Oiled hands caress deeper into my taut muscles. She really is talented. Her fingers feel like magic on my back. Gliding and rubbing me in a lavender haze.
This must be the ultimate relaxation everyone talks about. I can’t keep my eyes open. My body finally droops, utterly limp from this version of heaven I've never experienced before. So overwhelming I couldn't lift my limbs even if I wanted to. So I give in, letting her hypnotize me with her powerful strokes, and sink into the blackness engulfing me.
Throbbing.
Throbbing so bad in my arm I can’t breathe.
I can’t suck in any air. My chest won’t expand, smashed against the table. I try to move. Twist around. Lift up. Anything. But tight hands keep me down. Clutching my back. Legs. Arms. Head. Keeping me immobile. Forcing me to lie still despite the agony burning in my bicep.
I’m dazed but the stinging pain forces my eyes open. Blinking through the blurriness. Shoes. So many pairs underneath me. Why are people holding me? Hurting me? Killing me?
“Drake?” No sound. I can’t manage more than whisper. “Please?”
“Oh! I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”
A woman’s voice I don’t recognize shrieks above me. Suddenly, I’m free. Hands gone. Shoes gone. I breathe deep. Too long without oxygen. I’m rolling. Someone’s flipping me over. Supporting my flopping body.
“What the fuck happened?”
Not Drake. Butcher. He’s sitting me up. The crying lady dims from my view as my head lolls forward.
“She f-fell asleep and must have been dreaming. She was thrashing all around on the table. I t-tried waking her up and scratched her arm.”
“Scratch? You fucking ripped her open.”
His powerful fingers wrap around my pulsing muscle. Squeezing too hard. I wince, and his grasp loosens.
“I’m just trying to stop the blood, Mrs. Deveraux.”
The trembling woman offers him a towel. Stepping back as soon as the fabric is yanked from her hands. As if she’s scared of being jerked around next.
“Get someone in here to help her.”
This time he’s gentler, applying soft pressure above the white terrycloth. Slowly blooming scarlet from my gouged skin.
I’m naked in front of my husband’s bodyguard. Drake will be so upset. His wife immodest with one of his men. I try covering myself. Fumbling with the sheet. Swaying from the overwhelming dizziness I can’t seem to snap out of. I don’t even realize I’m plunging forward until Butcher catches me. His hand brushing against my breast. An accident of course. It has to be.
“Damn it! I said get me some fucking help in here!”
His scream blows over my head as I rest against his chest. The racing of his heart pounding under my ear. I’ve never been held like this before by anyone but Drake. Never been so intimate with any other man. I try to wiggle free from his tight grip, but he draws me closer. Keeping me from tumbling further down.
Yes, that must be why he won’t let me go. Not to get in trouble with his boss.
Soft hands run across my skin. Pulling on my dress. Where are my panties? No one seems to know. Women scurrying frantically from Butcher’s commands.
“She must be dehydrated.”
“Did she eat anything?”
“Maybe she’s pregnant?”
My heart clogs in my throat. Yes, that is totally possible. We’ve not been careful. A baby would explain everything. I think. I just can’t seem to make sense of anything with my head hammering so hard and my arm blazing in misery. With all the voices swirling around me. Butcher’s musky cologne stinging my throat. His thick shirt scratching my cheek.
“Can you walk Mrs. Deveraux?”
I don’t know. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to cause so much trouble.”
His arm stays locked around my waist while I slide off the cushion. My knees buckle as soon as my bare feet touch the freezing ceramic. I’m back in his grip, curled against his chest. My head bouncing against his shoulder as he strides out of my private room and down the hall.
“Please wait. I have to tell my mother-in-law. She’ll be wor‒”
A sweaty palm pushes my cheek against the hard buttons lining his jacket. “Shhh. Everything’s fine. Let’s just get you back upstairs.”
I take deep breaths. Trying to calm my racing pulse and churning stomach. I push my eyes open when the elevator dings. Luckily, the car is empty. Butcher steps inside, flanked by my two other guards. They exchange worried looks.
Humiliating me even more that they think I’m some kind of weak, feeble woman. The boss’s fragile wife who can’t even handle a simple massage. My eyes sink shut again despite my best efforts.
I jerk from a door slam, but Butcher's hold doesn't loosen. No idea how we made it into the suite. Scaring me even more that I'm losing track of time. Too helpless to take care of myself.
Butcher settles me against the sofa cushion. I grip the arm rest, unable to hold up my wobbling head.
He squats in front of me, a bottle of sparkling water in his tattooed hand. Droplets slide down the dark blue plastic from him jerking the lid off so brusquely.
“Maybe they're right. Maybe you’re dehydrated.”
Sympathy covers his face. Kind, I think. But maybe not. He was helpful yet so rough. Squeezing me more than he should. Seeing more than Drake would ever allow. I don’t know how I’m going to explain all of this.
I nod. Because I don’t know what else to say. Too ashamed to do anything but accept the rim he holds to my lips and take a small sip.
This time his head bobs. A knowing smile slipping into a sly chuckle. “So fucking sexy, baby girl.”
Sexy? Baby girl?
No. I’m not his. I try to tell him that. To stand up for myself like Drake would want me to. Like I want to. But he drifts in front of me. Floating farther away. Wetness splashes my legs and cracking glass shatters the silence in the room. Sharp pain crushing my head and slicing the tops of my feet from shards piercing the skin. “What are you…?”
“Trinity?”
I’m sliding down. Too groggy to answer. Unable to fight the dark current pulling me under any more.
My shot's worthless. Kind of like this entire fucking afternoon. Unable to focus on anything but getting back to her. Not just because I’m fucking obsessed. Which I fully admit to myself although no one else. But because she seemed so damn uncertain. Hesitant to be swept away with women she doesn’t know for fun she doesn’t really want.
Guilt. That’s what the weird sensation is in my chest. So foreign. But I recognize the emotion enough to know she’s suffering because of me. My stupid ass overwhelming her with my life and my family. Rather than taking my time and letting her get used to everything. Them. Us. Me.
While Dad lines up his putt, I yank out my phone like the pussy whipped motherfucker that I am. Nothing. Not sure if that’s a good sign or not. Fuck me. Unable to resist, I tap the screen.
Are you enjoying yourself?
A bit of the agony in my gut subsides when she reads it. But after a few seconds fire roars through my veins. She doesn’t fucking answer.
Sunshine?
Nothing. God damn fucking shit. She knows better than to fuck with me.
Answer me Trinity.
What the fuck? This is not like her. At all. She’s never petulant. Something’s wrong. Something’s really fucking wrong. Fear unlike I’ve ever experienced slithers through my core, squeezing the oxygen out of my lungs.
I scroll for Butcher.
UPDAY
Fucking shit I’m raging so hard I’m almost fucking blind.
UPDATE NOW
Fucking nothing. Just like her. Except he didn’t even read my text.
I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here and find her. Fuck my clubs. My ball. My game. All I want is my wife. I shove my putter into the back and jump into the cart.
"What the fuck? You're leaving?"
My head shakes from my brother's irritat
ed tone as the bile crawls up throat. "Trinity."
He nods. Well aware no one fucks with us. Or our women. If I'm bailing on our father, then the situation must be fucking dire.
"Let me drive."
Coherent enough to know I'll probably fucking kill anyone who gets in my way, I slide over. Releasing the brake, he shoves the gear into drive and waves to our Dad.
"Come on! We've got to go!"
With a quick head bob, he swipes his ball off the green and jogs toward his bag. Responding instantly to the urgency in Noah's voice. No more explanation needed from his decisive tone.
Other golfers shoot shitty looks at us from speeding down the cart path bypassing the playing order as well as all the rules and proper decorum of this exclusive course. Fuck them and their annoyance. Noah slams the brakes at the pro shop, and I hop out, racing into the hotel. Leaving my shit for the course staff to deal with.
I want Trinity, and I want her fucking now.
The soothing instrumental music in the spa conflicts with my agitation. Blazing even hotter from my mom and sister-in-law arguing with a sobbing woman near the ceiling to floor waterfall covering the back wall.
Mom catches sight of me and gasps. Horror almost as strong as mine blanches her face. "What did she say? Is she okay?"
It takes everything I have not to explode from the blood soaked towel in her hand. "Is that from Trinity?"
Her wide eyes meet mine, and she slowly nods. Fucking confirming that my wife's blood has been shed. That despite all the fucking protection and promises and preparation, my wife has been hurt. Butcher's a fucking dead man. I whisper so I don't scream. "Where is she?"
"Upstairs. Butcher took her to your room."
I tear out of the reception area with Noah and Dad on my heels. Sprinting up the stairs, our spikes pound on the concrete steps. Echoing almost as loud as the adrenaline beating in my ears. She better be all right. She better be fucking fine.
Not a soul in the hallway when we burst onto the top floor. My hand shakes like a fucking pussy ass as I shove the card against the reader. Red lights. Fuck this shit. I toss the plastic to the floor and kick in the god damn door.
Rage steals my sanity. My men sprawl on the floor. Joey with a bullet to the forehead. Nalin's shirt saturated with red. Wetness slushes in the carpet under our shoes, crunching the glass shards sprinkled by the couch.
Bedroom, kitchen, bathroom all fucking empty.
She's not here.
My wife is gone.
Trinity.
I think I'm having a fucking heart attack from the stabbing pain in my chest. Like a fucking mac truck sits on me, squeezing all the damn air from my lungs.
Her rings lay on the dining room table. Brilliant white stones catching the light. Sparkling brighter than stars in a clear night sky against the flawless ebony surface. Bands so tiny they only fit on the tip of my pinkie.
A huge smile graces her exquisite face as she holds out her trembling hand. Her gaze locked with mine as I slide them on her finger and kiss her delicate skin. “Never take them off.”
Her head tilts, confusion furrowing her brow. Love glowing in her gorgeous eyes. “Why would I?”
She trusted me. Believed in my vows to love and protect her. And I fucked up. So fucking bad. Worse than I ever imagined.
I will find her. I will put them back on her finger.
Dad’s hand curls over my shoulder. A reassuring squeeze that does fucking nothing to ease my fury. "He won't hurt her. It's just a ploy to draw you out. We'll play his game, destroy him, and get her back."
Fuck yes we will. We fucking have to. Because I have no other choice. I cannot live without her.
7
Chapter Seven
With my men cleaning the mess upstairs to keep the cops from turning into another fucking problem, I race down the hall and shove open the door marked Security. Passing by the office last night while searching for a place to fuck my beautiful wife. Panic wells up in stomach like I’m a motherfucking pussy. Never imagining that less than twenty-four hours later I would be here. Needing some wanna-be cop's help.
A tall man in a black tee and jeans steps out from the back room. His guarded expression reveals nothing as his gaze roves from me to my father and brother. "What can I help you with Mr. Deveraux?"
Good. He knows who the fuck I am because I don't have the time or the patience to explain myself. "I need to see the video from the past hour. Penthouse to driveway."
"I don't‒"
"Pull up the god damn fucking video!"
He doesn't flinch from the Glock I yank out and ram into his forehead. With his chiseled body and calm demeanor, I'm guessing former military. Must have stared down death before. Maybe he has his own regrets. Right now I don't give a damn. I'm in the position I fucking loathe the most - dependent on another man. Either he helps me or he dies. It's that fucking simple, and we both know it.
His palms flip up. Acquiescing to my threat. A mutual understanding passing between us, and I stand down, allowing him space. He retreats to the room he came from, motioning for me to follow. Tucking my weapon back into my waistband while he navigates the keyboard. Silent and efficient. Which I appreciate on both accounts.
I can’t stop scanning the screens stacked four by six across the wall. Ready to fucking detonate from my sweet sunshine unconscious in that motherfucker’s arms as he carries her inside, trailed by the two dumb asses who let it happen and got what they so fucking deserve.
With a few more clicks, the images speed forward and the door swings open again. Butcher appears to be working alone, exiting our suite with only two gigantic black duffels the size of punching bags swinging from his hands. Relaxed yet focused, he hustles down the hall, bypassing the elevator to emerge from the stairwell into the bustling lobby. Side-stepping an overloaded bellhop cart and a group of women, surrounding a tour guide pointing to the tin ceiling, to glide through the glass doors. Looking side to side before jogging up to a white sedan parked twenty feet from the entrance. He casually tosses one sack inside the opened trunk before slamming down the lid.
The other one he sets gingerly on the back seat. Pushing the fabric firmly against the cushion to keep the duffel from tipping over.
Motherfucker.
Ire like I’ve never felt blasts through me. My beautiful, sweet, delicate wife is in that god damn fucking bag. Trinity’s waif-like body crammed into a nylon sack like fucking dirty clothes. “That son of a bitch.”
“I guess you got what you need.” The security guard spins around in his chair. Smart enough not to ask questions I won’t answer. “My visual coverage of the property ends about two hundred yards past the entrance gates on both sides. You’ll have to get your own team to track him after that.”
I nod. Well aware what needs to be done. Long, slow torture before I kill that motherfucking bastard.
“I hope you find her and she’s okay.”
Me too. Because that’s the only thing that will keep me from going fucking insane.
"The car was tracked to a parking garage where it was abandoned. We're sweeping it now, and they're doing high resolution scanning and thermal imaging on the videos of each exiting vehicle. Once they ID them, we'll be able to start tracing their route again."
My chin lifts in response to my captain's update. Too fucking frustrated to actually bother speaking. Lots of explanation that doesn't mean jack shit. Meaningless words until she comes back.
My office's been turned into a war room. Which is exactly what this is. War. Some arrogant bastard thinks he wants a fight. I will take on any family - every family – that’s been fucking stupid enough to be involved with Trinity's disappearance. We've been at peace for so damn long, I got fucking complacent. Assuming no one would strike. Believing no one is fucking foolish enough to challenge us. I mean hell we're the motherfucking Deverauxs for fuck’s sake. We’ve ruled this fucking city for more than a hundred years, and they sure as hell aren't going to overtake us now.
Whoever has the balls enough to infiltrate my team and turn Butcher against me will pay. With his life and everyone he loves. Normally, I only fuck back with the man who crosses me. But right now, with my wife missing, nothing's off the table. His father, brothers, cousins, in-laws. One by one they will die until I get her back.
All the muttering quiets down as Leanna brings in more sandwiches. Well aware the difference between what’s legit and what’s dirty in my business, but she doesn’t need to be exposed to all the harsh details. Besides I can’t fucking stand the fear lining her face. Matching my Mom and Trish’s. All of them terrified it might be too late. That our efforts are in vain. Which I refuse to acknowledge.
“I’ll get more drinks too.”
“That’s fine. They can get‒”
The buzzing on my desk steals my attention. Please fucking god let the text be from Trinity.
I guess you got my message.
Fucking Senator. I don’t give a fuck about his bullshit. Those contracts are the least of my fucking worries. I start to toss my phone on my desk when it vibrates again.
Keep our agreement and you’ll get back what’s yours.
God damn son of fucking bitch. This stupid motherfucker has Trinity.
I almost laugh with relief. This privileged, prep school mamma’s boy has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. Who the fuck he’s messing with. I’ll have her back within the hour. Make sure she’s safe and sound, and then I’ll cut off his dick and shove it so far up his ass he’ll think it’s his tongue.
I’m on my way.
An energetic vibe pulses in the air. It’s been a long time since we’ve attacked, and the guys are hungry for a good massacre. Most of them are sick fuckers who get off on the heady blend of fear, piss, and blood. They also know they’ll be rewarded handsomely afterward with all the booze, cash, and women they want. “Kill anyone who resists, except for McAdams. That bastard is mine.”
Grunts and head bobs of agreement. Anxious to just get going. Only two last details needed before we strike. My cell buzzes with the confirmation.
On the Rocks: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 6