Corrupt Savior

by Leigh, Tara

  The man I killed this morning—he deserved it. I’m not sorry. I feel zero remorse.

  The man Sebastián killed—he deserved it, too. And from the gritted determination written on his face right now, Sebastián’s not sorry about it either.

  The distance between our vehicles is closing fast. Michael is hunched over the wheel, his teeth bared in a scowl.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Death feels just as imminent now as it did when I had a gun pressed to my forehead.

  But at the last possible second, Michael swerves into the grass. There is a metallic scrape as the side of our front bumper knocks into the opposite side of theirs, Sebastián straining to hold the wheel steady. The Jeep barrels past us and slams into a weeping Japanese maple, the trunk so wide it must have been planted a hundred years ago.

  I look back, but I don’t see either door opening. Sebastián makes it through the gates just as they are starting to close again.

  “Oh my God.” I exhale. “You did it. We’re free.” I sound giddy. I am giddy.

  But when I look over at Sebastián, his expression is anything but happy.

  “We’re not free, Aislinn. We’ll never be free.”

  I take a sobering breath. “For now, we are.”

  “And how long will that last?”

  “What you do with your life is up to you, but I intend to stay this way.”

  “Los Muertos has eyes and ears everywhere. There’s nowhere we can run that we won’t be found.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not running, Seb. Not with you. And not from your father.”

  “And you think your father will protect you? He can’t—he’s just a politician with fat pockets. We’ll go back to my place, figure things out together.”

  “No,” I say emphatically. “Look at what just happened. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He gives a resigned sigh, turning onto the exit ramp of the highway and merging into traffic. “Fine. I’ll drop you off at your parent’s house. Lie low and have him beef up security. I’ll smooth things over with my father, somehow. I’ll be in touch to let you know what’s going on.”

  “I’m not going to my parent’s.”

  “Aislinn, I really don’t think going back to your own apartment, alone, is a good idea right now.”

  I shudder, recalling the last time I was in my apartment. Now, there is a bedroom I’d like to set on fire. “I’m not going back there again, ever.”

  We aren’t far from Manhattan at all. The wide green expanse of Westchester gives way to the grittier, urban Bronx. “Let me guess, you want me to bring you back to King’s place?”

  I give him a sleek, half-smile. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  16

  DAMON

  Burke screeches to a stop halfway down a long driveway. “What the fuck?”

  Once we began diving deeper into Sebastián Cruz’s client list, we created a list of potential locations he might have taken Aislinn. This Bronxville estate was one of several that peaked our interest.

  I just hope it’s not too late.

  We both jump out, running toward the still smoking carcass of a Jeep whose crumpled hood now looks like an accordion, courtesy of a squat maple tree surrounded by mulch and several smaller plants.

  I head for the already opened front driver-side door, discovering only an empty seat.

  On the other side, Burke has the passenger door open and is pressing his fingers against the neck of the man whose head is bent at an unnatural angle, confirming the obvious. “He’s gone.”

  We jog back to our car and head toward the house, filling Finley in as we go. “Teams two and three are just behind you, pulling in now,” she says.

  This time, our guns are already drawn when we get out of the car. The other teams arrive as I’m walking up the front. Burke directs them to fan out around the house and he takes my back. I’m through the front door when Team Two discovers a second dead body on the back patio.

  Fuck. This isn’t good. My steps are heavy, weighed down with dread at what I might find around each corner.

  Team Three finds another body on a second-floor terrace.

  What we don’t find is Aislinn Granville.

  Finley’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Picking up chatter about a Los Muertos clean-up crew needed up north. I think you should get out of there.”

  “There’s gotta be something we’re missing. I can feel it.” And I can. “Aislinn was here, I’m sure of it.”

  I’m standing in one of the bedrooms, running agitated hands through my hair when I notice the wet towels slung over the shower.

  Except that, on closer examination, they’re not towels at all. They’re Aislinn’s clothes. Her black skirt. Her bra and panties. Her blouse.

  Her bloodstained blouse.

  The roar that explodes from the deepest part of my belly is guttural, that of a savage beast. My fist pounds the frameless glass door, shattering it into a million pieces. They fall at my feet, glistening like confetti.

  Burke takes Aislinn’s shirt from my left hand and wraps it around the bloody knuckles of my right. “Come on, boss.”

  “She was fucking here.” I seethe. Just like in the basement of the chapel, where I found long blonde hairs clinging to a dirty, child-sized mattress shoved into a fucking closet.

  My body is not big enough to contain the rage swelling inside every cell of my body. My veins are bursting with it, my bones are aching from it, my vision is tainted from it.

  I. Am. Rage.

  A filthy stream of vitriol explodes from my mouth as I stomp down the stairs. Orders mixed with profanity mixed with angry threats.

  Finley tries several times to interrupt, but I talk over her, unwilling to accept even a single excuse. Finally, a shrill burst of noise shocks me into shutting up. “What the—”

  “Check out the security camera feed, right fucking now.”

  17

  AISLINN

  Damon’s apartment is empty.

  Really empty.

  I wander through the rooms, finding not a single guard. Not even Mrs. Weathersby. I’m back in the foyer when Finley bursts through the elevator doors. She stops short when she sees me.

  For a moment, neither of us says anything. The doors close again, leaving us wrapped in silence so thick I can hear the rush of air through the vents as the car descends back to the lobby.

  I pull my bathrobe more tightly around me, shifting on my bare feet. “Are you o—” Finley stops short of saying okay and instead asks, “Can I do anything to help you?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m fine.” My reply is automatic. I’m not hurt, but I’m definitely not fine.

  Finley merely blinks. “Damon’s on his way back. He should be here in less than half an hour.”

  Half an hour. It feels like a long, long time. “Where is he?”

  “He was at the estate in Westchester, looking for you.”

  “Oh.” I stumble backward a few steps, sinking into the narrow bench set against the wall facing the elevator. “He must have gotten there just after we left.”

  A minute passes, maybe more. The silence is awkward and yet not. The past four days have been so emotionally charged, now that I’m back in the cocoon of Damon’s apartment, my mind is foggy. “He’s been looking for me, all this time?”

  “He has,” she says with a nod. “We all have.”

  Some of the fog clears and I remember what Sebastián said. King’s about to be dethroned.

  I regard Finley with fresh eyes and a suspicious heart. What if she’s the mole?

  I’m not comfortable being alone with her right now. “Does Damon know I’m back? Is he on his way here?”

  Another nod. “Yes. I was on the line with him when you walked into the lobby downstairs.”

  More silence. This time Finley breaks it. “Do you want to talk, to tell me what happened?”

  She’s not asking in a shady way, but …
“No,” I answer, rising to my feet. “I think I’m going to wait in Damon’s bedroom.”

  Finley frowns, although she doesn’t make any move to stop me. Passing her, every hair on my body stands on end, goose bumps racing across my flesh. I expect her to grab me, or to hear the sound of a cocked gun.

  Whether it’s shades of PTSD or just gut instinct, I can barely breathe as I walk down the hall. By the time I reach Damon’s door and throw myself behind it, I’m wheezing and gasping for air.

  I don’t bother attempting to lock it. All security is controlled electronically; if Finley wants to get inside, I can’t stop her.

  I walk to the window, the one that overlooks the front entrance.

  And I wait for my dark knight to storm his castle.

  18

  DAMON

  The tinted glass of the elevator reflects a man who looks like me—dark eyes, sharp jaw, slightly unruly black hair.

  But inside, I sure as fuck don’t feel like me.

  I’ve changed. Or, rather, Aislinn Granville has changed me. I dragged her into my world, a place where crime and corruption are the norm. Where brutality and vengeance are standard operating procedure. Where emotions don’t exist.

  I told myself Aislinn was an indulgent reward I’d earned by maintaining the balance of power in my city. Merely a temporary diversion, a harmless vice. Surely her lips couldn’t be as sweet, her skin as soft, her hair as silky smooth as it appeared from afar. Surely her voice would grate on my ears, her scent would irritate my throat, her resistance would cease to amuse.

  But none of that happened.

  Instead, I allowed the balance of power to shift, away from me. I lost control. Of myself, of my enemies, of my city. I turned Aislinn into a useful pawn. A chess piece to be played.

  What is a king if he can’t protect his queen?

  I lied—to myself. Over and over and over. Lies that have been choking me from the moment she was taken.

  If Aislinn was a temporary diversion, a harmless vice, an indulgent reward—she would have been expendable. Collateral damage of a brutal but necessary war.

  She is none of those things.

  How can someone be temporary when they’re etched into my bones? How can someone be expendable if I’ve killed, over and over, to get them back?

  Aislinn Granville is everything to me.

  Every. Fucking. Thing.

  Finley is waiting for me when I step into the hall. She points wordlessly toward my bedroom.

  I take a moment to gather my thoughts before opening the door. But it’s unnecessary. All my thoughts are of Aislinn Granville. She is the air I breathe. The beat of my heart. The light to my dark. The goddess of my dreams.

  “Aislinn.” Her name is a relieved exhale, a whispered word of thanks.

  She spins away from the window when I open the door, and my vision is immediately filled with a halo of wavy blonde hair, honeyed skin, and eyes as deep and blue as the ocean.

  Twin tides of relief and shame batter me as I cross the room and wrap my arms around Aislinn’s narrow waist, cradling her against me. Her weight is negligible, but I’ve never held anything more valuable. “You’re back.”

  Small hands close around my shoulders, her chest a pillowy press against mine. I feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my neck, the warm wetness of a tear sliding down my skin.

  “It’s so good to be home,” she whispers.

  Home. The word hits me like the bolt of a Taser, the sharp sizzle a powerful jolt dead in the center of my chest. Because I know Aislinn didn’t mean this building or my apartment. She means me. I am her home.

  And she is mine.

  I don’t deserve her. I didn’t keep her safe from Los Muertos.

  I didn’t save her.

  But letting go of Aislinn isn’t even a thought in my mind as I carry her through my apartment. And by the way she is clinging to me, it is clear the feeling is entirely mutual. Each breath is infused with her honeyed scent, my lungs buzzing from intoxication.

  A part of me has been closed off, fused completely shut, for so long. But with Aislinn, that place is practically wide open, bared to her. Whatever boundaries I once had have been breached. Rules I’d enacted years ago have been rendered null and void.

  When the tightness clutching at my throat loosens, I ask, “How did you get back here?”

  “That’s not important,” she says emphatically. “We need to talk. You’re in danger.”

  Aislinn must take my incredulous stare for fear, because she rushes to explain. “Cruz has infiltrated your organization. As soon as he has access to your accounts—” she breaks off as tears fill her eyes.

  My heart thumps erratically inside my chest, pulsing with the strangest sensation. Utter bewilderment. “You came back here … to warn me?”

  I know the answer to my question before she bobs her head.

  Of course, she did. Only Aislinn Granville would feel the need to protect her monster.

  I sigh, drawing her back into my arms. “And you heard all this from Sebastián Cruz, correct?”

  She offers a reluctant nod.

  “I’m hardly inclined to believe a word he says.” But I’m very fucking inclined to beat the crap out of him for planting ideas in Aislinn’s head she shouldn’t be worrying about.

  “I really think—”

  I press a finger to Aislinn’s lips. “But I will look into it.” I have a small, but extremely well-vetted staff. It won’t take long. My recent doubts about Finley were more about me than her, and resolving them took minutes.

  Once I feel the tension in her shoulders ease a bit, I say, “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  She hesitates, her breath catching. “Can’t it just be us for a little while longer?”

  I shift Aislinn so that she’s looking directly at my face and I into hers. Taking time to ourselves is an almost irresistible indulgence. “Princess …”

  She blinks up at me, her bright gaze swirling with understanding, the pink pout of her lips conveying hope. “I’m here now, with you. We’re together. We’re safe. I’ve told you about what I heard.”

  “Yes, and I’m not worried about it. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’m here with you, exactly where I want to be. Exactly where I belong.”

  I groan as a fresh wave of guilt surges, clutching at my ribs and compressing my lungs. I loosen my hold, letting Aislinn slide down my body until she’s standing on her feet in front of me. A moment passes as we merely stare at each other, feasting with our eyes. Aislinn’s pupils dilate with desire, the blue of her irises glowing like the hottest part of a flame.

  “I want to know everything that’s happened to you in the last four days.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Are you saying that your needs trump mine?”

  I bite back an exasperated sigh. “And what are your needs?”

  She pokes a finger in my chest. “You, damn it.”

  Jesus Fucking Christ.

  This girl.

  She slays me, tapping into my most animalistic possessiveness. The deep-seated need to claim—reclaim—what is mine. What’s always been mine. With Aislinn, those games of dominance and submission I’ve played in the past feel unnecessary. My need to dominate, her willingness to submit, they are etched into the fabric of our souls and go beyond sexual scenes. She appeals to me at a cellular level, satisfying my needs without arbitrary expectations and rules.

  I take a deep breath and cinch my hands at Aislinn’s waist, pulling her back against me.

  Aislinn Granville is a beautiful blonde wrecking ball—laying waste to everything I thought I needed, everything I thought I knew.

  All that I’d once believed to be true.

  Right now … all I need is Aislinn. All I know is Aislinn.

  She is my truth.

  The lies I’ve told her, the truths I’ve held back—they pollute the breaths I take, coating my tongue with bitterness. There is so much I should share. So much I wi
ll share. But not right now.

  Not right now, when Aislinn’s heart is beating so rapidly against mine.

  Not right now, when her fingers are entwined at the back of my neck, her forehead pressed into the hollow between my jaw and shoulder.

  Not right now, when she is making this needy sound, trapped somewhere between a whine and a whimper, that has my dick swelling and pulsing, every step a twinge of discomfort clutching at my balls.

  I thought I was a strong man. Invincible and invulnerable. Physically. Financially. Mentally. Emotionally.

  The woman in my arms has taken that away from me even as she’s proved it true.

  Right now, my knees are weak with this wanting, needing, must-fucking-having.

  Because right now, there is no distinction between need and want, necessity and luxury.

  Aislinn Granville is both. And I want, need, must-fucking-have her.

  Right here. Right now.

  19

  AISLINN

  My heartbeat is an erratic, distracting pitter-patter against my ribs as I take in the stark beauty of the man standing in front of me. He looks like the same man I ran from just days ago. Almost.

  The same rich black hair and inky eyelashes. The same strong, shadowed jawline and high, elegant cheekbones. The same spark of intensity lighting up those dark, dark eyes.

  But there are smudges beneath them. And faint horizontal lines, like the silvery remnants of a shattered spider web, cross his forehead.

  Damon is glaring at me like an adversary he’s torn between spanking or fucking. There is yearning in his gaze, a faint glimmer of tenderness beneath his infuriated expression.

  I like it. A lot.

  The panic and fear and pure terror that filled my veins just a few hours ago hasn’t yet evaporated. Those intense emotions are still there, like toxins that have yet to be flushed from my system. I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves. Not by Damon King.