by Skye Warren
My heart pounds as I take a step closer.
Close enough to push the door open…
I sit up in bed, gasping. Only a dream. Another dream just like all the others. And it always ends before I see Mama in the bathtub, floating in a pool of pink water, eyes open and still. It’s a blessing that it stops before then, but also a curse. I can’t move past what I can’t even see.
My bladder is heavy, which means I’ll have to find a bathroom, sooner rather than later.
There are only a few seconds of deliberation—what if he’s out there? What if he’s not? The body doesn’t have much patience. It could be two hours since I turned off the lamp—or twenty. There are no windows, not even a small one like in my room at the Emerald. My room there overlooks the delivery alley, the steady stream of bakers and farmers and laundry trucks a comfort I don’t have now.
I push open the door to a room that’s quiet… except for a faint snore.
It’s almost sweet, that snore. It makes him seem more human.
The room is too dark to see him clearly, but I can tell he’s in the bed. Light frames the curtains, saying we’ve reached tomorrow already. I use the bathroom and brush my teeth, things that might seem mundane if I didn’t see Damon Scott’s razor right beside the sink. Completely ordinary if I weren’t in a bathroom made of marble—white stone with large cool pieces and deep gold striations.
When I step back into the dark bedroom, I know that I should go back to my little closet-room. I should sit down at the desk and keep working on the code. Or maybe I should walk out the door, escape while I can. Am I a prisoner? He’s asleep right now, his large body still on the much larger bed. Now would be the time to leave. I have the code memorized. That happened approximately two seconds after seeing the paper. I could continue to work on it from a motel I can’t really afford.
Instead I find myself taking a step closer to the bed. Watching the shadows until I catch the rhythm of his breathing—and realize I’m looking at muscled abs on a naked torso. God.
As my eyes adjust, I confirm he’s not wearing his shirt, his broad chest and strong arms bare. Dark lashes rest against his cheeks, which seems to conceal him more than a three-piece suit ever could. My gaze drifts lower, to where the sheet doesn’t quite reach his hips.
He’s not wearing anything at all.
My cheeks turn hot with the realization. He’s naked right now.
“Like what you see?” he says, his voice startling in the dark.
I shiver, darting my gaze to meet his. “No.”
It’s an instinctive denial—more to being caught than what he looks like. No, I wasn’t— His low laugh rushes along the darkness, raising goose bumps on my arms. He doesn’t look offended. He looks challenged, which is so much worse. “Come here.”
“No,” I repeat, but this time there’s a tremor in my voice.
“Be a good little servant girl,” he says, his voice low.
The word shivers through me, a tactile vibration. Servant girl. It’s like he found my deepest fear, an ancient emotional bruise, and pressed on it—and perversely, so perversely, it feels good.
“That’s who the room is for,” he says. “But I’m sure you figured that out. You’ve always been too clever. Too fucking clever, and look where it gets you. Nowhere.”
I shudder. “I’m not touching you.”
He throws his head back in a laugh so reckless, so pure I’m almost jealous. What must it feel like, to be that carefree, that confident? “I haven’t gotten to that part yet. You’re reading ahead.”
“I’m not having sex with you, either.”
“Come here.”
I take a step closer, hating myself, fearing myself. Who is this creature who obeys Damon Scott? I’m afraid of him—not what he’ll make me do, but that he’ll make me like it.
“A little closer,” he says, coaxing. “I’m not going to hurt you. Or would you like that?”
Somehow I’m at the end of the bed, the fronts of my thighs pressed against the thick mattress. I’ve given up all the space between us, all the distance. But I won’t give in without a fight. “Maybe you’d like that. Maybe it runs in the family.”
He doesn’t flinch, but I feel his recoil in the air. “Is that what you think?”
He’d rip my heart to shreds with that half smile on his handsome face. He would destroy any chance I ever had for a normal life with a regal incline of his head. He was right to put me in that little servant room. That’s all the power I have here. Anything else is only a dream.
“You know what? There were a hundred beautiful women here last night. Summon one of them to your bed if you need entertainment. Because it won’t be me.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s a relief that he lets me work the rest of the morning, my hands and mind plying furiously on the puzzle at hand. A relief that I can immerse myself in a land of numbers—free from pain and worry and guilt. A knock comes at midday. My heart thuds double-time as I stare at the plain white door.
A tray sits just outside my small room, no one in sight. Did Damon bring this to me? That would make him the servant, not me. No, it must have been someone who works for him. Someone who prepared this roast beef sandwich and fresh potato salad.
Someone who prepared my tea sweet, exactly how I like it.
Instead of eating, I step into the upstairs hallway, listening for footsteps. None.
Only when I’m halfway down the wide staircase can I hear voices. One male. One female. Maybe he did call one of the women from last night. My chest burns with unbidden jealousy. So what if he has sex with someone else? He could have sex with a million women—and he probably has.
“She’s my sister,” a low voice says. Damon. “I have a right to know.”
“And you’re being informed.”
“Days after she’s gone.”
The woman seems unafraid of his low tone. “We all know you only found out about the sibling relationship recently. And you weren’t exactly close.”
“We might have been closer if Gabriel didn’t tell her terrible things about me.”
“Are you saying he lied?”
“Of course not,” Damon says, his voice light. “I’m a monster. An animal with sharp claws and no cage whatsoever. Isn’t that right, Penny?”
I startle in the shadows of the lower step, ashamed that he caught me listening. In two steps I’m standing in the dining room, where Damon faces off with a beautiful young woman in a business suit. Her dark hair falls straight past her shoulders. Her ebony eyes glitter with challenge.
Two cups of coffee are between them, the scent potent.
Whether they’re weapons or shields, I’m not sure.
“He’s worried about her,” I say because it’s true. They can argue about whether Damon Scott is a good man or a bad man, but I know he cares what happens to Avery.
The woman doesn’t turn her head when she addresses me. “Pack your things.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Damon says.
“We have reason to believe she’s being held against her will.”
Damon barks a laugh. “A spy? How much does Gabriel pay him to take it up the ass?”
Someone here last night reported to Gabriel? Is that why this woman came—to rescue me? If she’s the white knight, that casts Damon Scott as the dragon. An appropriate metaphor considering he looks ready to breathe fire. It occurs to me that the more he laughs, the more furious he is.
“I don’t want to leave,” I say quickly, trying to avert disaster.
“Don’t be afraid,” the woman says, sounding imperious. “He can’t touch you.”
Damon’s dark eyes flash. “I can do whatever I want to her, but that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to someone who tries to take her away from me. That includes you, Nina.”
Nina opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it. “I said I don’t want to leave. This is my life, and I make the decisions for me. I’m not going anywhere until Aver
y is found. I’m not going anywhere until I solve the cipher.”
A clink of silver on china as Nina drops her spoon into the cup.
Too late I realize she doesn’t know about the code.
Sometimes I pretend that people walk around with numbers flashing above their heads—the number of words they say a minute, the amount of money they make a month. The percentage of time they lie when they open their mouths. It helps me get through the world, surrounded by unknowns.
The number above Damon Scott’s head is a four, the place where all numbers converge. He gives a resigned sigh. “There was a note sent to me the night Avery disappeared.”
Nina sucks in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“How would I have known?” he asks, his voice lethal in its softness. “I had no idea what it was about until Penny showed up last night. Even now I’m not certain it’s related.”
“Let me see it,” she says.
He looks ready to refuse, but I’m not going to hold back something that could help Avery. “I’ll show it to you, and what I’ve tried so far.”
Damon stands with Nina in old-world courtesy, but he makes no move to follow us upstairs. I hesitate, uncertain whether I should let someone invade his space—especially without him being present.
He gives me a wry smile. “Go on upstairs. Show her whatever you want, Penny. But when she leaves, she leaves the note here. She leaves you, too.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nina studies my work with a sharp eye. Her questions are smart and methodical. “Do you have a background in mathematics?” I ask, almost too eager to find a colleague.
“Computer science,” she says. “We need to get this plugged into some decryption algorithms as soon as possible. A brute force attack by hand would take forever.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say, and I mean that.
Nina’s eyebrows rise. “But?”
“No, I mean it is a good idea.” Sometimes people write their computer passwords on paper. It could be a lot of different electronic things. But I have a feeling it isn’t. A feeling isn’t logic. It isn’t anything I can verify or back up, but it’s there nonetheless. “The medium. It could be part of the message.”
“Telling us what?”
“How to decode it,” I say, unable to say more. Strangely unwilling.
“Is this her handwriting?” she asks, sounding dubious.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Is Gabriel still at the Emerald? We can ask for a sample.”
“We can do a lot more than that. We can get a handwriting expert. He has a lot of resources, and he’s willing to use every last one to find her.” She reaches for the note, and I pull it back in time. “It will help to have the original.”
“Not if you’re going to plug the numbers into a computer. Handwriting analysis can work off the picture, too.”
She smiles. “Are you on Damon’s side?”
“I’m on whatever side gets Avery back safely,” I say in total honesty.
Her expression reveals nothing. She would be brilliant at poker, if she played. And that’s exactly what she’s doing—playing a game, this one with far higher stakes than clay chips on green velvet. “Are you in Damon’s bed?”
Nina hadn’t blinked when I showed her into Damon’s bedroom—or when I continued into the small closet-room where we’re standing now. She had eyes only for the cipher.
I wave a hand, a little relieved that the sleeping arrangements are apparent. Mostly embarrassed that this is where he put me. “I have my own bed.”
“That doesn’t mean you won’t join him.”
My cheeks heat, memories of Damon’s strong body flush in my mind. From the outside he seems lean, but without the cover of his suit I could see ropes of muscle and layers of scars that speak to merciless strength. I could see the endless lines of ink etched into him. Monsters with only one eye. A wild woman with snakes for hair. And waves for miles of muscle.
“I won’t.”
A smile curves her lips, making her look like a dark-skinned Mona Lisa. “I wouldn’t judge you. There are plenty of women who’ve wanted him over the years. Plenty who’ve tried to get where you are.”
My tongue feels thick. “In a servant’s room?”
“Any way they can get him, I suppose. If you’re into that kind of thing.”
I blink, uncertain whether she’s talking about the man or the servitude. “What kind of thing?”
“Ownership.”
The line between me and my composure is made of steel, a long taut string. It snaps with an almost audible creak. I lean back in the small wooden chair, whiplash making it hard to speak. “He doesn’t own me.”
“Right,” she says, turning back to the cipher. “I’ll take high-resolution pictures of the code, plus your work—if you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I manage. “If it will help.”
I set the note down directly under the lamp, studying the random assortment of letters and numbers along with her. Something about the sight of them stirs a memory, but I can’t bring it to the surface.
Nina uses her phone to take multiple pictures of the note, making sure each one uploads completely. Then she snaps quicker images of my work product—mostly my handwriting scribbled down with intermittent question marks.
“Gabriel’s going to find her,” I say, trying to convince myself more than her.
“Of course he is,” she says, a little sadly, and I realize that she means dead or alive.
She turns to leave and pauses at the door. “You know, before? I didn’t only mean that he would own you. It could be that he’s been waiting for someone strong enough to own him.”
My laugh bursts out of me, a strange relief after the pressure of the last week. “No way.”
Her smile is indulgent. “Are you sure?”
“He definitely thinks he owns me.” Because he bought me. He won me, but that’s not something I’m going to explain to her. If she works for Gabriel Miller, then she might already know. It’s strange to talk about something so personal with a stranger, but in some ways that’s the only kind of person I could share this with. It would be too humiliating to dissect with someone I know. “Look where he put me. I can’t even leave my room without going through him.”
Which puts a much more sinister slant on my stay here. I insisted that I wanted to stay before, and it’s true. What happens when I want to leave? Will he let me?
“Yes, but look at the way he protects you.”
My eyebrows lower, because I hadn’t realized I was in danger. “What do you mean?”
She looks at my little bed, the plain desk. “This room. It doesn’t only keep you inside. It keeps everyone else out. They’d have to go through him to get to you.”
I swallow hard, realizing that she’s telling the truth. It’s a place of both shame and honor. Which one did Damon Scott intend? Maybe both, because he’s nothing if not perverse.
It’s been strange not having the nightmares, as if Damon’s presence outside my room keeps them away. I feel almost guilty about that, as if I should be more messed up over Avery’s disappearance. Like I should have terrible dreams every night. I’ve put my whole life on hold looking for her, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m not sure anything would.
“No one’s trying to get to me,” I say, but it comes out as a question.
“Right,” she says. “The Den is the safest place in the city. And this room is the safest place inside.”
The words are meant to be reassuring, but a small seedling of uncertainty plants itself in my stomach. The safest place. I repeat the words, wondering why I don’t find comfort. Maybe because the safer I need to be, the more I’m afraid of the invisible threats that made it this way.
Chapter Fifteen
A growl breaks through the silence, making me startle in bed. My gaze flies to the silver bell on the bed, but it’s still and silent. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
It fills the air,
a sense of dread. The sound of an animal in pain.
I step out of bed and open the door, only one centimeter. Only enough to see the shadowed expanse of bed, the large figure writhing on it. It strikes me then, that I haven’t had a nightmare since I first slept in this room. It’s someone else’s nightmare now. I should pretend I don’t hear. I think that’s what he would want me to do, but I can’t leave him like this.
Flashes of bare skin and dark ink. Muscles straining.
A growl low enough to rumble beneath my feet.
“Damon?”
Self-assured. Smooth. That’s how Damon Scott looks every other second, wearing his three-piece suits and that devastating smile. Even yesterday morning, his muscled body reclining in bed, he was the epitome of strength and masculinity.
Only now he’s covered in a sheen of sweat, ropes of scar tissue standing in stark relief to his flushed skin. He throws his head back on the pillow, his mouth in a grimace, teeth glinting.
He looks like a wild animal. He sounds like one, both menacing and afraid at once.
I’m trembling as I move a step closer. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s dangerous like this, dangerous always, but his pain calls to me. It’s too much like my own.
I reach for him in the dark.
His skin feels clammy. Muscles twitch beneath my touch.
He moves in a blur of flesh and fury. A hard pull on my wrist. A heavy weight on my body. The bed is somehow at my back. I’m staring up into eyes so black they seem limitless. The city sky without a single star in sight. His lips are pulled back, chest heaving.
The bar of his arm presses against my throat.
I suck in a breath, but there’s not much room. Panic clenches around my stomach, making it hard to breathe. Between his body bearing down on me and his forearm on my windpipe, I don’t have very long. Dark spots dance in front of my eyes. Struggle burns through me, desperate, desolate.