With Ties that Bind: A Broken Bonds Novel, Book Two

by Trisha Wolfe

  Divorced. No kids. Ulcer the size of a planet. Surrounded by colleagues who may or may not be as corrupt as the criminals I’ve sacrificed everything to hunt.

  And now, wallowing in self-pity. I suppress a humorless laugh.

  I drag myself over to the bed and flop down, rest my arm over my eyes. When I held Avery’s hand in the hospital all those nights, I vowed to protect her. Not because it was my job—because I saw the light I’d come to depend on from her snuffed out. No one has the right to take that away.

  But they did. She’s changed because of that torment, and I’m not sure if any damn thing I do will ever bring it back.

  I don’t fall asleep. I can’t. I lie here with a torrent of thoughts thrashing my brain until I hear the front door latch closed. But my muscles don’t relax until I hear the gentle rap on my bedroom door.

  10

  Bare

  Avery

  I’m not searching for love. That’s never been a desire of mine. I didn’t turn down every date and party invite in high school, sit home every weekend with my nose crammed in a book throughout college, just to throw away all that hard work now on a fantasy dreamed up by some desperate part of myself.

  Yeah. That was a little harsh. Even for me. But I’m furious for allowing myself to fantasize about a future I can never have—not with the man behind this door.

  So this thing with Quinn…I know it’s temporary. I might even be using him as a distraction from all the horror that’s sucked my life up into a dark cyclone of pain and cruelty.

  And when I admit that—that my feelings for Quinn might only be as deep as this case, there’s only one outcome: Quinn will suffer the agony of my choices.

  He’s already been suspended. His wife left him. His partner is a serial killer.

  He’s discovering every person in his life isn’t what they seem. Especially me.

  Despite it all, regardless if I should walk away, I’m selfish and crave just one more moment of comfort his touch brings.

  It’s impossible to deny I’m falling in love.

  Maybe for the first time.

  It might be layering additional cruelty onto his burdens, but waiting any longer will only inflict more torture than I can bear for him. So I knock again, harder, and this time, the door opens.

  He’s loosened his tie; it hangs open around his neck, his crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and rumpled from where he untucked it from his slacks. He might feel like a mess, but as he stands in the doorway, arm braced high on the door, he’s the steadfast strength I’ve anchored myself to.

  “Can I come in?”

  Without a word, he pulls the door open wider.

  One dimly lit lamp welcomes me into the room as I enter. Quinn’s scent surrounds me; masculine and heady, like the metal headboard and clean angles of his room. I stare at the bed. A gray comforter is pulled tight across the mattress. Pillows lined neatly along the head.

  I’m probably the filthiest thing to ever enter his room. I’m spoiling it just by standing here. I tuck my hands under my arms so I don’t mar anything with my touch.

  “You should rest.” He nods to the pristinely made bed. “At least lay down for a while.”

  I stay put. “I’m sorry about Carson.”

  His sigh is heavy as he settles on the edge of the bed. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  But for him, I know it is. Quinn’s ethics are important, and Carson let him down. We’re all letting him down. I risk a step closer. “I’m tired, Quinn.”

  He looks up. “Then sleep, Avery.”

  I shake my head. “I’m tired of lying to you.”

  There’s no hint in his frozen expression that I’ve shaken him. He doesn’t blink. Those hazel eyes darken just a shade and spear me, stripping me bare where I stand.

  Maybe it’s exhaustion, why I suddenly feel so removed from this reality and like I’ve entered into an alternate one where, once I admit the truth, Quinn wraps those strong arms around me and accepts my sins…because when I say it, and the floodgates are unlatched, the confession rushes from me unfiltered.

  “Simon wasn’t the UNSUB. He wasn’t my abductor. He was the apprentice to Price Alexander Wells. Wells, who first tortured me in my lab and then locked me in the dungeon of his sailboat and tortured me and tortured me…”

  Quinn stands, and I move backward. “Wells orchestrated everything so Simon would take the fall. But that’s not all…” I turn my head, swear, and force my eyes to meet his. “Wells didn’t die from ingesting shellfish toxin. He was murdered. I buried the evidence. I doctored the COD report. To protect—”

  “Sadie.” Quinn’s voice is a dark boom rattling through me.

  My mouth hangs open. I wasn’t going to reveal her part. I was going to take the full blame. Accept all consequences. I still can. “It was me.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Quinn approaches me slowly, a hunter scenting his prey. His eyes take in every nervous muscle tick. “You said you were tired of lying? Stop now.”

  Shit. I dig my hands into my hair, claw at my scalp, unable to look into those knowing eyes. Quinn grabs my chin and angles my face toward his. The rough pads of his fingers abrasive against my skin.

  “Price Wells,” he says through gritted teeth. “One of the lawyers from Lark and Gannet.”

  I nod against his grip. “Yes.”

  His other hand latches on to my arm, restraining me in place. “And you’re a part of this conspiracy.”

  Pain lances my chest, sucking the air from my lungs. But I manage, “Yes.”

  He releases me all at once, and I stumble back. Catching my balance, I prop my hands on the dresser. “Quinn…”

  He turns his back to me. “Get out.”

  The ache in my chest is unbearable. Suffocating, hacking away at my soul. I shake all over, every muscle and nerve a mess of spasms. I’m afraid to move. If I do, I’ll fall apart. “Don’t you want an explanation?”

  He rebounds so quickly, turning to face me and stalking forward, I cringe against the dresser. “There’s nothing about this you can explain or justify…” He spits the word at me, the fire in his eyes liquefying me beneath his furious blaze.

  Tentatively, because I have nothing left to lose, I pry my fingers from the edge of the dresser and reach up. My hand trembles as I lay it against his chest.

  His ragged breathing intensifies. “Avery…I’m warning you.”

  I can’t stop. I want to know. If this is the last time Quinn will ever be this close to me, I have to know. A quake rolls through me. With unsteady fingers, I carefully unbutton one, then two buttons of his shirt. By the time I reach the third, my heart threatens to tear through the cartilage of my chest.

  He allows me to push aside his shirt and reveal the tattooed script imprinted on his flesh. My fingers trace the slightly beveled letters, the warmth beneath my hand searing.

  At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.

  “Aristotle,” I whisper. My gaze flicks up to capture his penetrating stare regarding me. “There is a higher court than courts of justice, and that’s the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts.”

  Quinn’s features contort painfully. “You think Gandhi would approve of your actions? Is your conscience completely clear of what you and Sadie have done?”

  I flatten my hand over the verse. Thunderous and wild, his heartbeat rockets against my palm. “No, not at all.” I stare into his heated gaze. “If I felt what I did wasn’t wrong, if I could live with it…I wouldn’t be chancing everything right now by telling you.”

  My legs go weak. No longer able to hold myself up, exhaustion and depletion of adrenaline claim my limbs. I’m falling.

  A deep groan barrels free as he anchors his hands to my waist. Then I’m lifted up and seated on the dresser, my face forced level with his. My breath catches.

  “What am I supposed to do?” His eyes search me, but I’m not e
ntirely sure he’s asking—more demanding I give him some answer that makes sense of this for him.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “All I know is…I love you and it’s killing me.” I squeeze my eyes closed, the hot stream of tears scorching my cheeks. “I’m so wrong for you, but I can’t stop wanting you. You’re the only certain thing in my life.”

  My parents died when I was in college. I never had anyone close to me after that—never wanted anyone close. The only certainty I could depend on was me. Until Quinn.

  I can’t look. Keeping my eyes sealed, I refuse to see the disappointment and hurt I know he wears. The pain I’ve put there. He expels a heavy breath, filling the wary air between us with heartache, and that one action sounds so defeated—defeated and lost—my misery is complete.

  “I’m taking you to bed.”

  I open my eyes then, just in time to glimpse the smoldering of his irises. It steals what’s left of my strength, and when his hands capture my face, I fall into him. Off balance, giving myself over fully.

  Quinn inhales deeply, resting his forehead to mine. I can feel the war raging within him—the fight between giving in to his heroic side, where he does enclose those arms around me and shelters me from my own sins, and doing what he believes is ultimately right.

  Like the tattoo marking his chest; Quinn lives by a code. And that code leaves no room for a broken woman whose lax morals created the mess we’re facing.

  “Look at me,” Quinn orders as he pulls away.

  For a second, I savor the press of his hot breath against my lips before I cast my gaze upward.

  “We’re not figuring this out tonight.” He brushes aside the trail of tears dampening my cheek. “You need rest.” He releases my face and his arms surround me, cradling me against his chest in one strong move.

  I bury my face against him, desperate—unwilling to think of being removed. All too soon, though, I’m lying in his bed, where he pulls back the covers and tucks me beneath the cool sheets.

  I clasp his hand as he’s turning away. “Stay.”

  He doesn’t turn around, only squeezes my hand in answer, before he moves out of my touch. My heart constricts, my desperation flaring. “You said…”

  He stalls at the lamp, waiting.

  “You said even my scars were beautiful. But my scars aren’t just skin-deep, Quinn.” Maybe the scars marring my soul are too hideous, too tainted for him to see past.

  He flips off the light. I watch him exit the room, leaving me to despise the silence.

  11

  Id

  Alpha

  Think about the thing you want most—the one thing that will fulfill you. Not the dream car, spouse, home, kids… Fuck the mundane. What is your greedy little black heart’s desire?

  Now break it down. What would it take to obtain it? Chances are, there’s one common denominator for everyone: money. If you dream big enough, we’re talking a certain kind of money. A special brand of green.

  Wealth.

  There are seven billion people on the planet. A record high. And only a pocket of humans in existence can truly call themselves wealthy.

  Why is this wealth not more evenly distributed across the globe?

  Because when faced with the challenges put before them, most fail to overcome their obstacles. You have to tear down barriers, eradicate the competition, stop at nothing to obtain your goal.

  Very few possess this quality.

  Do you want to know the secret?

  It is the id. The id is greedy by nature. The id wants what it wants and has no moral limitations. The id is the most basic, carnal aspect of our personality. It demands to be satisfied. Leave it to Freud to name this selfish beast, giving credence to our pleasure principle.

  We all harbor this demon—but it’s only the select few who will feed it, nurture it, and benefit from it.

  I think about the id often, whenever confronted with new challenges. Like a certain gluttonous leach who’s been feeding off my territory. Suckling at my empire. Slowly draining my revenue.

  My ego would have me ignore him; he’s a little pissant, nothing more than an irritant. He’s not worthy of my attention. But my id knows better. It scents a possible threat to the ecosystem that’s feeding it. And it demands to be satisfied.

  “Our seven novices are right on time.” I tap the screen and enlarge the image. The cameras at the marina aren’t of the best quality, but I’m able to make out the gluttonous leach boarding the vessel. Slicked back hair. Tailored suit. Too much jewelry. Classic ghetto chic. I scoff. He watches too many movies. “And so is our friend.”

  Donovan loads a round into his gun. “Should I shake him up a bit?”

  It wouldn’t be a bad idea; make the pick-up more interesting. Let him believe he’s truly making his mark on my territory. “Have the boys send him a greeting,” I say, panning the camera to the boat. “But make sure he sets up at the warehouse on time. I want to stay on schedule.”

  Donavan collects more ammunition, then sets off.

  When the first girl is carted off the boat, I feel a stab of regret. I’m always there to greet my girls. I inspect all merchandise and oversee the branding personally. Exceptions must be made, however. My current circumstance prevents my participation.

  I zoom in, getting a glimpse of my signature on the girl’s thigh. My hands tighten on the device. I don’t like doing things out of order. Having my routine disrupted. But I’m willing to accept this detour from my original objective to achieve my overall goal.

  A panicked shout sounds from the back. Of course, there’s still plenty of hands-on work to be done here.

  I trace my finger over the screen, along each young face, giving my beauties a farewell before I kill the link to the camera feed. I set the tablet down, take a swig of bourbon, then make my way toward the back room.

  The desperate pleas and screams become louder the closer I get. I’ve just unlocked the door and entered, and already one is clinging to my leg.

  “Por favor!” she wails. “Por favor déjame ir!” Her fingers claw at my pants.

  “Her nails need to be trimmed,” I tell Micah as I lean down and grip a handful of her hair. I drag her aside. No kicking her away—I don’t want to bruise my girls before they’re displayed.

  She curls into a ball in the corner, covering her nearly naked body with her arms. I’m not heartless. I grab one of the blankets and then settle near her. “Déjame ver.”

  She shakes her head, ratty hair concealing her face. I’m pressed for time. I don’t have the patience to soothe her feelings. “I said, let me see.” I yank her leg out from underneath her and turn her so I can see the brand along her hip.

  “Very nice.” I toss the blanket at her, then turn toward Micah. He’s running a handheld torch over the branding iron. Only the best for my girls; none of that electric heat nonsense.

  The tip of the iron glows like a beautiful molten ember.

  I step over the bound girl on the floor, hover near her head. “Relax,” I say, smoothing her hair back. She’s quivering like a tautly strung bowstring, her muffled sobs just audible through the tape covering her mouth.

  Micah prepares to place the iron, and I lift her head so she can see it coming. Fear seizes her body. She struggles against the restraints. “Hold still. Don’t want to mess up your brand. We’ll have to do it again on the other leg.”

  I lean in close to her ear. “And you don’t want to know the method for removing a botched branding.” I lick her earlobe.

  Tears leak from her eyes. And despite the searing pain attacking her body, she composes herself rather well. Oh, she’s going to make me a lot of money.

  My id is pleased.

  I stand and move slowly through the room, checking shackles on wrists. Inspecting brandings. Yes, I’m pleased.

  “They need a good scrubbing.” I sniff at the air. They stink of urine. Filthy whores. “But we’re nearly ready to go to auction.”

  I unshackle the petite brunette I’
ve come to favor. She’s learned not to fight or beg. She’s smarter than the rest; I see it in the way she watches the other girls. Observes me. Examining what will earn a punishment, what gets rewarded.

  She trails my lead to the bathroom where I begin filling the tub. I pat the edge of the porcelain, and she timidly sits, tucking her hands between her thighs.

  She plays the part of innocence well. I let an easy smile grace my lips.

  “We become different people around others,” I say, letting my hand slip into the water to test the temperature. “We listen, we adapt, we project. Sometimes, we have to shave off the sharp edges when we need others to receive us as softer.”

  I nod to her dirty tank top and panties. She obediently discards them.

  “We’re also blessed with the ability to thicken those edges, sharpen them into a fine point. It’s more than our survival instincts—it’s the id. You remember I explained this to you?”

  She nods demurely, so precious, so soft.

  “Of course you do. You listen.”

  Her big brown eyes absorb my actions. She’s rapt by my words, gauging me, deciphering what I want so she can give it to me. This will work well for her later, when her owner demands something of her. In time, she’ll be able to predict his needs. Anticipate his desires.

  And then, it will work not so well for me when he removes his business once she’s learned how to manipulate him. She may even attempt to kill him one night after she’s convinced him to trust her. Let her roam freely. Bring her to bed with him.

  “It’s not a difficult thing to do; discovering what people want. What will give you access to their trust.” I help guide her into the water. “Even the most guarded person harbors the need to be known. It’s a basic human necessity—part of the id. We’re not born into this world alone; we’re designed at birth to crave interaction, and we depend on others to fulfill certain needs.”