Corrupt Savior

by Leigh, Tara

  And I have no one to blame but myself.

  I’ve treated Aislinn Granville like a prize to be won, a trophy to be claimed, the crown jewel of my empire.

  But my empire is corrupt, and there are enemies at the gate.

  Fuck that. My gate has been breached, my territory invaded.

  My woman seized.

  And now, I will go to war.

  I stalk to my office, slamming the door behind me as I run frenzied hands through my hair and flatten my lips against the wounded roar threatening to explode from my throat. The cold mist that has climbed up my back and neck, inching beneath my hairline, isn’t lingering dampness from my shower. It is itchy, clammy sweat that spreads across my skin as my gut twists and churns with a violent fury.

  I haven’t ever felt rage like this. Not even when I received the news of my mother’s death while I was in prison. It was ruled accidental, but only because her murderer knew how to make it appear that way.

  Act in haste, repent at leisure.

  An expression my stepfather was particularly fond of. He said it often, like a tic. I may have hated the messenger, but the message itself is painfully true.

  Back then, my carelessness and impulsivity resulted in a prison sentence, leaving my mother alone and vulnerable. I failed to protect the woman who had borne and raised me.

  Her death was my fault.

  Today, my capitulation and empathy have resulted in Aislinn walking straight into a trap. It was my responsibility to keep her from the cartel’s clutches. And I failed. Miserably.

  Aislinn’s abduction is my fault.

  My motherfucking fault.

  I warded off previous attempts to take her. And yet, this morning, I let her go.

  Truth is a relentless bitch that eats away at my intestines. There is no avoiding it. No way to soften the blow. My Achille’s heel has been severed with a rusty, jagged knife.

  I allowed Aislinn to burrow beneath my skin, into the deepest, darkest crevices no one has ever seen. She brought light with her, and I’d basked in the unaccustomed warmth of her sun.

  Because of that weakness, I allowed myself to be swayed by Aislinn’s anger. By her misinterpretation of a ridiculous fucking text.

  Most states have criminalized texting and driving now. Just a quick glance at words on a screen can distract from what’s in front of you. And that momentary distraction can mean the difference between life and death.

  We weren’t in a car, but that’s exactly just what happened. We were distracted by a fucking text.

  The fact that I know who took her, and why she was taken, does not dilute my fury—or my fear—in the slightest.

  Hugo Cruz ordered Aislinn’s kidnapping, of that I have no doubt. But my most pressing concern is the Los Muertos soldiers responsible for executing his command. Have they touched her? Hurt her? Ra—

  I grit my teeth against the word that explodes inside my brainstem, grinding the edges of my molars into dust. My heart is pounding, pumping blood and oxygen and outrage to every extremity. I can feel my muscles inflating, my veins expanding.

  Hugo Cruz is a formidable enemy, with money and planning on his side.

  What happened this morning happened fast. Twenty-seven seconds between Aislinn getting tangled up in the leashes to the arrival of the second van. It went unreported to the police, any pedestrians too distracted by the dogs to notice that Aislinn was being shoved into a van.

  It was a well-planned, flawlessly executed attack.

  Too well-planned to be a New York gang. Not bloody enough to be Russian or Korean.

  Classic Los Muertos, through and through. Kidnappings are one of their favorite methods, and although they don’t often operate on American soil, when they do, they are masters at avoiding police attention.

  Cruz may have beaten me on the battlefield, but in the war for Aislinn Granville, I will not lose. I will take back what’s mine.

  And they will pay.

  The monster Aislinn tamed has been brought back to life, resurrected by the vengeance flooding my veins. I am the man I was before her—the devil of New York City.

  A savage with no soul, no conscience. Just an overwhelming hunger for blood, an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

  I will have both.

  And I will have Aislinn too.

  Because I cannot live without her.

  2

  AISLINN

  I’ve had headaches before. Who hasn’t? Hangover headaches. Hormonal headaches. Stress headaches. Too-much-junk-food-not-enough-water headaches.

  This isn’t a headache. This is … I don’t know what this is. My brain feels like it is being crushed by my skull—a skull that has suddenly grown teeth. Big, sharp, ravenous teeth.

  It is only as I am trying to figure out how to devour a bottle of Excedrin without moving, swallowing, or opening my eyes that I realize my head is the least of my problems.

  Snippets of memory come at me in blurry patches. Damon’s phone. The texts from Chad. Confronting Damon. Demanding to leave.

  Then, stepping outside into the crisp morning air. Damon’s driver standing beside an open door. His confused expression when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Getting tangled up with a dog walker. A sharp pain in my side. Hands at my waist. The white van.

  The white van.

  I force my eyes open, intending to study my surroundings. I’m almost certain I’m not in the van anymore, and I’m definitely not moving.

  My eyelids flutter … but nothing changes. I’m still in the dark.

  A thick oppressive darkness I cannot blink away.

  No matter how hard I try.

  I press my lips together, keeping the high-pitched whine gathering in the back of my throat from escaping, whipping my head this way and that, looking for something, anything.

  To my left, almost behind me, I see it. The spill of light beneath a door.

  Am I … Am I in in a closet?

  Not again not again not again.

  Vertigo slams into me, the dizziness scrambling my brain. I focus on that faint amber slice bisecting the darkness, using it as an anchor to pull me back from the brink of hysteria.

  I can’t lose focus.

  I’m not a little girl anymore.

  I’m not collateral damage.

  This time, I was taken alone.

  This time, I am the target.

  I was stolen from under King’s nose. They want me.

  According to Damon, New York is crucial to the cartel’s lucrative drug empire. There are millions of dollars at stake. They want my father, the Manhattan DA, to hand over the keys to his city.

  And I am the leverage Los Muertos needs to get my father to do their bidding. There are millions of dollars at stake.

  I am valuable. Their bargaining chip. Their damn prize.

  As the buzzing in my ears fades, I hear voices. Three men, I think. They are speaking a guttural Spanish that is a distant cousin to the language I understand, their dialect littered with rough-hewn consonants and deep-throated vowels.

  No. I’m wrong. There’s a fourth man. He’s speaking Spanish, too—but the accent and dialect are completely off. His words are choppy and curt, with no elongated r’s or soft t’s. He sounds … American.

  The man in the baseball cap—the dog walker. I only vaguely remember his face now, but I am absolutely certain there was no spark of familiarity at first glance. A white guy with brown hair beneath his cap and, I think, brown eyes. The slightest hint of a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jawline. He wore jeans and a fleece zip-up.

  He was a stranger.

  Except, he was the same stranger I’d seen several times walking those same dogs.

  A puzzle piece locks into place with an almost audible snap.

  The dogs. The man. He was just waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  And I gave it to him.

  Stupidly, naively, foolishly.

  My stomach clenches, bile rising up my throat. My mouth isn’t covered, but I force m
yself to swallow it down.

  I am living my worst nightmare. My most terrifying dream. Even more so because it was once real.

  Now it’s real again.

  And worse. So much worse.

  The terror coursing through my veins is more potent now. Because there is something else to fear. Not just that I’ve been taken. Not just that I was tossed, once again, into a white van.

  What if I never return to the man I’ve been taken from? The man who has become my world. My heart. My everything.

  Damon King.

  I repeat his name silently in my mind, latching onto each syllable like a ladder that will take me away. Far, far away from here. Back to Damon himself.

  If genies are real, if fairy godmothers exist, if there really is an angel perched on my shoulder—I would only ask for one thing.

  To return to my king.

  Ironic, since leaving him—running away from him—is why I’m in this situation.

  I am consumed with an ache that supersedes the effects of whatever drug was injected into my bloodstream. This overwhelming torment isn’t chemical. It’s biological, welling up from the deepest parts of me.

  Damon, I miss you.

  For a moment, I allow myself to wallow in my own personal pity party. To gag on hopelessness. Choke on helplessness.

  It is so awful, so thoroughly miserable, it almost—almost—feels good.

  My mind drifts back to Damon himself. What is he thinking right now? How is he feeling?

  Does he even know the meaning of the word, helpless?

  I highly doubt it.

  My dark knight is probably enraged right now. Probably plotting and planning and gearing up for an all-out war.

  Like a balloon snagged by a sharp branch, those stifling emotions inside me break free. No way will I become some soft-spined, weak-willed damsel in distress, hoping and wallowing and waiting for my dark knight to rescue me.

  To hell with that. I’m going to rescue my own damn self.

  My heart is a hummingbird trapped within the curved cage of my ribs. Bones that are compressing my lungs, each breath delivering barely enough oxygen to keep from passing out.

  I can’t pass out again. I have to think. I have to figure out how the hell I’m getting out of here.

  But it’s as if a net woven of fear and confusion and panic has been thrown over my head. The more I try to escape its tattered confines, the more tightly I’m trapped.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  I give into it. I can’t do anything else. Like back in my college days when I would drink too much and get the spins. Instead of feeling sick, I would close my eyes and pretend I was on a roller coaster. I would ride the ride until it passed.

  So that’s what I do. My skin tingles, my chest aches, my eyelashes are as heavy as bricks. There is a ringing in my ears, a scratchiness at the back of my throat, and my left side throbs from landing hard on the floor of the van. I catalog each ache and pain and uncomfortable sensation, an exhaustive list of ailments from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

  With each line item, the tightness in my chest loosens a bit, the blood in my veins becoming more of a fast moving current than a tsunami battering my organs.

  I make my list. I check it twice.

  And then I am able to breathe again, to think again, to finally move beyond my panic attack.

  There are important issues to be addressed. A stream of fire ants that march inside my brain, each of them carrying a question on its back.

  I already know who to blame. Hugo Cruz. He finally got his way, and the men who took me are his foot soldiers. Cruz himself is probably somewhere in Mexico, already using me as leverage against my father.

  But now, here, I am being eaten alive by my need to know where I am and how I can escape.

  Am I in Mexico, too?

  I have no idea how long I was unconscious. But I’m not in the van anymore. Or in a car, train, or plane. I am sitting in a chair. I tentatively attempt to move my legs, but I can’t. My ankles are bound.

  I move my wrists. They aren’t bound but … I am bound to the chair itself. Almost as if someone took a roll of duct tape and used it to encircle my entire torso.

  I study what little I can see. The floor is dark and smooth. Not evenly set like freshly poured cement or textured slabs like tile. Whatever it is, there is a thick layer of packed dirt over it. And the smell is … fetid and ripe. Like a centuries-old cellar.

  How much longer before my captors realize I’m no longer unconscious?

  They are playing a game of cards. Every instinct in my body is telling me to throw my head back and scream bloody murder. But I know that would be the wrong move. A potentially deadly mistake. Because I’ve been in this position before. I’ve been the captive of a madman.

  I need to play it smart, pretend that I’m not even here.

  Maybe they’ll forget about me.

  A nearly hysterical laugh begins to percolate inside my throat. Fat chance.

  Two weeks ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of one of my father’s enemies resorting to kidnapping. Every Manhattan DA has enemies, especially when they are gearing up for a mayoral campaign, and James Granville is no exception. My father’s enemies run attack ads, donate money to political opponents, dig up dirt on affairs, and hint at tax evasion.

  They do not, however, drug and kidnap women off the streets of New York City.

  But my father is a corrupt politician who has made an enemy of one of the most powerful cartels in the world.

  Los Muertos isn’t playing politics.

  They aren’t playing at all.

  And I’m certainly not laughing.

  They’ve attempted to kidnap me twice already.

  Apparently, the third time is the charm.

  I was so thoughtless, so careless. So stupid.

  Walking away from Damon because of something I saw on his phone. Words he didn’t even write.

  If I had just talked to him, fought with him, I wouldn’t be here right now.

  Damon. There is a deep twist and pull inside my belly as I think about him again. A yearning.

  As if a piece of me is missing right now. Him.

  I was hurt and confused when I confronted Damon in his bedroom. I left because I needed space, some distance to think clearly, objectively.

  Well, now I have it. How much space, I don’t know.

  Twenty years ago, I discovered my storybook perfect life wasn’t a fairy tale. That not every man is someone’s Prince Charming.

  Damon isn’t like any prince I’ve seen inside the pages of a book.

  He is a dark king. An arrogant dictator. And as he enjoys reminding me, a skilled lover.

  He is all of these things.

  And maybe he is trying to save me.

  Maybe.

  But this political princess is no damsel in distress.

  I got myself into this mess and I’ll save my damned self too.

  3

  DAMON

  I can’t take my eyes off the images of Aislinn. Especially one in particular.

  The one where the damn leashes have trapped her like a firefly in a spider’s web. She looks almost … amused. Her mouth is slightly open, the corners just beginning to pull up into a smile. Looking at the dog walker who clearly isn’t a dog walker at all, probably about to strike up a conversation, or offer an apology even though she’s not at fault.

  But that’s who Aislinn is. An unpredictable spitfire. A woman who thinks the best of people, despite having seen the very worst in them.

  She thought the best of me.

  Even after I warned her not to.

  Even after I told her exactly who I am.

  The filthiest motherfucker you’ll ever meet.

  Aislinn saw light in my darkness and called it beautiful.

  I should have told her it was just her own reflection.

  Before she became mired in my filth. Before I trapped her with my own leash.

  And, after all
that, I couldn’t even keep her safe.

  King, you said I wasn’t a prisoner here. Either I am, or I’m not.

  Those were Aislinn’s last words to me. My spitfire burned so brightly, I’d been blinded by her. And because I didn’t want to dim her flame, I let her go.

  Let her walk right into a trap.

  And now, her flame might just be extinguished forever.

  I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

  The images my security cameras had captured—images of Aislinn, of the last moments she was mine—play in a relentless loop on my wall.

  Echoing inside my mind.

  Black stilettos stabbing at the pavement. Black skirt concealing and revealing in equal measure.

  Blonde mane falling in an undulating ripple down her back.

  The anger and frustration that filled her chest during our confrontation leaking out in the crisp Manhattan air. Maybe even disappearing entirely, like a burst balloon, when she found herself entangled on the sidewalk.

  Do you like dogs, Aislinn?

  I don’t even know the answer to that question.

  I thought I knew all I needed to know about Aislinn Granville.

  Basic facts. Data.

  Age. Date of birth. Height, weight, eye color.

  The look of flushed annoyance on her face when I said something she didn’t want to hear. The imperious attitude she wore on her back like a mantle of porcupine spikes. The muffled sound of her scream when my head was buried between her thighs.

  But I don’t know the small, simple things like whether Aislinn prefers dogs or cats or fucking iguanas. Pools or beaches. Morning hikes or evening strolls.

  I want to know, damn it. I want to know everything about her.

  Most of all, where she is right fucking now.

  Something about the images bothers me. Something I can’t quite pinpoint. I pace my office looking for something—anything—that doesn’t fit.

  And then finally, I see it, like an exclamation point.

  “Finley!”

  I’m too impatient to wait for her to walk into my office. Instead, I’m out my door and into the larger main space. Like before, my team stops what they are doing to give me their focus. But this time I don’t mind.