my room?’ she asked, her tone triumphant in the calmness she’d maintained.
Eden felt the surge of admiration heat his chest.
‘Hmm?’ Pummel asked, his eyebrows raised. ‘Please, who?’
Eden closed his eyes for a second, reminding himself why he was there, what he needed to do. Why, to do anything that was instinctive to him at that moment would end in trouble for them both. He took his packet of mints from his pocket, placing one in his mouth, reminding himself to stay calm.
Jessie took a moment, her jaw tense. She breathed steadily through her nose. ‘Please, Pummel, may I go to my room?’
He wasn’t sure he could have done it. Even with the mask he wore every moment he was there, he wasn’t sure he could have rolled over and taken a kicking like she was then. Something thick clogged at the back of his throat – something that was hard to swallow. What could have been interpreted as weakness then, no doubt how Pummel in his ignorance would have interpreted it, was more strength than he’d seen in anyone for a long time. He may have worked every day with the toughest of the tough, trained to fight, trained to detach, hunting down whatever third species he needed to every night that thought they could break the curfew, dragging them kicking and screaming back into Blackthorn, or to the authorities – but this was survival. This took guts.
This was the female who was now well and truly snagging him.
Pummel sighed theatrically. ‘I’ll give it some thought. Until I’m done, sit back and give us all something nice to look at while I decide if I want you to remove that big old chunky thing you’re wearing to give us a proper look.’
Eden’s gaze snapped from Jessie back to Pummel. There was no fucking way.
She eased back into the sofa chair, still not daring to meet anyone’s gaze.
And he hated it.
He hated the way the conversations around her continued whilst she looked on the edge of breaking. She’d never looked more isolated, embarrassed by her own compliance, no doubt because he was there to see it. She had to be thinking he would see only what the others saw, with no insight of how much he related to her at that moment; how much strength he knew it took to survive in a world like that.
But then Pummel’s laugh broke through him like a barrage of blunt knives, the joint laughter of the others making those metaphorical knives resonate beyond irritation.
‘Of course you can go,’ Pummel tagged on. ‘I’m just fucking with you.’
She looked back at him, right into those sadistic eyes above that broad smile. It was a glare that Eden couldn’t help but admire. She might have been forced into submission, but there was something behind those eyes that was far from broken.
That was Jessie.
‘Or maybe not,’ Pummel tagged on, just as she moved to step away.
The laugh that followed was too much.
Eden flipped the mint in his mouth, unable to mask his glare from Pummel. This time he ensured it snagged Pummel’s attention – anything to take the pressure off Jessie for even a moment.
‘Have you got a problem, Eden?’ Pummel asked.
He kept his gaze steadily on the con’s as Tatum’s hand stilled, as she too looked across her shoulder at Pummel before staring back at Eden.
Clearly she wasn’t so caught up in the moment that she didn’t sense trouble either.
‘What would I have a problem with, Pummel?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
Eden gave a small nonchalant shrug. ‘Far be it for me to c
riticise your technique.’
Pummel raised his eyebrows. ‘Technique?’
He felt all eyes burning into him, not least Jessie’s as she stayed rooted to the spot like an actress forgetting her lines mid-performance.
Eden leaned past Tatum to grab his bottle of beer. ‘I’ve always thought the real skill is in making them want to do what you want them to do.’ Though it went against the grain, he gave Pummel a mischievous, playful wink.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Is that right?’ Pummel said, seemingly momentarily appeased by Eden’s switch from condemner to conspirator. ‘And you know all about that, I suppose?’
‘Do you like stories, Pummel?’
A hint of a smile graced his thick lips. ‘I love stories. Who doesn’t?’
Eden slapped Tatum’s behind as an indication for her to move off his lap so he could shift to the edge of the sofa, fastening his jeans as he did so. He reached for the packet of cigarettes on the table – the top brand type he had brought back with him from Pummel’s list. He knew he could suffer one to placate the con who was now watching him intently. ‘Get her to get us all a cold beer while she’s up,’ he added, indicating to Jessie without even looking at her.
He fixed his attention on Pummel like he was looking into the eyes of a cobra, thoughts of slamming his fist clean into his face strategically suppressed as he crunched and swallowed the remains of his mint. Taking a slow inhale of his cigarette, one story in particular fortunately sprung to mind.
* * *
Jessie braced her hands on the kitchen countertop, taking a deep and steady breath. He was not going to make her cry. Pummel would not win.
It was the scenario she’d hoped, pleaded, that Eden wouldn’t get to see – because having him in the audience only made the humiliation worse.
She didn’t care what the others thought now; their opinions, their judgements, their thoughts meant nothing to her.
But she needed Eden to know she wasn’t a coward. If her warnings, her threats, were to mean anything to him, she had to stand her ground. One sign of weakness and the more likely he was to stick around, to think he could manipulate and use her. She’d learned that one thing more than any other living in Blackthorn: signs of weakness led to demise. Survivors struck first.
Unless survival necessitated being obedient, indifferent and playing by the rules – and now Eden had seen that side of her. A side of her that made her feel too vulnerable considering he knew her secret.
What bothered her even more was that he would no longer see her as the strong, confident, defiant female that was so obviously his type. That he would now view her with disdain. Disappointment even.
Seeing Tatum draped all over him only confirmed why the prospect of that troubled her so much. Her heart had ached at seeing her groping him – and him letting her. Tatum toying with Eden so openly had reminded her of her own imprisonment, how she would never have the freedom to be who she was, to do what she wanted to do. Pummel’s taunting smoke rings had been an equally cruel reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere, that she could never get that close to Eden, or any other male, without consequence.
And now Eden would be laughing at her like the others.
Except he hadn’t at the time. He hadn’t reacted like the others at all. Despite not daring to look at him, she had sensed it. More to the point, the way he’d intervened, although it could have been nothing more than an opportunity to share another dark and nasty con story, the type that they all liked to boast about to gain kudos, had been undeniably timely.
She removed the cold bottles from the fridge, cradling them against her chest as she closed the fridge door.
Instead of pulling away, she kept her palm flat against it.
She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d snagged Pummel’s attention. It was the same look he’d had in the doorway the night before – reminding her of glimpses of movies she’d seen where a knight made eye contact with his jousting partner before lowering his visor.
She hadn’t been able to place it before, but now she did.
She hugged the bottles close to her chest.
So long had it been since anyone had defended her, even attempted to do so, even considered intervening, that she hadn’t even recognised it.
He’d done it to help her.
Her heart skipped a beat. A warmth spread through her despite the chill of glass cutting through her clothing. A small smile dared to grace her lips.
Or she was looking for hope where there was none. In her desperation, she was seeing any fragment of light. A light that would go out the moment he got what he wanted – what he’d already confessed he wanted.
Unless she got something out of it too.
She looked back at the larder door. Down at the floor where the trapdoor, the padlocked trapdoor, lay beyond.
It was a risk. It was inevitable what would happen should she be caught again. It was a risk just getting Eden involved. Maybe too great a risk.
She pulled herself away from the fridge, re-approaching the room with leaden legs. She paused and took another steady breath just before she reached the threshold.
As she re-entered the room, her grip on the bottles tightened.
His audience was captivated. Pummel was watching him intently. Both Chemist and Dice were perched on the edge of their seats, Chemist’s cigarette burning down between his fingers, Dice grinning broadly. Even Homer’s eyes sparkled.
‘…and I had the two of them, right there,’ Eden continued. ‘I swear you’ve never seen contraptions like these before. I mean I’m talking seriously screwed-up stuff…’
She placed four of the bottles on the table.
Pummel reached for his with barely a look in her direction. The others took even less notice.
‘To this day I don’t know if they really knew what they were letting themselves in for…’ Eden added.
It was as if she wasn’t even there.
‘I picked the blonde first…’ she heard Eden say amidst her haze of pending relief.
Tatum had returned to his lap, her back to Jessie. She was equally hypnotised by Eden’s tale – the animation in his expression, the dark glint in his eyes promising it was a story they all wanted to hear.
He held up his open hand behind Tatum’s back. Without even needing to make eye contact with Jessie, she knew it was her cue to hand him his bottle.
Whether his expectation of gratitude or just because he didn’t want to lose his audience by asking Tatum to pass him a bottle instead, Jessie complied, wanting only to get out of there whilst she could.
She placed the cold bottle in his hand.
Not losing his train of thought, not giving the slightest indication to anyone other than her, his fingers immediately brushed hers.
It could have been an accident but, furtively hidden from sight, it echoed his caress of her spine at the pool table. This time, his fingers lingered for a second longer than was necessary until it was her who abruptly withdrew.
He didn’t even flinch.
‘…I had her on her knees, wrists in these straps…’ he continued.
Her heart pounded, what had passed between them feeling even more intimate than the sexual contact they had had at the pool table hours before.
He had helped her.
Whatever his story now betrayed, a story she didn’t know if she believed or not, a story she didn’t even care about, he’d shown her more compassion in that single act than she had experienced in decades.
Tears welled in her eyes; tears she couldn’t afford for anyone else to see. She sloped away, her chest tight, the implication of her train of thoughts terrifying.
A train of thoughts that meant she was considering believing Eden. Considering trusting him.
She ascended the stairs, tripping halfway up, her trembling legs not functioning as well as she wanted them to in her distraction.
She slumped onto the steps just outside Pummel’s room, at the foot of the d
og-legged staircase. One hand clutching the worn spindle, she gripped her forehead in the other as she rested her elbow on her knee.
Laughter echoed up the stairs from the lounge below, curling towards her amidst the cold shadows. Her gaze rested on the obelisk of light not far from her feet, the moon now high in the sky.
She knew she could no longer deny it, as frightening as acknowledging it was. It wasn’t a fear associated with physical injury, but the prospect of real pain. A world where love and trust and kindness and intimacy were options. A world that, once she was inevitably forced to leave it again, would only exacerbate the loneliness and darkness of her reality.
But she had to acknowledge the truth: she was attracted to him, now for far more than just superficial physical reasons. She liked him. She liked the way he talked, how he moved, how he walked. She liked the playful mischief in his eyes. She liked the brightness behind them. She liked the way he hung on everything she said. She liked the way he looked at her. She liked the way he touched her. How he made her feel.
He’d been so right: her heart hadn’t been in it down in the lock-up. If it had, she could have killed him. Yet every instinct had told her that she hadn’t needed to fight back. That he wasn’t going to hurt her.
She had fought him out of desperation. Had set him up out of desperation. She had been under Pummel’s spell. She had been retaliating as his puppet.
But there in that lounge, Eden had started to snap those strings right under Pummel’s nose.
And she liked him even more for it. She liked Eden’s reminder of who she was, the wake-up call he was instigating.
Her anger towards Pummel escalated. Her grip tightened on the spindle at the recollection of how he had demeaned and humiliated her, a spindle that splintered under the pressure.
But her attention snapped to the shadowed stairwell below as voices crept up towards her – a female and a male. The latter weaved deep inside her with its compellingly welcome familiarity, its edge of masculinity, its sexy and addictive undertones.
Remaining crouched in the shadows, she leaned as close to the spindles as she dared.
Blood Deep (Blackthorn Book 4) Page 17