What His Darkness Reveals #3: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Frost, Thea

  Contents

  Title

  What His Darkness Reveals #3

  What His Darkness Reveals #3

  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.

  JACK

  I'm not used to being disobeyed.

  Bryce is fifteen minutes late.

  I can't believe she hasn't stayed away on purpose. The last time I saw her she was in tears. Torn up by the distance between us. The cold way I'd treated her.

  She had no idea I'd done so for her own good. Her own protection.

  But I agreed to let her in. Agreed to tell her what I've told nobody else. To let my walls down. To reveal my secrets. To share the demons that have made my life a living hell.

  With each passing minute I revise my decision. This is a mistake. I know I can't trust her. I can't trust anybody, least of all myself. I'm a ticking time bomb. It's a miracle I've lasted this long. She can't save me. Nobody can. The best I can do is earn a moment of grace by sharing everything with her.

  The worst I can do is destroy her. As I destroyed the others.

  I raise my wrist, shoot back my cuff, and glance at my watch. Seventeen minutes. I clench my jaw. I was a fool to give her this opportunity. A fool to trust. A fool to think she would be - could be - any different.

  BRYCE

  I've spent the day locked in my apartment, reading Detective Wilkinson's file. Page after page. I'm fascinated. Horrified. Wilkinson's been on Jack's case for six years. Started in 2009. The file is fat. Filled with notes. Photographs. Coroner's reports.

  What I'm holding is more than a case file. It's an obsession. I can read the hatred in every line. Every scrawled annotation in pencil. The journal-like entries where Wilkinson curses Jack, fumes at him, and possibly even admires him.

  For all the work he's done, he's got nothing conclusive on Jack. He's come close several times, but each and every time he was about to close the noose, something went awry. A witness changed his mind. Evidence disappeared. Police procedure wasn't followed, invalidating the charge.

  Wilkinson doesn't have any idea that Jack's undercover. That his handlers have been watching out for him, covering his back for over a decade. What Wilkinson saw as the malevolent forces of the universe conspiring to protect the devil, I see as the work of Jack's handlers, stepping in to keep their agent out of trouble.

  But it's not that simple, because now even Jack's handlers don't know which side he's on. Is he still working for the cops? Or did he go rogue years ago? The deeper I read, the more I marvel. Jack's been walking a tightrope with virtuoso skill. Close one eye and he's a hero, having sacrificed a decade of his life in the trenches. Close the other eye and he's a Machiavellian criminal mastermind, playing the cops and using them to cover his criminal activities for years.

  Who are you, Jack Deckard? I stare at his photograph. As much as I try, I can't stay away from the other photograph, the one of Jackie Oleander, his previous dealer. Killed a month ago. Her death provided me with an opportunity to insert myself into Jack's world.

  I finally pull out her photograph. It's graphic. Disturbing. She's naked. Her body is curvy like mine, abused, hanging limply from the handcuffs. Blindfolded. But even with the blindfold, her resemblance to me is striking.

  Last night, Jack tied me to his bed. Covered my eyes with his tie. Bound me. Blinded me. Took complete control of my body. Just like Jackie's killer did.

  It can't be a coincidence that we look exactly alike. I may be in over my head, but I know there's more going on here than I know of. It can't be a coincidence that Blake chose me seven months ago to go undercover on this mission. Hand-picked me out of the academy.

  Why?

  At the time I thought it was my skills. My talent. My drive and dedication.

  Staring at the photograph of Jackie Oleander, I can't help but think it was because of my tits. My ass. My lips.

  Blake's playing a game here. A game with Jack. I'm just a pawn.

  But I won't stay a pawn for long. With enough work, even a pawn can reach the back of the board and become a queen.

  I dial Blake several times throughout the day, but he doesn't pick up. Evening rolls around. My date with Jack. He swore to let me in. To tell me his secrets.

  But I've seen what happens to women who get too close to Jack.

  Though - I don't know that Jack killed her. Jackie was a high-level dealer. That kind of person makes a lot of enemies. Even Wilkinson didn't have enough evidence to pin the murder on Jack.

  He'd made an enigmatic note on the back of the photograph though: A pattern? Where does this obsession come from?

  Those words haunt me.

  Seven o'clock rolls around. I shower. I don't know if I should go to Jack's. Something tells me this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Regardless of what game Blake's playing, I have a job to do.

  I get dressed. I slide into a little black dress. Somebody picked out my wardrobe for me, and a number of dresses were waiting for me when I moved in yesterday. My size. Sexy. Provocative. I appreciated the gesture when I moved in. Now I can't help but wonder if whoever purchased them wasn't dressing me up for the sacrifice.

  My car's still at the diner where I met Wilkinson last night, so I catch a cab. I'm still unsure. Still don't know if I'll go upstairs. Be alone with Jack. That darkness. That terrible passion. That murderous strength. Am I being a fool? I call Blake one more time.

  He doesn't answer.

  Five minutes before eight I step out in front of Jack's building. Crane my head back to look up its height.

  I enter the lobby. Catch the elevator to his floor. Walk down the hall to his door. Five minutes late. I raise my hand to knock. Hesitate.

  He's in there. Waiting for me. To tell me the truth? Or kill me?

  I've never been so unsure. So scared. So on edge.

  I close my eyes. Picture Jack. Naked. Almost overwhelmingly attractive. His cut physique. His large hands.

  Another memory intrudes: Jack pressing me back against an alleyway, hand wrapped around my throat. Demanding I tell him the truth about my meeting Wilkinson. If my answer had displeased him, would he have killed me?

  I don't know.

  Minutes tick by, and finally I open my eyes. I have to make a decision. I'll confront him. Ask him point-blank about Jackie Oleander. Depending on what he says, I'll leave, or stay.

  I pat my Colt Anaconda where it's holstered against the small of my back. I'm not a pawn. I'm a queen in the making.

  I lift my hand and knock.

  Silence. Then, "It's open."

  I try the handle. So it is. I push his door open. The lights are off. Jack's standing before the windows, hands linked behind his back, facing me. The city at dusk backlights him. He's a silhouette.

  "You're late." His voice is cold. Forbidding. "Close the door."

  I step inside and do so. He's such a large man. Tall. Broad shouldered, with a dancer's waist. He's wearing a suit, I realize. Sharp, tailored, expensive. As always, the knowledge that its professional appearance hides a tattooed predator makes him all that much hotter.

  "I'm sorry I'm -" He makes a cutting motion through the air, and I go quiet.

  "Do you want to be here, Bryce?"

  I try to read his voice. Harsh. Taut. "I don't know."

  "You don't know?" That's not what he wanted to hear.

  I pull out the photograph of Jackie O. Extend it to him
. "No. Not till you explain this."

  "Explain what?" He walks toward me. His footsteps echo on the marble floor. He stops and plucks the photograph from my fingers. I study his face up close. Why does he have to be so handsome? Such a perfect combination of feral and beautiful? Like a wild animal. A predator in truth. A tiger, a jaguar, some great cat that lives by killing.

  His eyes narrow. His lips press into a frown. His eyes flick up to me like a lash. "Where did you get this?"

  "Does it matter?" I raise my chin. "In my line of work I need to know who I'm dealing with. I did some research."

  "Do you think I did this?" He turns the photograph toward me.

  "I don't know," I say.

  "Do you think I'm capable of doing this?" He takes a step forward. What am I doing here? My heart is racing. I want him to convince me he's innocent. More than anything. But I can't give in so easily.

  "Yes," I whisper. I hate that I do. I hate that I think he's capable of this kind of violence, but I won't lie. There's a darkness within him. A storm that rages within his heart.

  He drops the photograph. It falls silently to the floor. I expect fury. I expect disappointment. Instead, he seems amused.

  "If you really thought I was a monster, you wouldn't be here right now."

  I don't know how to respond. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He's hit right at the dilemma I've been wrestling with all day.

  "Come here," he says, extending his hand to me.

  I hesitate, then slide my hand into his. He pulls me after him, toward the windows. Slides me in front of him and wraps his arms around me. He's so strong. I can feel the muscles of his arms through his suit sleeves. His chest hard behind me. He places his lips next to my ears.

  "What do you see out there?"

  The view is stunning. Towers and apartment blocks rise up to challenge the night sky. The streets flow with cars, their headlights bright. "The city," I whisper. "Cars. Roads. People."

  "Do you know what I see?"

  He tightens his arms around me. I'm trapped. Held. Can he feel my heartbeat? I shake my head.

  "I see money. I see sex. I see violence and power. Greed and despair. Pain and hope." His voice is pitched low, a rumble I can feel in his chest. "It starts on the streets. Bellboys and black cab drivers. Parking valets and concierges. They direct the curious to the next level, whether they want drugs or sex. They send them to the prostitutes, the escorts, the small-time dealers. A network of vice."

  I think of those people. The invisible ones I never consciously notice.

  "From there you have the mid-level dealers. You have the madams who run the escort services, the pimps who manage the streetwalkers. You have the gangs that act as muscle, staking out their territories. The men and women who smuggle illegal immigrants. The people who can deliver false passports, fake green cards. The businesses that launder money, the accountants and lawyers who will do anything for a dollar."

  I shiver. I can see it in my mind's eye as I gaze out at the city, at the flow of traffic, the gleam of a million lives going about their business. All connected by lust. Need. Desire.

  Jack turns his head so that his lips brush against my ear. His touch sends a spark through me. I stiffen. "And above them? You have the bosses. International syndicates. The ones giving the orders. The true monsters. The conductors who lead the orchestra. The circus masters who run the whole show."

  Jack pulls me against his body. I can feel his cock against my ass. He wants me. I've never met anybody so insatiable. So hungry. I swallow, fighting to keep my mind clear. "That's just one half of the coin."

  He chuckles, a darkly amused sound. "You mean the law?"

  I nod.

  "The law. Oh yes. You think the police and politicians are above vice? Greed? Corruption?"

  I force myself to focus. To draw my mind away from his cock to his words.

  "No, Bryce." His voice is a whisper. "The beat cops arrest the corner boys, but when you go up the chain, you'll find them dancing together. The lieutenants and the chiefs getting paid by the politicians who benefit from crime. There are no good guys. Only people who hide their darkness behind a badge."

  I shake my head. No. That's not the way it is. I've dedicated my life to the law. To the belief in the good it does. His vision can't be correct. These are the words of a man justifying his turn to crime. His abandonment of his ideals.

  "Oh yes," he whispers to me. His hands clutch my shoulders, and then one slides across my belly, pulling me back against him. The other reaches down to wrap around my neck, tilting my chin up so that he can kiss the hollow behind my ear. "Mankind is ruled by desire. Lust. Idealism is for children and academics. For the privileged. The innocent."

  "No," I whisper. I feel like I'm drowning.

  "Oh, yes." His hand moves down my stomach to slide between my legs. I want to shove him away. Instead I find myself opening my legs so that he can cup my sex. I press my ass back against him. "There are no good men. No good women. There's only people. Doing what they need to to survive."

  I press my head back against him. Bite my lower lip. It feels so good to give in. To let him take what he wants. To stop worrying.

  But I can't. I have to know the truth. "Weren't you a good man once?"

  My question stops his hands. I feel him tense. I blink my eyes, open them.

  "Was I?" He seems to actually be considering the question. "Do you mean was I idealistic, once? A fool? Yes, I was. But I grew out of that. Quickly. It was that or die."

  "What happened?" I need to know. This is it. The moment of truth.

  "I learned the truth. About how the world works. I was betrayed. I was broken. I was left to die." His words are soft. Velvety. "I had to make a decision. Give up, or adapt."

  Jack's hand begins to move from side to side over my mound in the most dangerous of ways. The friction is too much.

  "So you adapted." I can only breathe the words. My eyes close again.

  "That's why I'm here. At the top of that pyramid, with everybody beneath me. Everybody taking my orders, from the highest player to the lowest bellboy." His voice becomes a growl. "This city is mine. Its people are mine."

  His hand slides under the top of my black dress and squeezes my breast. It feels so good. His words are dangerous. Wrong. But the power he holds. The sheer force of his charisma...

  "Am I yours?" I moan.

  "You tell me," he whispers, lips to my ear. "Are you?"

  "Did you kill Jackie Oleander?" I pull away from him, turning to press my back against the window.

  He stills. Lowers his hands to his sides. "No."

  Silence. He holds my gaze with ease. His green eyes burning, smoldering. I feel each beat of my heart like a large stone dropped into a well. Dumm. Dumm. Dumm.

  "You said you were going to let me in," I whisper. Did I think I could control this encounter?

  "You said you were going to trust me," he responds with a devilish smile.

  "I want to."

  He steps in close. Caresses my face. "Then trust me."

  "And if I do?"

  His lips brush against my skin. His body is only inches from mine. "Then I'll tell you my secret."

  Catch 22. Jack knows exactly what he's doing. He's playing me like an instrument. Touching and teasing my body. Lowering my defenses. My inhibitions. His hand slides into my hair, clenches. He pulls my head back, and then slowly, with the very tip of his tongue, licks a trail from the hollow of my throat to just under my chin. I shiver, and he kisses me on the lips, his soft lips demanding. His arms squeezing me to him. Crushing me. His tongue dancing over mine, his kiss intoxicating, like no other.

  Do I trust him? Can I trust him? I know I shouldn't. But I want to. I want to so badly. He's got me confused. Off balance. I slide my hands under his suit jacket, feeling his ripped body under his shirt.

  Do I trust him?

  He breaks the kiss and stares deep into my eyes.

  "Trust me, Bryce." For the first time his arroga
nce subsides. His confidence cracks. His walls go down. Nothing in his face changes, but I see pain in his eyes. That deep anguish that he hides so well every waking moment of his day. "Trust me," he whispers, and oh god, I do.

  I nod. The slightest of gestures, and I am rewarded by a flush of warmth across his devastatingly handsome face. He smiles that broken smile I'm starting to think of as his real smile, and leans in, lips to my ear again.

  "My secret," he whispers. "I could walk away from it all in a moment. The power. The money. Everything. It means nothing to me."

  My eyes go wide. Those aren't the words of a dedicated criminal. I turn to face him, my lips brushing his stubbled cheek as I do so. "Then what's stopping you?"

  His gaze is serious. Solemn. "I've need to do one thing first. Then I plan to."

  "Need what?"

  That look of tenderness and warmth slides away, and in its place I see again the eyes of Jack the shark, Jack the criminal, Jack the killer. Even his voice goes stone cold. "First I need revenge. Then I'm gone."

  I stare back at him wide-eyed, but before I can ask more he kisses me again, but this time savagely, his hunger for my body roaring to the fore. He sweeps me up in his arms, lifts me clear off the ground and presses me to the window. Only a pane of glass separates me from twenty-eight floors of nothing and the street below.

  "I need you," he growls, nose pressed against my cheek, shaking his head from side to side as if he's overcome. "God, I need you, Bryce. You're the one good thing. The one good thing in this shitty life of mine."

  "Jack," I whisper. My doubts are gone. My fears. I want him. More than just his cock. More than his insane body and his beautiful face. I want to assuage his pain. I want to fill that void that consumes him from within. I want to see his broken smile, and find a way to fix it.

  "You need to leave me," he says, looking away. "Now, while I'm thinking clearly."

  "What?" How can he keep doing this to me? Shocking me when I think I'm beyond being surprised?

  "Leave me. Disappear. Go. While I can still let you go. Before it's too late."