by Skye Warren
I glance back. Liam stands at the edge of the water. A white dress shirt molds to his muscular frame, pushed by the wind into the dips between muscle. Black dress pants. Dress shoes, incongruous on a beach. There’s no impatience in his frame. No movement. He might as well be made of stone, waiting for years for me to come back from sea, the personification of Penelope. Which would make me Odysseus, traveling for ages before I could finally come home.
You are my mother. I need you.
No.
I’m getting married today to a man I love. He’s my anchor in the world. It’s not right that I didn’t have you as my anchor. It’s not right that you left. I spent so many years looking for you, not in real places, in emotional places, in tender, heart-dark places. Liam has been waiting for me.
Yes. Finally, yes.
He waited for me to grow up. He waited for me to need him—not as a child but as a woman.
He’s waiting for me now.
A wave crashes against my shins. I walk back toward the shore. Undercurrent wraps around my toes, urging me back into the water, but I don’t want to go that way. Choices, choices. Green eyes glint in the bright sun. This is the home I choose. The family I found. This man.
He holds out his hand. “Ready?”
Emotion tightens my throat. It pricks my eyes. I take his hand without a word. He seems to know the feelings running through me. Shadows and light. Dark striations in a malachite gaze. I reach to cup his jaw. It’s only six o’clock, but he already has a light scratch of hair. I stroke it, gently, against the grain, reveling in its sandpaper texture. “I’m ready.”
His nostrils flare. There are more than words passing between us. There are animal instincts. Are you my mate? Yes, yes, yes. The low gravel of his voice rolls over my skin. “If you keep looking at me like that, there isn’t going to be a ceremony.”
An officiant waits beneath a driftwood arch. White silk and white roses hang down in artful flourish. Everything appeared with startling ease. The private resort does one wedding a day. They didn’t appreciate having to clear their schedule for two weeks. Liam made it worth their while.
I lift up to press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”
He frowns. Gratitude still bothers him. I plan to shower him with it. Exposure therapy. Endless gratitude until it hurts less than torture, at least slightly. “You know you can have a different wedding. Another wedding. We can call Josh and—”
“That would be silly. Josh can’t give me away.”
“Elijah, then.”
“He’s almost my age.”
“Frans offered. He also said we could use the chateau.”
“Oh gosh, no. That would be a circus. Besides, it wouldn’t change this moment. None of them can give me away. None of them own me.” I brush my thumb over his lips. He has to bend down for me to reach him this way. I could pull with all my strength. It would be like tugging at the moon. He moves because he wants to, my own personal tide. “You own me.”
“So I should walk you down the aisle—like a father.”
“And you should marry me when we get to the end, like my lover.”
He opens his mouth. Before I can move my hand away, he has my forefinger between his teeth. Biting down. Sucking gently. It’s a warning and a privilege. “I should take you right here, push you on the sand, spread your legs apart, fuck you while the water swells around you.”
My breath catches. “What would the priest think?”
“He would be jealous, of course. Any man would be. You look like a goddess in that dress, rising from the sea. You look untouchable. Moonlight. I wouldn’t fuck you like a goddess, though. Flesh and blood. Coming around my cock, your sex wet as the ocean around us.”
“Liam,” I whisper, urgent as I press my legs together.
I lean against him, my palms rubbing up his shirt. He’s been strict about sleeping in his own room since we got to the resort. I chose the location and the flowers and the cake. He chose this. “You haven’t been touching yourself, have you, little prodigy?”
My cheeks flame. “I’m sorry.”
“I might have to punish you for that.”
If I’m going to be punished anyway, I may as well explore him like I want to. My hand drifts down over the ridges of his abdomen. Over the flat plane. And the iron-hard bulge beneath his dress slacks. He grunts. That’s his only reaction. No part of his body moves, even as I explore the shape of him through black wool. “Have you been touching yourself?”
“Of course. Every night I’m hard and hurting for you. Thinking of how pink you look, how sweet. I have to fuck my fist for relief, but that only makes it worse.”
My heart thuds against my ribs. I’m feverish. “Then maybe I should punish you.”
“You already do, little prodigy. Your beauty is my punishment. Your strength. It hurts enough that any sane man would have looked away.” He gazes at me with unflinching honesty. “I love you, Samantha. For what it’s worth, it’s yours. Everything I have.”
I press a kiss to his chest. Salt mixes with man. It fills my lungs. “Everything you have. Before the tour, before I left Kingston, before I grew into a woman, I might not have understood. I have your heart, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? I have your guilt and your desire and your hope.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Everything.”
“Do I have your forgiveness, too?”
“What?”
“Will you forgive me for the well?” I don’t bother to specify which well. The well beneath the Palais Garnier. The well in his hellish childhood. Mostly I mean the well that lives inside his mind, the place he’s kept himself for so many years. A mental prison—and also, perversely, a place to stay safe. Something recognizable. The opposite of the well isn’t dry land. The water isn’t the enemy. It’s the endless expanse of the ocean. That’s the opposite. Freedom instead of confinement.
Forgiveness instead of an eternity locked in the darkest place.
His expression turns hard. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Then forgive yourself for the well, Liam. You did nothing wrong either.”
He searches my eyes. “You’re determined to heal me.”
“I love you.”
“How can you be so sure I’m wounded?”
He’s always been this way, stoic so other predators wouldn’t sense his weakness, hiding a mortal wound beneath layers of muscle and fur and willpower. “Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re so determined to protect me? It wasn’t only because of responsibility or guilt. Not even only because of love. You were determined to protect me from the same hell you experienced.”
“I thought I deserved it,” he says, his voice breaking. “Even my brothers, even when I stood up for them, it seemed like we belonged in hell. Only when I saw you did I understand the horror of it. Only then did I know I’d die before letting you feel pain.”
Breath expands my lungs. I’m bursting with gratitude and affection. And love. “There’s no such thing as life without pain. It would mean there’s no pleasure, either. You were Don Quixote, tilting at the windmills of an unattainable ideal. Complete happiness.”
“Do you think I’ll apologize for that? I’ll drag heaven down for you.”
Of course he would. He already has. It’s not the brilliant blue water or the fine-grained white sand that makes paradise. It’s the deep green of his eyes. I can drag heaven down for him, too, once we’re alone. I know how. There’s more to learn, but he lets me explore his body—and he doesn’t hide his reactions. I can hear every intake of breath and every groan. At least until three days ago. “Forget the flowers. Forget the cake. Let’s go back to the room.”
A muscle works in his jaw. Restraint. “Not until we’re married.”
He offers his arm. There’s a wealth of meaning in that one gesture—the promise of protection, of loyalty. The promise of forever. I rest my hand on his forearm, feeling the solidity of him, the warmth.
We walk down the beach in a
straight line. It’s a route not marked on any map. It’s a path we make together, the notes written on the sand beneath our feet, the flourish added with the wind-whipped silk hem of my dress.
Liam walks me down the coastal aisle like a father would his daughter. Even his hand that rests on mine, holding me in place, reassuring me, carries the weight of guardianship. Only when we reach the end does he turn to face me. We stand both equal and opposite, a note and its counterpoint—a man and a woman claiming our place side by side.
* * *
Thank you for reading SONATA! I hope you absolutely loved Liam and Samantha’s emotional and scorching story. You can read Josh and Bethany’s emotional and incredibly sexy story… One click AUDITION right now!
And now the third and final North brother, Elijah, has a book…
I’m stepping off a nine-hour flight when it happens. A white van. A dark hood. Every woman’s worst nightmare. Now I’m trapped in an abandoned church. The man who took me says I won’t be hurt. The man in the cell next to me says that’s a lie. I’ll fight with every ounce of strength, but there are secrets in these walls. I’ll need every single one of them to survive.
READ DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH NOW >
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Excerpt from DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH
The airport feels sleepy, heavy shades drooping over dark windows. Workers push large floor cleaners across a floor that’s lost its gloss. Every other restaurant has bars over its entrance. Closed. Good thing I’m not hungry.
It’s four a.m. The embassy opens in a few hours.
A lone suitcase circles the conveyor belt. A family with two children appear with a large stuffed elephant that probably needed its own seat. A selection of individual men and women, probably business travelers. A couple who are leaning on each other. Honeymoon? We’re all too exhausted to do anything more than stare straight ahead.
The man from the plane doesn’t show up. Charles Bisset. I don’t know whether I’m disappointed not to see him again. He would have made small talk, and I hate small talk.
Except when it’s with handsome strangers, apparently.
Then even talking about the weather would make a little fire pitch inside my stomach.
He probably only brought a carry on. Except he hadn’t pulled one down from the overhead bins. He’d only had a leather briefcase. Strange, even for someone traveling light.
A loud buzzing sound heralds the arrival of our luggage. They slide down the chute, stacking on each other in clumps like a poorly played game of Tetris. After a full revolution of the carousel, my purple bag appears. I grasp it and pull, almost falling backwards.
Signs lead the way through customs and border control. I’m snapped at in rapid French for not checking the right box on the form. And then I’m finally free to find the exit. A big blue sign proclaims TAXI. I pull my luggage along the rubbery floor, eager for a breath of fresh air. A block of exhaust envelopes me. The crowd of people shout and wave their arms, a stark contrast to the languor inside the airport. These aren’t travelers. That registers first. They don’t have luggage. They’re wearing jackets and holding signs. Protestors. Something about Uber. A row of yellow and black taxis don’t appear to be moving. A group of men surround a black Escalade, pushing, pushing, and I let out a shriek that no one hears. A window breaks, and they cheer.
“They’re on strike,” comes a low voice behind me, and I gasp. Charles gives me an apologetic smile. “The taxi drivers. Only a matter of time before they get violent.”
I watch them rock the Expedition back and forth on its wheels. “That’s not violent?”
“More violent,” he amends. “It’ll be hell getting out of here”
Anxiety grips my chest. “What should I do?”
He pauses, seeming almost embarrassed. “You could get a train. Or… look, I hesitate to say this. I don’t want you to think I’m hitting on you. Again, that is. But I have a towncar waiting. One fo those things you schedule before the trip. They wait in a different lane than taxis.”
Relief is a steaming cup of coffee on a terrible morning. “God, that sounds—no, I couldn’t. I mean it sounds wonderful, but I couldn’t inconvenience you that way.”
He nods, once. Then turns, as if to walk away. Then looks back. “Where are you going? It might be on the way to where I’m going. Maybe.”
Hope sparks inside me. “The embassy. The American embassy.”
A pause. He rubs a large palm across his jaw, and I can hear the scrape of his growth from here. “I believe that’s in central Paris. Where I’m heading. Listen, are you in some kind of trouble? We could look for a cop around here. I’m sure we can find one.”
That’s what decides me, that genuine note of concern in his voice. “No, I’m not in trouble. It’s my sister. She’s been missing a week already. I have to go to the embassy.”
His brown eyes soften. “I can get you to central Paris. Then you can grab a cab.”
“Thank you. God.” A stone smashes a window. “So much.”
He takes the handle of my suitcase before I can object. Then he’s wheeling it over a bumpy sidewalk crossing. I struggle to keep up with his long strides. We round a corner, and everything becomes suddenly quiet. It’s almost eerie, the way sound doesn’t travel around this building. As if the riot a few yards away was a dream.
There’s not a neat row of black towncars. There’s only a lonely road. And a dumpster.
I do a little skip to eat up the pavement. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
“I’m sure,” he calls back, not slowing for an instant.
Nervous energy hits my body like I’ve run into a wall. Sparks in my ches. A thud at the base of my skull. I suck in air through a straw. I can’t trust him, this Charles Bisset. That might not even be his name. My step falters, but he has my suitcase. All my things. My clothes. Pictures of my sister. Her birth certificate. What if I take it from him? What if I rip it out of his hand and run back to the cabs? Part of me feels ridiculous for even thinking it. He’s done nothing wrong. All he did was walk fast. That’s not a crime. Twenty four years of social conditioning tell me to act normal. Act nice. The persistent rat-tat-tat of my heart warns me that something is wrong.
“Excuse me? Mr. Bisset. Charles. Wait.”
He doesn’t wait. He just keeps walking, and that’s when I know, when I know, that I’m in trouble. I stop mid-step. I need what’s in the suitcase. How can I make my way in a foreign city without clothes? But I can’t follow this man into—where? I take a step back.
The screech of a tire snaps me to attention. A white van bumps onto the curb. The man inside wears a black ski mask. Time slows to a crawl. Gravel sprays from the thick black tires. The protestors dim to a low roar. They won’t hear me if I scream. I turn toward Charles, as if he might protect me. And for a moment, he does. He pulls me close to him, shielding me. He murmurs in my ear, “Don’t fight, mon cherie. It will only make this harder for you.”’
My eyes widen. Then something black and thick covers my head. Hands drag me toward the van, and I fight, blind and in shock, lashing out at nothing before my arms are caught behind my back. Then I’m shoved roughly into something in motion. Something hard hits my face. The floor. I’m slammed to the side. A sharp pain behind my head. And then darkness.
* * *
My eyes open to pitch black.
I wait for my bedroom to come into focus. Nothing happens. This is the complete kind of darkness, the kind without even shadows. My lungs burn, as if I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp down damp and moldy air. I curl my fingers against stone. Faintly slick. Biting cold.
Where am I?
Memories drop into my mind like rain in a puddle. I remember the long flight and fear for my sister.
I remember the man with the movie star smile.
A shudder works its way through my body, lingering in aches and bruises, waking up pain as it goes. I move myself to a sitting position with a soft groan. The floor feels slightly uneven, almost like a natural rock formation. A cave or something.
I crawl forward. Something hard meets my face. My fists close around iron bars.
Not completely natural, then.
Charles Bisset. Shar-el. Why did he take me? Because I’m a tourist? Maybe he thought I’d have money. That’s no reason to take me, only my bags.
Or maybe he recognized me as the famous children’s book author. Except that the only person who could pay ransom is my sister, and she’s missing.
There’s no other reason he would take me.
Isn’t there? The soft voice inside my head knows exactly why a man would take a woman. He asked me out, didn’t he? He asked to show me around the city. I said no.
He doesn’t take rejection well.
The darkness closes in on me, it becomes a tactile force, squeezing my lungs. I don’t want to stay here, in this pitch black prison. I can’t stay here. There’s no oxygen. I gasp through the fist around my throat. I’m going to die here, before Charles can even touch me, and that seems almost like a gift, except that the body fights anyway. It wants to live.
“Easy,” comes a voice from the inky void. I choke on air. “Easy there,” he says again.
“Charles,” I gasp out. It’s twisted that I’d actually be relieved to have him here. Anything is better than being alone right now. Even the presence of my captor.
There’s quiet.
I’m not alone in the dark, though. My fists curl around iron. “Answer me.”
“I’m not Charles.” And he’s not. He’s missing the fluid accent. He says the name the American way, with harsh syllables. His voice is completely different—lower, more blunt, gravelly like the broken concrete underneath me.
“Who are you?” Was he the driver of the van? Or someone else?