by T. L. Martin
I can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Felix. Encrypted files. Tapping someone’s lines. Peeling his fucking skin. A shiver runs through me every time Adam’s deep voice repeats that softly in my mind, and I wish it was cold instead of warm.
I’ve been letting my guard down. Thinking maybe my sister really did leave on her own accord and just needs some time alone. It’s not such a far stretch now that I’m here. Now that I’ve seen the women are willing. Now that I’ve experienced the strange and magnetic appeal of this world. Or as Aubrey called it: The Matthews Effect.
But the fact is: I still know next to nothing about these brothers.
About Adam.
I look sideways at him, openly staring. He doesn’t glance at me as he continues walking down the hall, but his fingers dig into my waist, like he feels me watching him. His warmth sinks through my dress and melts my skin. Facing forward again, I don’t think before I’m placing my palm over his hand and entwining my fingers in his. He stiffens but doesn’t move away.
When he opens the door to the basement and leads me down the stairs, my stomach tightens into a million knots. He’s never let me in this part of the house. I dart my eyes toward him, but it’s too dark to get a read.
He takes us to the second room. Lingering in the doorway, I release his hand and let him pass me. He flicks his gaze in my direction, but he doesn’t say anything or make me enter. Instead he moves toward an empty metal table near the column. His face is hard, but his posture is relaxed. Comfortable enough to suggest he’s down here often.
My feet are glued to the threshold.
Butterflies swirl in my stomach and my palms are clammy, which only confuses me more. I wish I knew if these reactions were from excitement or fear. It shouldn’t be the first one. Not when I know Frankie was here. What would she have done if she stumbled upon that tray? If she’d seen half the things I have?
Adam reaches under the table and pulls open a hidden compartment beneath. After removing a silver tray, he sets it on the table’s surface and closes the compartment.
Something twists inside my gut every time my eyes shift to him. I’ve shown him things no one else has seen. Offered him the darkest parts of me. It feels unnatural hiding anything from him now.
I fold my arms over my chest, glancing away. “Adam . . .”
He looks over his shoulder and cocks a brow.
When I stay quiet, he turns back to the tray and adjusts the items lined on top. I can only see his side profile, and his back blocks most of the tray, but I don’t have to step closer to know what’s displayed in front of him.
“Is there something you want to say?” A corner of his lips twitches, but he stays focused on the task at hand—whatever that is exactly.
I close my eyes, willing the words on my mind to escape. Despite everything I’ve seen, it feels hurtful and bitter to ask him what I need to. I don’t know what it would do to him. If it would break some unspoken trust between us.
But then I think of Frankie, and I have to. Every second spent with Adam pulls me deeper into the addictive vortex between us, and Frankie slips further away.
A rattling sound snaps my eyes open. Adam is withdrawing a thick chain from the compartment below the table. A chain not unlike the one Raife used to tie me to the chandelier.
He drags it toward the column, his movements strong, full of purpose, and I clear my throat, finding my voice.
“Adam. Would you ever—have you ever—” I swallow. Why is this so hard? Opening my mouth again, I push the words off my tongue. “Have you or your brothers ever seriously hurt any of the secretaries?”
He halts, bent forward with the chain in his grip. He tilts his chin toward me, but not enough to meet my gaze.
“I mean, to the point lines are being crossed? To an extreme?” I know what Raife and Griff have done to me, the horrible way it’s made me feel, but I haven’t seen any of the other women here treated the same. At least not to the point they disliked what they were doing. Could the same be said for everyone, though?
The chain drops with a thunk, then Adam is stalking toward me. He stops when he’s so close I have to lift my chin to see him. His narrowed gaze darts across my face, and my heart falters.
He cocks his head to one side, his eyes dropping to my scarf, and my bruises feel electric under his scrutiny. When he inches closer and dips his chin, my pulse picks up as our lips almost brush. I inhale his masculine scent like a shameless addict.
“You tell me, Emmy. Was I extreme enough for you last night?”
This. This is my problem. I can’t think straight when I’m with him. He makes me never want to think straight again.
When I lick my lips, his gaze follows my tongue. “That’s not what I meant.”
I start to look away, but he grips my chin with his finger and thumb.
“Then explain, Emmy,” he growls quietly. “What did you mean?” He flicks his eyes between mine, searching, then grits his jaw when I don’t answer. “We have no use for people who don’t want to be here.” He drags his thumb along my lower lip, something flickering in his eyes, and he rasps, “If you’re having second thoughts—”
“No. I want to be here. With you.” My words hang between us. It scares me how true they are. “It’s not me. I just . . .” My voice trails off, and his eyes burn with frustration.
“You just what?” he grits out. “What are you keeping from me?”
My eyes widen. “I’m not keeping any—”
“Bullshit.” His hand dips below my jaw, his body tensing and his breath skating over my lips.
A warm shiver rolls through me. “What do you want from me?”
“What do I want?” His nose skims my cheek, then his smooth, deep voice reaches my ear. “Loaded question for a mouse.” My skin warms when he pulls my earlobe into his mouth and sucks, and Jesus, I wonder what I wouldn’t give him. “For now, however,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly, “I want to know what you’ve been hiding.”
“I told you. It’s not me—”
“Who is it?”
“What? It’s—it’s—”
“Who. Is. It?”
“My sister,” I burst, and my eyes fall shut.
Shit.
A long pause stretches between us, and I don’t open my eyes again until I hear his low voice. “Your sister?”
I nod, my neck stiff. My confession either saved Frankie. Or destroyed her.
He drops his hand from my face. “Francesca Highland.”
My lungs squeeze. “You know her.”
“No.” He shakes his head and steps back, running his palm down the side of his jaw. “Her name is in your file.” I frown, but he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “What about her?”
“So . . . you don’t remember her?”
He arches a brow and pulls his phone from his pocket when it buzzes, glancing down. “Why would I?”
Blowing out a breath, I shift a few steps to the right and lean back against the wall. My secret’s out. It’s all or nothing now. “She came here about nine months ago. She was one of your hires.”
His eyes narrow when he looks back at me.
“She went by Frankie.”
“Tall? Blonde? Tanned?”
“Yes!” I’m nodding my head up and down like a bobblehead until his lips slowly tip up. Pausing, I glare at him. “Funny.”
Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he shrugs. “If it isn’t Aubrey or Stella, I don’t deal with them. And if I don’t deal with them, I have no reason to learn their names.”
Silence spreads between us as unspoken words fill the gaps. He didn’t ‘deal with them.’
Until me.
My stomach flips, but then I remember something Aubrey mentioned when I first arrived. “Except for one. There was another girl you claimed before me, wasn’t there?”
“If you can call it that.” His expression hardens, and he works his jaw. “Chalk it up to Raife and his reminiscing for another life. I only clai
med her to shut him up, but I never spoke to her, let alone knew her name. She requested a new master by the end of the week, thank fuck.” Running his thumb below his lip, he takes a step toward me. “What does your sister have to do with anything?”
I take a deep breath, then lift my chin and look at him head on. “I think she might be missing.”
He cocks a brow. “And you suspect we had something to do with it.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s . . . possible?” Darting my gaze to the metal tray, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “All I know for sure is that she came here, and I stopped hearing from her soon after.”
Adam narrows his eyes. “So she was Raife’s.”
“What?” My brows knit. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s the only one who doesn’t allow outside contact. Distracts them from their—”
“Devotion to him.” I roll my eyes. “Of course it does.”
I think his lips twitch, but it’s so slight I can’t be sure. He flicks his gaze to the table then back to me, as if contemplating. After a second, he nods at the exit. “Let’s go.” He moves toward me, then his warm hand finds my lower back and he’s steering me toward the hall.
I try to ignore the tingles that erupt at his touch. “What are we doing?”
“Going to find your sister. She’s distracting you from your devotion to me.”
“You are my blue crayon,
the one I never have enough of,
the one I use to color my sky.”
—A.R. Asher
“Yeah, get me whatever we have on Francesca Highland.”
“Right away, Master.”
Ending the call with Aubrey, I open the door to my office and step aside for Emmy. It isn’t until she’s walking past the threshold, her shoulder brushing my chest, that I realize what the fuck I’m doing—holding a door open for a woman for the first time in my life—and I snap the hell out of it.
She lingers in front of my desk, running a hand over one of the two leather seats. Making my way to the opposite side, I watch her as I loosen my cufflinks and roll up my sleeves.
So this is the real reason she’s here. Or was. I glance at her black scarf, and satisfaction rolls through me. Not her only reason now.
My eyes narrow on her as I think it over. “We didn’t reach out to you.”
She shakes her head even though it wasn’t a question.
“How’d you get our number to begin with? It’s not something we hand out freely.” I lower myself into my chair, leaning back and stretching my legs out.
She chews on her cheek as she sits across from me. “My sister.”
“Not so loyal, is she?”
“No. It wasn’t like that.” She sighs and glances away just as the desk phone rings.
I hit the speaker button. “Go ahead.”
“Master, we don’t have any record of a Francesca Highland.”
I rub the bottom of my chin, flick my gaze to Emmy. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. You’re welcome to check for yourself, but . . .” her words peter out, and my jaw ticks.
The records are kept in the front house. I would have to walk across a wide, sunlit lawn to get there, which isn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list.
“Thank you, Aubrey.” Hanging up, I lean back against the seat and tilt my chin. Emmy’s forehead is creased in confusion, her head shaking. Aubrey is efficient. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t rely on her. “Well, mouse. It seems you’ve made a life-altering mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake.” Her voice is assertive, but her eyes flicker with doubt. “I saw her name on a log in the spa.”
I rest my hands on the armrests and wait for her to explain.
“Well, not exactly. It was just a first name, and I guess it’s a pretty common one. But still, it can’t be a mistake. I heard her. My sister was on the phone with Stella the day she left.”
“What exactly do you think you heard?”
She lets out a sigh and sinks deeper into the chair. “I was just getting back from, um . . . visiting a neighbor”—she darts her eyes away, and my hand clenches into a fist as a certain photograph of a guy with tattoos appears in my mind—“when I saw Frankie through the trailer’s window. She was transferring a number from her palm to the bottom of her dresser. I walked around to the back and started to come inside, but then I overheard her through the cracked door. It was weird. She was hushed and secretive—nothing like usual.”
When Emmy pauses to run her tongue along her lower lip, I grit my teeth. This conversation would be far less distracting if she would just keep still.
“She said she’d be ready to start right away, that she was honored to have received an invitation. She mentioned a contract, too, and something about confidentiality. Then she took off that same night. I waited to hear from her, and when a few months passed without a word, I called the number under her dresser. Stella answered.” She shrugs. “You know the rest.”
Tipping my seat back, I mull her words over. “So that’s why you were crying in your photo.”
“Oh. No.” She picks at her fingernails, something I’ve never seen her do till now. “You saw that? I, um . . . my mama and I aren’t exactly close. I’d been trying to talk to her about finding Frankie, making sure she’s okay. It didn’t go so well, that’s all.”
Her mother. I trace Emmy’s movements, the way she rubs her neck, then tugs the bottom of her dress and swallows. I want to know why the woman makes her so uncomfortable. I want to know what Emmy’s mother did to make her react this way at the smallest mention of her.
My collar tightens around my neck, itchy as fuck, as I realize I want to know everything. Who she was before she came to me. Who she wants to be now.
I won’t push it. When she gives me those parts of herself, it will be on her own. Eventually, she’ll tell me.
Eventually, she’ll give me everything.
Reaching up, I loosen the top few buttons of my shirt, but that doesn’t provide the relief I need. I’m hot everywhere, and why the fuck is my desk so wide? She’s like a full room away from me. Biting back a growl, I let my gaze drift to the curves of her body. The parts of her I can see, touch. The only parts that should occupy my mind.
Her smooth skin begs to be touched, making my fingers curl around the chair’s armrest. The angles of her face are round, soft, and I’m disappointed that her spattering of freckles is barely noticeable from here. When I find her eyes again, they’re shiny. I squint, something uncomfortable burning hotter in my chest with each moment I watch her. I don’t know when the hell my focus shifted back to her face, but fuck if it hurts to look away.
Irritation grips my veins. Murphy is going to be here in less than twenty-four hours, and more than likely not alone. I don’t have time for this shit. And since Emmy fucking ruptured my ability to function solo, neither does she.
Tearing my gaze from her, I scrub my palm down my jaw and watch my cock-blocking desk instead. “Why are you crying?”
She shifts in her seat. “I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are . . . doing that glassy thing.” Fuck, that was smooth.
She huffs out a snort and rubs her stomach, where her bandages are. “It’s called being upset. I’m worried.” When she sniffs, I slowly bring my eyes back to hers. “I just don’t get it. I was so sure she was here. I mean, she had to have been. Right?”
I twist my lips, needing the fire in her eyes to come back so my chest can feel normal again.
Goddammit.
Hitting speaker, I dial Aubrey’s extension.
“Yes, Master?”
“You still in the front house?”
“Yup.”
“Try searching for a Frankie instead.”
There’s a pause, then, “No Frankie either. But . . . wait, I remember Frankie.” Emmy sits up straight. “She was here this year, wasn’t she? Came in with her personal belongings even though we told her not to?”
I shrug, even
though she can’t see it. Why the hell people expect me to know this shit is beyond me.
“Yes,” Emmy pipes up, her head bobbing up and down. “That’s her.”
I narrow my gaze at the phone. “Why didn’t she finish her contract?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Stella handled Frankie’s departure on her own. I do know she was scouted while modeling in New York, and I believe that had something to do with her leaving so suddenly. Some agency had reached out to her with another opportunity.”
I cock an eyebrow at Emmy, and her shoulders slump forward. “A modeling opportunity?” she whispers, like she’s talking to herself.
“Thank you, Aubrey.”
“Of course, Master.”
The line goes dead, and I watch Emmy’s brows furrow. “Well?” I mutter. “Sound like something your sister would have done?”
“I—yes. I guess it does, but . . .” She shakes her head, folds her arms over her stomach. “I just thought . . . I thought she would have written to me. But maybe it really is that simple. I mean, why wouldn’t she take an opportunity like that? And who knows?” She pulls her lip between her teeth and glances at her feet. “Maybe not writing for a little while was what she needed. A break from m—from everything. I wouldn’t blame her.”
I tilt my head, thinking the situation over. Truthfully, it fucking stinks. And it has Raife’s scent all over it.
We might be fucked up, but our Matthews House business is legit as far as legalities go. We worked with the best lawyers to ensure it was, back when we first started this shit with the secretaries. That was six years ago—after my last sexual incident, among some other shady encounters my brothers were involved in. Griff being accused of rape, twice, almost burned our plans to ash before we even started.
Ground rules are simple, really: blondes only—to keep shit like this from happening—only women who get off on what we have to offer, they come to us, and a standard year-long contract is the sweet spot. That’s typically as long as they can take before they want out, and it keeps them from expecting any further commitments from us. As far as contracts go, nothing explicit is stated aside from their secretarial duties, but our hires know what they’re getting into from the start. If the contract didn’t make it clear, the Dark Room certainly does. They sign up willingly and with all the right secretarial paperwork. They’re compensated beyond fairly and can leave at any time. We don’t hide or wipe out employee records.