by Leigh, Tara
He must have been expecting me, because he gets a shot off when I am barely past the front door.
I feel the impact, of course. But I am too angry for pain. My Kevlar absorbs the blow, and instead of dropping to the ground, I leap on him. His second, and last, shot grazes my shoulder before I break his wrist and toss the gun aside.
His howl of pain is one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard. Music to my ears.
If I only wanted to kill Michael, he would be dead already. But my thirst for blood, for vengeance, is too strong to be satisfied with a quick kill.
No. Michael needs to suffer.
I knock him out sufficiently to put him into a thick black duffel bag. Breaking a bone or two in the process. Then I carry him out to my car, throw him in the back, and head to another building I own. I have a few underground workrooms spread throughout the city.
There isn’t much in the way of comfort. Blood-stained cement floor. Blood-stained cement walls.
I drop the bag on the ground, satisfied by the heavy thud, a distinct crack.
When I pull back the zipper, Michael groans. I give him a swift kick with the tip of my boot. “Cruz will kill you,” Michael wheezes.
I kneel down to look him in the face. “He should have killed me—before he took Aislinn. But … here I am.”
I slam a closed hand into his cheekbone. “When Aislinn came back to me, she had a cut on her cheek.”
Another hard jab to his eye.
“She had to look at your ugly face for four days.”
A final punch to the center of his face.
“One of your men tried to rape her. Did you know that?”
Michael’s skin is striped with his own blood. It leaks through the hands he uses to cover his face. I pull them aside, peering at him curiously.
“You will pay for every ounce of discomfort you caused my girl.”
He shakes his head violently. “Blame Cruz, not me. Or Granville’s lackey.”
I still. “Who? I need a name.”
“Lytton. He called me in for questioning, tried to get me to flip on Cruz. I refused, but the bastard put the word out that I agreed. Cruz didn’t trust me, and he stopped running money through me. My days were numbered.
“I knew he’d tried to get the Granville girl twice already and failed. So I cut a deal with Cruz—my life in exchange for the girl.”
Interesting. There is hope in Michael’s eyes as he focuses on my smile. “Thanks for the intel,” I say in a low voice, almost teasing. “But you’re here now.” He doesn’t see my fist until it’s too late. Landing on his lips, I feel the scrape of his teeth tearing at my skin as I knock them loose from his gums. Michael’s scream ricochets off the cement, vibrating inside my ears.
The next few hours pass in a hazy blur, although my actions are mechanical and exacting.
This is a sentence I’m carrying out. Justice.
Vengeance.
And when he is finally just a lump on the ground, his breaths steady but labored, I take my knife and slice down his chest, my hand closing around his still beating heart. “This is for Aislinn.” I pull the organ from his chest cavity and shove it inside his gaping mouth.
Later, after I’ve showered in the bathroom I had installed for similar occasions, I take a picture of Michael’s almost unrecognizable face, encrypt the file and send it to Cruz via the dark net.
And then I set his body on fire.
Let the city rats feast on Michael Clark’s roasted carcass tonight. He will be nothing but scorched remains and gnawed bones tomorrow.
35
AISLINN
I spend the morning at Finley’s side, peppering her with questions about … everything. Damon’s operation is complicated. Finance. Politics. Crime. There are so many moving parts and I’m determined to understand how each piece fits into the overall puzzle.
I don’t agree with what he does, and I don’t expect that I ever will. But reforming a corrupt organization requires intimate knowledge of that organization’s operations. My interests are now aligned with Damon’s, and while I don’t expect to change him, I can’t say the same for his business model.
I have other questions, too. Questions that have nothing to do with Damon. “When did Ace go to prison?”
“What does it matter?” she responds irritably, immersed in a complicated model forecasting foreign currency exchange rates.
“It matters,” I snap back. “When?”
“Almost twenty years ago.”
Right after my attack. A wave of nausea rocks into me and I close my eyes.
“Are you going to get sick? Shit.” A bottle of water is pressed into my hands. “Here, drink this.”
I lift it to my lips and the cold liquid splashes over my tongue, washing away some of the bitterness that had risen up my throat. “Thank you,” I mumble, clutching it in my hands like a lifeline.
“Sure.” I can feel her worried eyes on me, although I’m not sure it’s genuine concern. Finley probably just doesn’t want to be blamed by Damon. “What’s important about the timing?”
I hesitate before answering, unsure about opening up to a woman I barely know. A woman who may be working against Damon. Eventually, I sigh and decide to take a chance. “I was a real daddy’s girl when I was young. But around twenty years ago, that changed. There was an incident, and I was taken to the hospital. I was fine, but I remember that they ran a lot of tests. Maybe that’s when my father learned I wasn’t his biological daughter.”
“You think they did a DNA swab or something?”
“I—I’m not sure. But they definitely would have checked my blood type.” I sighed. “I do know that things changed after that. My father and I had been close but when I got back home, he could barely look at me. I thought it was all my fault. That I did something to make him stop loving me.”
“If that’s true, would he have retaliated by putting Ace in prison?”
“Yes,” I answer Finley’s question quickly, then take another sip of water before rising unsteadily to my feet. “I think I should go back upstairs.”
“You think you can make it there without falling down or puking?” She regards me skeptically, a faint trace of concern woven through her words.
I pull my shoulders back and take a deep breath. “I’ll be fine, Finley.”
She stands too. “You got into politics in the hopes that your father would notice you, right? To become useful enough to have value?”
I wish I could deny it. Proclaim that my chosen career is some kind of calling. But I can’t. I nod slowly. “Yeah. Pathetic, huh?”
The scorn I glimpsed in her face earlier isn’t there anymore. I see only compassion and understanding. She shuffles closer to me, reaching out to pat my arm. It’s awkward, almost as if physically touching someone is uncomfortable to her. “Kind of,” she says with a flickering grin. “But I’m in the same boat. We’re more alike than I would have guessed.”
Any other day, I would have sat back down, kicked off my shoes, and gotten comfortable. But I am completely incapable of girl talk right now. Or any talk, really. “Looks like we have some common ground other than Damon.”
She mumbles something affirmative and heads back to her desk.
I take a deep breath and continue toward the elevators, hoping that I haven’t just blown my chance to get to know Finley a little better. Maybe if I get my shit together, we will actually become friends.
I think I’d like that. But can I trust her?
Each new fact I’ve learned about my parents, about myself, has left me feeling exposed and brittle. Like one of those manuscripts Sebastián studies. A strong wind could turn me into dust, scatter me into so many pieces I’ll never be whole again.
Upstairs, hours pass. I reach for my phone a dozen times, never quite able to tap CALL. Even if Damon answers, I’m not going to be satisfied until he’s standing in front of me.
I wander aimlessly around his apartment, stare anxiously out windows, sit unea
sily on chairs. I jump at the slightest noise. The high ceilings feel like they are pressing on my head, the enormous rooms claustrophobic.
Where is Damon?
At the faint chime of the elevator, my breath sticks in my throat as I pivot. But the sound of a heel striking marble has my hopes dashed.
Finley appears in the doorway. “Are you hungry?”
I blink at her several times before shaking my head. “No.”
“Well, I am. You can keep me company, give me another lesson on how to have a conversation.”
She spins to leave and I consider ignoring her. I could easily return to my room and shut the door. Say that I’m feeling sick. Or plead exhaustion. But my feet follow Finley’s to the dining room.
“I asked Ms. Weathersby to make you soup.” Finley points to a large covered urn and extends a bowl in my direction.
“Did Damon tell you to look after me?”
She puts the bowl back down, ignoring my question. “Eat what you want.”
I exhale, rubbing at my forehead as Finley fills a plate with salad and chicken. She sets it down on the table with a loud thunk and drops into a chair.
I open the lid of the urn and sniff. Butternut squash with hints of cinnamon, allspice, and nutmeg. My favorite. I ladle a generous portion into a bowl and sit down opposite her. “I’m sorry, Finley. Thank you for being thoughtful.” I take a taste and moan in appreciation, realizing I haven’t eaten since yesterday.
“You looked ready to keel over downstairs. I figured you could do with a meal.”
“It’s not easy, adjusting to the fact that my life is a lie, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe it’s not all bad.”
I look up to find Finley’s clear-eyed gaze on mine. “What do you mean?”
“Well, downstairs it seemed like you were able to make sense of things that didn’t make sense to you before.”
The soup is warm and comforting as it slides down my throat. The opposite effect of Finley’s words. “Yes, things make sense now, but that doesn’t mean any of this is okay. It’s all so …” My voice trails off as I struggle to find words.
“Trashy?” Finley offers with a lifted brow.
“Fucked up,” I counter, setting my spoon down.
“That too.”
Before I realize what’s happening, Finley and I are laughing. Not quiet, polite laughter. But big, loud belly laughs interspersed with tears and snorts.
And for a few moments at least, I forget that I don’t know where Damon is or whether I can trust Finley.
36
DAMON
The not so muted hum of lively conversation coming from the dining room greets me when I arrive home. Without making my presence known, I listen for a few minutes.
I’m completely drained. The adrenaline rush of my time with Michael Clark has receded, exhaustion seeping into my bones. And yet, hearing Aislinn and Finley talking—laughing—puts a smile on my face. I back away, heading to my bedroom. Once there, I strip off the clothes I changed into barely half an hour ago.
I need another shower.
The sound of rushing water is eerily similar to the roar of the flames that consumed Michael’s body. With each blink, I see an orange glow reflected on the backs of my eyelids, the acrid scent of burning flesh fills my nose, haunting my memories.
Again, I scrub my body with soap beneath a scalding spray. Not that it will do any good. My skin is permanently stained with the blood of so many men. Those I’ve killed myself, others who died on my orders.
I don’t regret my actions, nor do I feel any guilt.
I haven’t slayed any innocents.
Kill or be killed. That is my world.
It isn’t a world I was born into, but it’s the one I now inhabit.
A world I’ve chosen. A place I rule.
I’ve done what I’ve had to do.
Some may even call it poetic justice, ridding evil from the streets, one body at a time.
One day, I expect to die by another man’s hands.
But not today.
Shutting off the water with an angry slam of the handle, I grab a towel. I run it over my head and face before wrapping it around my waist, reluctantly meeting my own eyes in the mirror. The truth blazing from them is inescapable, unavoidable.
Aislinn called me her savior—but she was wrong.
I am no savior. I am a savage.
And she saved herself.
Oh, she said Sebastián let her go. But I know that’s not the full truth. Aislinn walked back through my door because she fought to get here.
Aislinn is a warrior princess.
She is my queen.
Most importantly, she is my wife.
And I will worship her—die for her—for as long as she’ll have me.
Nothing less than forever.
A deep sigh rips through my chest and I put my hands on the counter, bowing my head.
I don’t like what I heard about Chad Lytton today. He’s become too close to Cruz for my comfort, and I will need to address it sooner rather than later.
I’m lost in my own thoughts when I feel a soft hand sliding along my spine, a touch so light it’s like being grazed by the wing of an angel.
“You’re home.” Aislinn’s whisper is soft, almost breathy. Her words are marked by relief, edged in an exultant kind of joy I know I don’t deserve.
Loving me is a curse, one I hope doesn’t become a nightmare.
37
AISLINN
During a pause in conversation with Finley, I feel a tingling at the back of my neck, at the place where my spine meets my brainstem. The little hairs covering my skin stand up and flutter. There is only one person in the world whose mere presence provokes a physical response in me.
“Is Damon back?” I ask, wondering if she has the same sixth sense for him that I do.
But Finley merely shrugs and breaks off a piece from one of the oatmeal raisin cookies Ms. Weathersby brought in a few minutes ago, popping it in her mouth. “Nope. And unless he needs me, I’m going to eat this while it’s still warm.” She wrinkles her nose. “Because cold raisins, blech.”
Her comment grabs my attention and prevents me from bolting off in search of Damon. “You only like raisins when they’re warm?”
“Yep. Otherwise they’re just like eating chewy bugs.”
“Not even Raisinets?” I test her, suddenly fascinated. I’ve never met anyone else who won’t eat cold raisins but loves them warm.
She mock gags. “Oh my God, those are the worst.”
I take a bite of my own cookie and grin. The raisins are perfect. Plump and moist and not at all bug-like. “One of my friends used to bring those little red Sun-Maid boxes to school every day. I couldn’t even watch her eat them without feeling queasy.”
We finish eating, bring our plates into the kitchen, and thank Mrs. Weathersby. Before Finley heads for the elevator and I turn down the corridor toward Damon’s private suite of rooms, I stop to give her a quick hug. She is stiff in my arms, but she doesn’t push me away. “Thanks for checking up on me,” I say, before releasing her.
“Ah, sure.” Her lashes flutter as she breaks eye contact with me and jabs at the button. “See you around.”
A bond is forming between Finley and me, one that could easily become friendship.
I really, really hope she’s not the mole.
* * *
The sight of Damon’s broad shoulders sends curls of warmth to slip around my ribs, squeezing the breath from my lungs. A white towel barely clings to his hips, droplets of water glistening against his tanned skin. I want to lick them. Lick him. Everywhere.
I manage to restrain myself, running the palm of my hand up his spine until I reach the swells of muscle supporting his neck, my fingernails disappearing into his dark hair. “You’re home,” I say.
Gratitude climbs up the back of my throat, forming a heavy knot I can barely swallow around. I have an urge to examine him, checking that he still has all
his fingers and toes, that no one has hurt this man I don’t ever want to live without.
He releases his hold on the counter, standing to his full height and turning to face me.
I gasp at the dark bruise in the center of his chest. It’s not the kind he could have gotten from a stray punch or taking an elbow to the ribs. It looks like a major league ballplayer has thrown a fastball straight at the center of Damon’s chest. And there is a deep gash bisecting his shoulder.
“What happened? Who did this to you?” Anger lends a raw timbre to my voice as I smooth gentle fingers over his mottled skin, a surge of concern and protectiveness heating my blood.
Yes, Damon is my big bad wolf, my devil, my dark knight. But most of all, he is mine.
And I am his.
I just wish I knew what that meant to Damon himself. Am I just a possession, or have I earned a place in his heart?
As he has in mine.
My brows pull together as I return my attention to his chest, then take a step back to scan the rest of his body. A few other scrapes and bruises. Rising to my tiptoes, I press a gentle kiss on his lips and another to the center of his chest before loosely wrapping my arms around his hips, taking care to rest my cheek against an unmarked patch of skin.
“I’m fine, princess,” Damon murmurs. His deep sigh ruffles my hair as his hands come around to the small of my back, his chin finding purchase at the top of my head.
“No, you’re not. Did Michael do this to you?” A single tear falls from the corner of my eye and I watch it slide over his skin until it is indistinguishable from the other droplets of water that cling to him.
He evades my question. “You won’t have to worry about him ever again.”
I know what that means, and I cannot deny the relief that slips through my veins. “What about you?”