What His Darkness Reveals #3: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Frost, Thea

  "That I'll regret?" His eyes go wide with mock surprise. "What, like spending the past six years wasting my time chasing a man I can't pin anything on? That I only now realize is an undercover cop who's been laughing at me all these years as his higher-ups make sure my career goes down the tubes?"

  He leans in, eyes narrowing. "Oh, no. My only regret is playing by the rules thus far. I don't plan to any more."

  "What do you mean?" I can't tear my attention away from the muzzle of my gun. Is the safety still on? One careless shot will blow the top of my head off and splatter it across the ceiling. Sweat is running down my brow. Pooling in the small of my back.

  "What do I mean?" He presses his face close to mine, his nose against my cheek. I want to flinch back from his touch, but I control myself. "I mean I want some of the sweet stuff Jack's been enjoying all these years. I don't see why I ought to deprive myself any longer."

  "Fuck you," I whisper.

  He laughs. "Precisely." Then he licks me with the flat of his tongue from my jaw up my cheek to my temple. Slowly, leaving a trail of saliva up my face. I shudder, repulsed to my core.

  "You fuck him last night?" His whisper is rough, raw. "You still got his come on you? Drying on your tits?"

  I raise my hands. "If you're going to rape me, just shut up and rape me."

  "Or did he shoot his load up your ass? You gonna shit his cum the next time you squat in an alley?"

  My hands are up now, as if I'm under arrest. It's something I learned at the academy. Distract them. Get one split second of confusion. Then strike.

  "No," I say, my voice suddenly really happy. "He likes to come in my ear. Over and over."

  Wilkinson jerks his head back, frowning sharply. "What?"

  I strike. I twist my body away as I grab his gun hand with both of mine. The gun fires. The sound is deafening. I continue twisting, both hands latched onto his, torquing his wrist. He's got to fall or I'll snap it.

  Wilkinson falls.

  I drive him to the ground, still twisting his hand savagely, and bury my knee in his chest, pinning him. My gun falls to the ground. Wilkinson's cursing, but I twist his hand further and he stops short.

  "I'd snap your wrist right now, you piece of shit," I hiss. "But I'm still a professional. I'm going to report you and file assault charges. You're done."

  My heart is like a train racing over the tracks, ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom. I reach down and grab my gun, then leap to my feet and back away, muzzle trained on him.

  Wilkinson sits, nursing his wrist. "Bitch. That's all right. Go. Jack will take care of you. Worse than anything I could ever do."

  I back up to the gun, then slide the safety back in and place it in my holster. "If Jack's scum, I don't want to think about what you are." I need to get out of here before I start shaking. "You call me again, you try to get in touch with me, I will make you regret it."

  Then I step out onto his landing and close the door. I can hear Wilkinson yelling abuse at me, his voice hoarse with outrage, but I hustle down the stairs and out into the street. Fuck. Fuck. I get in my car and pull out into traffic. Drive six blocks, then pull over.

  I can't help it. My hands are shaking like crazy. I feel sick. Nauseous. I need to wash my face. Need to wash his filth off my cheek. What a freak. Would he really have forced himself on me?

  Yes. I think he would have. But in the weirdest way possible, only as a way to strike out at Jack. That wasn't even about me. It was all about Jack. About Wilkinson's obsession with the man.

  My phone rings. Blake. I answer without even looking. "Oh, god. I was just going to call you."

  "Bryce?"

  I sit up in shock. "Jack? How did you get this number?"

  "Bryce, what's wrong?"

  "Answer me first. This number. How did you get it?"

  "Simple. I just dialed my phone this morning from yours. Now what's wrong?"

  I want to curse my stupidity, but then I feel a rush of relief. "Nothing. It's nothing."

  "Don't lie to me, Bryce." His voice sounds stern. "What's wrong?"

  "I -" I want to tell him. I want to vent. After last night I trust him. But I can't tell him I'm an undercover cop. Something holds me back. An instinct of self-preservation. "Wilkinson."

  "The detective?" His voice goes from stern to harsh. "What did he do? Did he bother you?"

  "Yes." It feels good to admit. Too often my urge is to forgive and forget. To pretend the things men do don't hurt. Don't embarrass. Don't humiliate. To act tough, to swallow my pride and move on. It feels good in a savage way to be honest. "God, he hates you, Jack. He tried to hurt me. Just so he'd hurt you."

  "The fucker." His voice is white-hot with fury. "Turn the car around."

  "What?"

  "Not you. I'm going to take care of him."

  "Wait, Jack. Don't do anything stupid."

  "I won't. But I'm going to make it clear to him who he's messing with. Leave this to me, Bryce. This will never, ever happen again. I promise."

  "Jack - "

  But he's gone. I stare at the phone, mouth dry, and then dial him back. He doesn't answer. There's no voicemail. It just rings, and rings, and then cuts off.

  Fuck. What did I do? I save Jack's number, then dial Blake.

  "Hello?"

  "Blake." Where telling Jack felt good, felt natural, telling Blake feels like an ordeal. "I've just left Wilkinson's."

  "Good. You left the folder."

  "Yes. Blake, he tried to rape me."

  A terrible, shocked silence. Good.

  "What?"

  "Wilkinson. He's insane. Twisted. He tried to rape me. Took my gun. If I hadn't wrestled it free, I -" Tears burn my eyes. I start shaking again. "Damn him. Damn him."

  "Bryce, calm down. That can't have happened. Wilkinson's a professional. He's been on the force over twenty years."

  "I'm telling you, he tried to force himself on me. He was going on and on about wasting his career, about how it's not fair Jack gets what he wants, how if Jack can fuck me then he can too -"

  "You're fucking Jack?"

  "What? No! That's - that's just what he was saying."

  "Wilkinson's overworked. On edge. He probably scared you, but I seriously doubt he meant anything by it."

  I blink. "Blake, I'm telling you, he tried to rape me."

  "Stop saying that, Bryce. There's no way he'd do that. Maybe he got a little fresh. I'll tell his superiors, and they'll have a word with him."

  I'm speechless. I can't believe this. I've always heard about men refusing to listen to these accusations, about how they back each other up, but I've never seen it so nakedly.

  "Now," continues Blake. "Let's focus on the task at hand. I've got your first shipment in place. Arrange with Jack for the transfer. We're going to do a classic entrapment. If we can catch him on film paying for the drugs, we can bring him in and charge him."

  I hang up.

  I inhale sharply through my nose. When I close my eyes, I can feel Wilkinson's tongue licking my face, the gun under my jaw. Hear the shot that nearly killed me. Maybe he got a little fresh?

  My mind races. What can I do? I'm deep undercover. If I go to the police, they'll see only my criminal record and police academy discharge. My word against Wilkinson's will mean nothing. Blake's right. He's my only line back to the real world. The only person who can vouch for my true identity.

  And he's refusing to believe me.

  I feel a sudden and fierce sense of gratitude to Jack. He hasn't doubted me for a second. hadn't been worried about anything other than my well-being.

  I wipe my tears away. Jack will call his handlers. Will reach out through his own official channels and shut down Wilkinson for good.

  I take a deep breath and pull back into traffic. Whatever happens to Wilkinson, he'll deserve it.

  *

  I try calling Jack several times throughout the day, but only hear from him around nine at night. A simple text. Be at my place in half and hour. We're going to go out. I want t
o show you more of my world.

  I gulp. My finger hovers over the reply button, but then I simply put my phone away. Half an hour? It feels almost like a test. I leap in the shower, get dressed, and grab a cab.

  I arrive just on time. After last night I know Jack doesn't appreciate my being late. I literally run through his lobby, my heels clicking, and leap into an elevator as the doors are closing. I ignore the curious stares of the other passengers, who get out one by one until I'm the last one riding up to the twenty-eighth floor.

  I run down the hall, checking my cell as I go: 9:29 p.m. I knock on his door just as it hits 9:30. I take a deep breath, trying to control my breathing. Jack opens the door.

  Oh, that smile. That dark, devilish smile, devastating and beyond hot. He's wearing black jeans and a black shirt that hugs his muscled torso. An expensive wristwatch, black leather shoes. His tattoos are visible where they curve down his powerful arms, where that one curl of the tribal tattoo rises up around his neck. His smoky green eyes burn into me, sear into my soul, and I can see approval in their depths.

  "You're on time."

  "I ran," I admit. I don't mind being honest. Showing him how much I wanted to be here on time. How much I wanted to please him.

  "Come in." He steps aside, and I enter. Soft music is playing somewhere. As always, his view is stunning. Jack leads me to his kitchen counter. There's a bottle cooling in an ice bucket and two crystal glasses.

  I want to ask him questions, but I'm shy. The sight of the bookcase where he fucked me raw last night makes me self-conscious, so I wait contentedly as he pops the cork and pours champagne into each glass.

  We clink glasses, though he offers no toast. The champagne is delicious.

  "We're going somewhere special tonight," he says at last.

  "Oh?"

  He nods. Those lips. That stubble. I want to lean in and inhale his scent. "A safe place. Somewhere I can be... myself."

  I take another sip. I can't imagine what he's referring to. I want to ask about Wilkinson. But all I can do is gaze into his eyes.

  "Bryce, after last night, I want to bring you in all the way. I want to trust you with everything. All of me."

  I nod. "Me too."

  He hesitates. "I have secrets you can't begin to guess at."

  I fight to not smile. Oh no? I know he's an undercover cop. When he finally tells me, will I pretend to be shocked, or tell him that I'm one too?

  "I also have secrets," I say.

  He quirks an eyebrow in curiosity. "Where we're going, lies get stripped away."

  "Where's that?"

  He leans in and rubs my lower lip with his thumb. I want to take it in my mouth, but he lowers his hand. "Where we're going, people are reduced to their essential selves." I swallow. His words are husky, intense. This man's whole self should be illegal. "Some people go there to be hurt. To be broken. To be punished. Others go there to be liberated. Freed. Given wings."

  I nod, eyes wide.

  He drains his glass. "If you come with me, you will be changed. Challenged. But I believe in you, Bryce. I believe in us. If you trust me, if you take my hand, I will lead you through the fire, and you will come out whole. Stronger. You'll understand me better. And - maybe - you'll understand yourself."

  I set the glass down. My hands are shaking. The flute nearly topples, but Jack reaches out smoothly and steadies it.

  "Tell me you trust me. Tell me you trust me completely. Then we'll go."

  Wilkinson's words rise up in my mind: others. Martyr act. Monster. Evil.

  I want to trust him. I want to feel that intimacy. I want to go deeper. I'm tired of thinking. Doubting. Trying to figure things out. I want him to reveal his secret to me so that I can tell him mine, and we can finally be honest with each other.

  "I trust you," I whisper.

  His smile is all the reward I need. "Good. Then let's go."

  Jack takes my hand and leads me out of his apartment. Down the elevator to the underground parking lot where his car is waiting for us, Orlando at the wheel. Jack opens the door for me. I get in. Nervous. Where are we going? What am I letting myself in for? Am I ready? Could I possibly be ready?

  All Jack does is nod to Orlando, who begins driving. We rise up the ramps to the streets. Drive in silence. Jack sits across from me, but leaning back, gazing out the window, a slight frown on his brow, as if he's thinking through a problem.

  I study him, then look out the window as well. We drive for ten minutes, then pull up before a nondescript alley.

  We get out. I'm confused. An alley? Then I see a solitary figure standing before an unmarked door halfway down. A private club?

  Jack takes my hand and leads me down to the door. The bouncer is huge and dressed in a black suit. He nods to Jack and opens the door. Is Jack a regular here? Does he come often? I can't help but think of him leading Jackie Oleander down this alley. Through this door. Wilkinson's words: there are others.

  I shiver as we step into a hallway. It's lit by naked red bulbs. Stark and simple. I can feel the bass beat of music below us. A nightclub? Jack walks ahead of me, leading me by the hand. We reach a black metal staircase opposite a large, dimly lit room. I get a glimpse of a bar, armchairs and chaise longues, bodies moving in intimate ways. A sign over the room's entrance reads PURGATORIO.

  Jack doesn't pause, but leads me down the staircase. It's circular, and my heels ring out on the metal steps. Down we go. Round and round. Finally it opens to a new hallway. This one has rooms opening off it, alcoves with no doors.

  Jack leads me on. I peer into the alcoves. They're too dark to make out much, but what I see frightens me. The gleam of latex. The sinuous undulation of bodies. I hear moans. Whimpers. Sighs.

  The hall opens into a large room. The sign above the door reads INFERNO. The light here is crimson and dim. Shadows rule. We enter, and move to a side table. There's a central island of a bar, with tables all around it. Four poles descend from the ceiling to raised pedestals. On each writhes a person, completely naked but for a collar linked by a chain to the pole. They writhe and dance, erotic and beautiful.

  I try not to gape. To not stare with wide eyes at everybody around me. The music is insistent, the kind of beat that makes you want to move.

  "What is this place?" I ask, leaning in so Jack can hear me.

  I can tell he's aroused. Excited. By our being here? Despite the number of gorgeous young women around us, he only looks at me. He reaches under my chin with both fingers and leans in. Not to kiss me, but to reply.

  "It's called Descent/Ascent."

  I look at the chains connecting the dancers to the poles. The half-naked women who are seated next to the wealthy-looking men. The place seems at once frightening and enticing. Who are these people? What goes on here? Is this what Jack meant by 'his world'? What am I going to learn here?

  "Life is cruel," he continues, voice pitched low, for me alone. "You have to expect to be hurt. Prepare for loss. Master that inevitable pain. Master it, lest it break you. This is where you can learn to do that. Learn to let go. And in letting go, rise above the pain. Take it in, make it a part of you, and grow strong."

  I shiver. "Is that what you're going to show me?"

  Jack takes my hand and kisses the back of it. "Yes. That, and more."

  I swallow. This feels like swimming at night. I'm about to dive into the darkness. About to dive into a realm I know nothing about. With only Jack to guide me.

  I trust him, I tell myself.

  My phone vibrates.

  Shit.

  "One moment," I say. I rise to my feet. Jack nods, leaning back. I rush across the room to a short hall, guessing, and am rewarded by finding the ladies' room. I enter. It's surprisingly clean and elegant. I push into a stall, sit, and get out my phone.

  A text message. From Blake.

  Wilkinson is dead. Your assignment has been canceled. Come back to the office for questioning.

  I can't breathe. Dead? No. No no no.

  I put
my phone away. The world is spinning. Jack's words come back to me: This will never, ever happen again. I promise you.

  Jack killed Wilkinson. Murdered him. I can't believe it, but it's true. My assignment is cancelled. It's over. They have to have evidence convicting Jack. They don't need me any longer.

  It's all over.

  Just as it's beginning.

  I can't believe it, but it's true: Jack's not the good guy I thought he was.

  Wilkinson was right.

  He's a monster.

  JACK

  I wait, enjoying Bryce's absence. Each passing moment serves only to sharpen my hunger. My anticipation.

  There's a room waiting for us below. A well-equipped room. Soundproof, with a lock on the door.

  I'm going to take her down there.

  I'm going to lock that door.

  I'm going to turn to her, and bring her fully into my world.

  She says she trusts me.

  She doesn't know the meaning of the word.

  Not yet.

  But by the time tonight is over, she will.

  <<<<>>>>

  End of Book Three. Book Four is available here.