by Celia Aaron
A king size bed with a fluffy black comforter sat in the middle of the room. The dark hardwood floors gleamed when Conrad turned on the lights, and with the press of a button, gray curtains silently covered the two windows looking down on the icy park.
When he closed the door behind us, I froze. Panic welled as I glanced at the bed, then spun so I could face him and try to defend myself.
“Whoa.” He held up his hands and winced the slightest bit. The wound in his shoulder must have been bothering him. “I’m not going to hurt you. I thought I made that clear.”
“I’ll fight you.” I balled my fists at my sides. “I won’t go easily. You need to know that.”
He cocked his head to the side, as if surprised at my words. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” I backed away and glanced around for some sort of weapon. The furniture was bare, and the place seemed more like a hotel room than a home. “And my boyfriend will be out looking for me. He’ll know I’m missing.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow. “What’s his name?”
Fuck. I hesitated for a just moment before saying, “Todd.” But that moment was enough. He knew it was a lie.
“Look.” He pulled his pistol from its holster, laid it on the dresser, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I realize this isn’t optimal for either of us. You don’t want to be here.”
I tried not to stare at the gun, but I was already trying to figure out if I could get to it before he could.
“You can’t.” He glanced at the gun then back to me. “I’ll always win.”
“Always?” I edged toward the door to what looked like a bathroom.
He sighed, weariness heavy on his exhale. “Yes. It’s what I do.”
“You kill? Is that what you mean?”
His face hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. At that moment, I realized how truly terrifying he could be. Built like a solid wall of muscle, at least six foot five, with a handsome face and eyes that went cold in a heartbeat. I swallowed hard and bumped into the doorframe at my back.
“I’m going to need to patch this.” He jerked his chin toward his shoulder, but kept his eyes on me. “But first, I’m going to take care of your nose and get you cleaned up.”
“First, you need to tell me why I’m even here.” I couldn’t keep the shrill notes from my voice. “Why did Berty take me? Why is this happening?”
He reached behind his head and pulled his shirt off in a singularly masculine move. His abs flexed, and his bare chest looked carved and hardened. Black ink trailed around his arms and met in the center of his chest. “Death before dishonor” was written between his pecs with a flourishing script. His fingers had individual letters on each one. Scars dotted his body—some long gashes with dots on either side from stitches, others that were rounded or jagged. He was a battlefield, his story told with blood and scar tissue.
“This isn’t the time for explanations.” He used the shirt to dab the wound and tossed it onto the dresser next to the gun. “This is the time when I patch us up. Then we’re going to get some sleep. Then, and only then, I will decide what’s going to happen. When it’s time for you to know something, I’ll let you know it.”
Son of a bitch. I glanced at the curtained windows, to the door, and finally to the pistol before meeting his gaze. “You can’t keep me prisoner here.”
“I can, and I will. First things first, I need to take care of the cut on your nose.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, his jacket still engulfing me. “I can handle it.”
He smirked, a single quirk of his lip that gave him a devilish air. “Sure, but with the way you’ve been eye-fucking my gun, I get the feeling leaving you alone is a bad idea.”
“I haven’t been eye-fucking anything.” I backed into the bathroom and reached for the door handle.
He crossed the distance between us and grabbed my wrist before I had a chance to swing the door all the way shut. “Like I said, you won’t be doing anything alone.” Pushing the door closed behind him, he released my wrist, then flicked the lock. “In the time it takes you to click over the lock and turn the handle, I’ll have you pinned. Got it?” He glowered down at me, irritation lacing his tone. “There’s no point.”
I bit my lip and returned his glare. “I could scream.”
Something lit in his eyes, a spark that sent a tingle down my spine. What had just passed through his mind?
“You could.” He nodded and stepped past me toward a set of floor to ceiling cabinets next to the white marble vanity. “But the reinforced walls and double-paned windows, coupled with the fact that the floor below us is empty at the moment for renovations—no one would hear you.” He pulled out some ointment, bandages, and a small sewing kit. “But be my guest. While you’re at it, go ahead and sit up on the counter so I can clean and bandage your nose.”
The white and gray vanity and the sink were one smooth piece of marble. A mirror with a dark wood frame hung above the counter, and a shower, water closet, clawfoot tub, and a dark doorway leading into a walk-in closet finished out the rest of the room. I wondered if the bathroom alone was bigger than my cramped apartment.
I trailed my fingers across the locked door handle, but I didn’t doubt his words. He would be able to catch me if I made a move. For the time being, I had to play along. I walked over to the vanity and turned to lean against it.
He deposited the medical supplies onto the marble with a small clatter, then stood in front of me and reached out to help me up. I cringed away from him. Memories of Berty’s cold hands on me flashed through my mind.
Conrad stopped, his forehead wrinkling. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
I cut my gaze away. “Because men who keep women prisoner are so trustworthy?”
He made a “hmmph” sound in his throat and held out one hand, palm up. “Take it when you’re ready, and I’ll help you.”
I looked at his hand and tried to calm the skittish beat of my heart. Conrad offered help instead of Berty’s promise of pain. Not that it mattered. Letting him help me was my only play.
“I can do it.” I pressed the heels of my palms against the cold marble and lifted myself onto the counter. An emotion verging on disappointment flashed across his eyes before he returned to his general stoic look.
He moved closer, his hips pressing against my knees. I could have made it easier for him, let him get closer, but that would require opening my legs, and I definitely was not about to do that.
He grabbed a cotton ball and doused it in alcohol, the antiseptic scent heavy in the air. “It’ll sting.”
“Okay.” I gripped the edge of the counter as he dabbed across the bridge of my nose. The pain wasn’t pleasant, but it was bearable.
After a few more swipes, he tossed the reddened cotton ball and used another. His masculine scent came through in waves as his fingers worked to clean me up. I got a free view of his dark hair and rugged face as he focused on my nose. The muscles along his corded neck and torso rippled and tensed as he went. He was attractive. I’d be foolish not to admit it, but the handsome package hid a darkness. The way he’d killed the man in the street—cold and with no emotion. I suppressed a shudder.
He glanced at my eyes for a moment, as if still trying to find me even though the me he was looking for was well hidden. Staying closed off was the only way I knew to survive. When I’d made the mistake of letting someone in, I’d paid dearly for it.
Once satisfied the wound was clean, he squeezed some ointment onto it and taped a small bandage across the bridge of my nose.
“I can’t do anything about the shiners. The swelling’s already going down.” He stepped back and pointed to the tub. “You’re going to take a bath. It’ll make you feel better.”
I clutched the lapels of his coat tight. “No way.” I hadn’t been naked in front of a man in years, not since Brandon.
“Look, I’m not letting you stay in here by yourself.” He opened another cabinet and pulled out two fluffy white
towels. “And you need a bath to wash it away.”
“It?” I backpedaled until I hit the tiled wall next to the door.
He stalked across the short distance between us and stopped when he was only inches away. “What happened. You need to wash it off. It’s the only way you’re going to be able to get past it.”
I stared up at him. “Is that what you do? After you shot that man in the street, did you just wash it off?”
“I would have. And not given it another goddamn thought.” His eyes narrowed. “But I didn’t get the chance because Nate texted me and said you were in trouble.”
Irritation jumped into the mix of emotions that warred inside me. “Don’t act like you did me any favors, asshole. It’s pretty clear that the only reason I wound up like this is because of you.”
He dropped his gaze. It was as if I’d wounded him. But then he caught me in a glare, fury in his eyes. “Charlie, none of this is negotiable.” He grabbed the jacket and yanked me up to him, so close that our noses almost touched.
I dug my nails into his arms, but he didn’t react.
“You can blame me and be pissed off all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to take a goddamn bath and then you’re going to get in my bed and sleep this fucking day away. You can either do it the easy way and bathe while I’m cleaning up my shoulder, or, I can strip you, put you in the tub, lather you up, and rinse you off.” He loosened his grip on the jacket and took a deep breath. “Goddammit, Charlie, I’m trying to help you.” He let go completely and stepped back.
The urge to run scrambled around inside me, trying to get me moving. But he’d catch me. I knew it just as sure as I knew I’d have to take a bath with him in the room.
He turned to the sink and grabbed the alcohol with an angry swipe. Two wings, each one done in black ink with minute detail, covered almost the entirety of his back. I followed the lines from the tips that disappeared into his pants, to the very top where they crested above his shoulder blades.
Gothic letters at the center of the design said “Angelus Mortis.” The Angel of Death.
8
Conrad
Charlie eased toward the tub, then bent over and twisted the faucets. Water poured into the basin as she tested the temperature with her fingers. Once set to her liking, she straightened and glared at me over her shoulder.
I wiped at the exit wound in my shoulder with some alcohol. The burn sizzled through my brain, and the pain reminded me I was alive. Reaching over my shoulder, I felt for the bullet hole. The entry wound was much smaller than the exit. The bullet made a fucking mess on the way out. I’d need to stitch the exit wound, but my back could heal without intervention.
I soaked both bloody spots with alcohol and waited for it to dry. As much as I needed to focus on cleaning my shoulder, my attention was drawn to Charlie.
The tub filled quickly, but she hadn’t made a move to remove any of her clothes.
“Can you please not look?” Her voice barely carried over the tumble and splash of the water.
I wanted to look, to see the body that I knew was beautiful. The shape of her, the parts of her hidden by her clothes … I wanted to see all of it in the flesh. Had I ever wanted anything so badly as I wanted her? No. But not like this, not after what had happened to her in that fucking basement. I wouldn’t victimize her again, and I’d kill anyone who so much as sent her a bad vibe. Which was insane, given that I’d have to let her go.
I turned and grabbed the stitching kit from the counter. “I won’t look, but if you try to sneak up behind me, I’ll see you in the mirror. So don’t bother.”
“I won’t.” The water turned off, the room suddenly silent except for the rhythmic drip of the faucet. Then the soft whir of fabric dropping to the floor, the schick of a zipper, and the plunk of her legs, one by one, into the water.
She sighed, and my cock hardened. At least it’s drawing the blood away from my shoulder. Fuck. I’d thought this through—bath then bed so that she could get over the shock and put some distance between her and what happened. But I hadn’t realized just how difficult it would be not to touch her, not to hold the woman that I’d been dreaming of for over a year.
“I’m in. You can turn around.” Her voice had lightened, the strain from earlier draining into the water just as I’d hoped.
I wiped my palm across my mirror, squeaking away the steam so I could get a good view of my shoulder. Seven stitches, tops. I’d become pretty good at gauging the damage. Over my career, I’d created a homemade tapestry across my body consisting of hundreds of stitches, each set cleaner than the last.
I threaded my needle and started at one end of the jagged gash. The first stich always stung the worst. The rest were only echoes of that first puncture. I worked through the pain until the flesh had been melded back together enough to heal. All the while, I listened to Charlie’s soft breathing, her small movements under the water.
Once I was done with the needle, I tossed it down and splashed some alcohol on it. I’d clean up later. I needed rest. This was not the time to let my mind get clouded by fatigue. Charlie’s life depended on me being sharp. Letting her down wasn’t an option, not after what she’d been through. I opened the cabinet, grabbed a towel, and hung it on the silver warming bar next to the shower.
“What are you doing?” The trepidation in her voice almost made me smile.
“I’m taking a shower.” Without looking at her, I unzipped my pants and dropped them and my boxers to the floor. “If you try to run, I’ll catch you. And we’ll both be naked. So think about that, all right?” I wanted her to run, was desperate for it, but I had to temper my desire for her with what she needed. And right then, she needed safety.
I spun the knobs and walked into the shower, closing the door behind me. Charlie would have a clear view of me through the glass. I didn’t mind, but it took everything I had not to look at her. The thought of her watching me gave me a hard-on so stiff that it almost hurt, but I kept my back to her as much as possible.
Once I was finished, I snagged my towel and wrapped it around my waist. “You ready to get out?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to wear the same clothes.” She was relaxed, the sound of her voice like water flowing over smooth stones. “They smell like that place. The basement. Do you have anything I can borrow?”
The mental image of her in one of my shirts and nothing else almost did me in.
“Yeah. Hang on.” I padded over to the walk-in closet at the far end of the bathroom, though I kept the tub in my peripheral vision. She didn’t make a move. I pulled a t-shirt from a drawer, then two sets of boxers from another.
“This should do for tonight.” I placed the clothes next to her towels. “I’ll turn my back so you can get out.” I hoped she’d say I could watch, that she didn’t mind if I saw her.
Instead, she said, “Thanks for not looking.”
“You’re welcome.” I turned my back as promised, and she climbed out of the tub.
After a few moments, she walked to the locked door. My t-shirt swallowed her whole, and she had to roll the boxers to keep them up, but fucking hell she was a stunner. The backs of her legs were fair and smooth, the skin just begging to be touched as it disappeared beneath the plaid fabric. Jesus.
She leaned her head against the door and yawned. “You were right.”
I dropped my towel and pulled on my boxers, tucking my hard-on behind the elastic band. “Yeah? How so?”
“I feel better.” She bounced her forehead on the door. “I mean, I still want to go home, and I’m not a fan of basements anymore, and my face hurts, but I don’t feel quite so…”
“Cold.”
She turned and pinned me with a warm look that went straight to the hollowed-out husk of my heart. “Yes.” Her eyes drifted down my chest, skirting the tattoo ink, then farther south. Her cheeks heated to a perfect blush, but she abruptly turned before her eyes landed on my cock. “Can I open the door now?”
> “Yes.”
She fumbled with the lock before pushing through into my bedroom. Approaching the bed, she stopped and ran her fingers along the black comforter. “I’m sleeping here?”
“Yes.” I walked over to my 9 mm on the dresser, trying to find something to focus on other than her curves beneath my shirt.
“Where are you sleeping?” She edged toward the head of the bed.
“With you.” I walked to the side closest to the window and slid the gun under my pillow. I had another tucked against the bedside table in an easy access holster, and a shotgun on a custom rack beneath my bed frame. Not to mention the arsenal in my closet and other guns hidden throughout the apartment.
Music swelled from the living room sound system, followed by the distinct sound of a hard fuck and a woman panting. Nate had found the pay-per-view. Great.
9
Charlie
Porn? I tried not to seem even more alarmed than I already was, but I stared at the door to the living room as a man said, “You like that in your tight little cunt?”
“Yes, Daddy,” came the reply.
Oh my god. I couldn’t look at Conrad, so I eyed the pillow where he’d stashed his gun. If I could grab it, maybe I could hold Conrad while I escaped. But then I’d have to get past Nate. Not to mention, I wasn’t entirely sure that Conrad would stay put just because I pointed a gun at him. I wouldn’t fire it, but he didn’t know that. Or did he? Either way, I’d have an angry killer on my hands. I couldn’t risk it.
“Nate! Keep it down!” Conrad pulled the comforter and sheet away and sank down into the bed. He lay on his back, his eyes on me.
“Sorry, man.” The sound lowered. “But you should see the ass on this one. Damn. Like two butterball turkeys, basted to perfection.”
“Get in.” Conrad flipped the sheet down and left his arm draped across the top of my pillow.
An unwanted shiver went through me as I stared at him, a gorgeous man inviting me into bed. But he was so much more than just window dressing. He was a killer. And even though he’d been gentle with me, the need to escape still blared loudly inside my skull.