Captive Beauty

by Natasha Knight

  “Yes, sir.”

  I open my eyes to find him watching me, shaking his head. “You don’t listen.”

  “Why did you leave your shoes there?” I ask, that question suddenly the most important thing in the world.

  “What?” He acts surprised, but I know he knows what. I see it on his face.

  I sigh a deep breath in, then out, and when the car turns a corner, I slide into Kill’s shoulder. He sighs too, lays my head on his lap, draws his jacket up over my arm.

  “Sleep it off, sweetheart.” I feel his hands on my hair, brushing it away from my face, and when it closes over my shoulder, I do just as he says. I sleep.

  16

  Kill

  Cilla doesn’t sleep peacefully. It’s three in the morning and I’m watching her. She keeps throwing the covers off, muttering angry words, then quiet whispers. It’s not those that make me keep vigil, though. It’s when she curls up. When she tucks her face into her arms. When she begins to cry.

  Every time I touch her, she jumps, and I think I’ve woken her but I haven’t. She’s too drunk to wake up. Trapped in whatever nightmare world the whiskey and the past have created for her. She only settles into a calm sleep when the sun begins to rise. And only after speaking the words that give me pause: “I’ll take the pounds of flesh, Jones.”

  Pounds of flesh.

  “What the hell happened to you, Cilla?” I ask, drawing her to me, wrapping an arm around her and listening to her breathe against my chest.

  The next time I open my eyes is when Cilla stirs awake. I watch her roll onto her back. Mascara is smeared across her face and left its trace on the white pillowcase. She blinks, touches her forehead, groans and closes her eyes again, turning onto her side.

  I smile. “Headache?”

  Her eyes are wide when she shifts again, looking at me, looking around the room. Remembering.

  “I feel like I’m going to die.”

  I get up, walk toward the bathroom. “You won’t die, but you’ll have less incentive to drink a half bottle of whisky after this morning.” I open the medicine cabinet, get two aspirin and fill a cup with water before returning to the bedroom.

  She looks me over. I’m wearing a pair of boxer briefs. She sits up, peeking beneath the blankets, drawing them up to cover herself.

  “I took off your clothes.”

  “I see that.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck you while you were passed out.”

  She blushes, eyes the pills. “What are they?”

  “Aspirin.”

  She takes them, sets them on her tongue, takes two sips of water and gives me the glass back.

  “Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to drink that much?”

  She shakes her head, closes her eyes. I can see she’s hurting. I take a deep breath in. “It might help if you eat something.”

  “I don’t think I can keep anything down.”

  “Just lay back down then. Sleep a little longer.”

  She nods. “I have to pee.”

  I push the covers back and offer my hand. She grabs the edge of the comforter to try to cover herself and slides off the bed, almost falling until I catch her.

  “I’ve seen you naked already, remember?” I walk her into the bathroom, lift the lid of the toilet and sit her down.

  “Can you go away?”

  “No.”

  “You like humiliating me?”

  “In this case, I don’t want you to fall over and crack your head open on my bathroom floor.”

  At that, she lowers her lashes, obviously agreeing it’s a possibility but not wanting to give me the satisfaction of admitting it. A moment later, she pees. It’s a quiet trickle. I wait for her to wipe, then help her stand and flush the toilet. She washes her hands, pushes the hair from her face as she looks at her reflection.

  “I look like I feel.”

  “No, I’m guessing you feel a lot worse. Come on.”

  She lets me take her back to bed. Once she’s in, I tuck the comforter up to her chin.

  “Why did you have the gun pointing at me?”

  She shrugs. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t pointing at you. I didn’t know you were coming up just then.”

  “Why did you pick it up at all? I mean, I understand you would go through my things even though I told you not to. It’s your nature to be…difficult.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Have you ever even handled a gun before?”

  “No. I’ve never touched one. I just saw it and…” she trails off.

  “What? And what?” I watch her and she me, and I know she’s trying to decide if she’s going to tell me or not. “You said some strange things last night, Cilla.”

  “I was drunk. Drunk people say strange things.”

  “No, not then. In your sleep. You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll take the pounds of flesh, Jones’. What does that mean?”

  She quickly shifts her gaze, her cheeks reddening. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “You said your brother’s name. Several times.”

  “I have to sleep.” She rolls onto her side, facing away from me.

  “What happened? What do you have to free yourselves from?”

  She burrows deeper into the comforter. I wait for her answer, and it takes her a long time to talk. I think I hear her sniffle, but I don’t push it.

  “Thank you for taking care of me. You didn’t have to do that, I guess.”

  She’s not going to tell me. Not now.

  “You took care of me the other night.” I mean when I walked in after my middle of the night trip to the barn. I mean when she wouldn’t leave me alone when I told her to. Because the last thing I wanted that night was to be alone.

  I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me.

  * * *

  It’s late afternoon when I hear the coffee machine go on. I get up from my desk, walk out of the study to find Cilla in the kitchen. She has the makings of a sandwich on the counter and is nibbling on a piece of bread. Her hair’s wet from a shower and she’s wrapped in a bathrobe. I remember she doesn’t actually have any clothes here.

  “I’ll send someone out to pick up some clothes.”

  “I have a closet full of clothes in my apartment. It’s only about twenty minutes from her.”

  “That’s fine.” I approach the counter.

  She looks at me, confused. “Does that mean I can go there?”

  “It means I’ll send someone.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Run? Call for help?”

  “I just like to keep you close.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Do you fuck the strippers?”

  I’m taken aback. “What?”

  “The girl from last night. I watched you with her. Saw how you looked at her—”

  “How did I look at her?”

  She turns her stubborn chin up, sucks in her cheeks. “I saw you order a bottle of champagne,” she says before busying herself with making her sandwich.

  I walk around the counter, take her arms, make her face me. “Are you jealous?”

  She gives me an incredulous look. Like nothing could be further from the truth. But the flush of her cheeks gives her away and I grin.

  “You’re jealous.”

  “No, of course I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She straightens and looks at me, suddenly angry, probably because I’m onto her. “I just think you should be using condoms with me if you’re going to fuck your strippers.”

  I laugh outright, release her and take the slice of cheese off her bread. I stick it in my mouth. “I’m not fucking anyone else.”

  “I saw how—”

  “I’m not fucking anyone else, Cilla. Don’t be jealous, it’s not becoming.” I open the fridge, grab the juice.

  “What does that even mean?”

  I turn to face her, find her standing with her hands
on her hips.

  “Which part?” I take the lid off the carton and drink straight from it.

  “You know what? Piss off.” She turns her back on me, puts another slice of bread on her sandwich and picks it up like she’s going to walk way.

  I grab her arm and spin her around.

  “You don’t get to tell me to piss off. And you don’t get to walk away.”

  “Let me go.”

  I don’t. “I told you I’m not fucking anyone else.”

  “I don’t care if you are.”

  I take the sandwich from her hand and bite into it, then set it on the counter and release her. When she makes to scoot away, I trap her with a hand on either side.

  “I think you do care,” I say in a low voice.

  She stares up at me, not denying it. “I want something from you,” she says instead.

  This is a turn I didn’t expect. “What do you want?”

  “Two things, actually.”

  My eyebrows go up.

  “I want to see Jones.”

  I expect this one but I have a feeling it’s the second thing that’s going to throw me. “And?”

  She searches my eyes, caution in hers, the battle of whether or not to trust me.

  “And I want you to help me get my pound of flesh.”

  17

  Cilla

  Kill’s watching me closely, yet his eyes betray nothing. I want to know what he’s thinking. What he knows about me.

  “You’re dark, Cilla.” His eyes move to my mouth. Down to the exposed skin of my chest. With one hand, he undoes the belt holding the robe together so it falls open. He looks down at me, at the space between my breasts, at the slit of my sex. His eyes glide back up to mine. “Whose flesh?”

  “Herbert Callahan.”

  “Judge Herbert Callahan.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Why? What did he do to you?” he lifts me up, sits me on the counter, pushes my legs wide. Even when he just looks at me like that, with that wild hunger in his eyes, he makes me wet.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You want me to kill a judge but you can’t tell me why?”

  “I never asked you to kill him. I said I wanted your help, that’s all. I want to feel his blood on my hands.”

  He studies me for an eternity. I reach out to touch the scar on his face. I trace it.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I move my hand to his lips. His chin. Down to his chest. Over his powerful arms. He’s wearing a T-shirt today. I pull it out of his jeans, push it up until he slides it over his head and tosses it aside.

  “You have secrets,” he says, pushing me backward, opening my robe wide and dipping his head between my legs. “And I want them. That’s why I want you.”

  I touch his head, pull it into me, arch my back when he takes my clit into his mouth.

  “You want to own everything,” I say, wrapping my legs around his neck. “You want me inside and out. You can’t, though. Not this time.”

  He raises his head, meets my eyes. “I always get what I want.”

  I push him back between my legs. I want his mouth on me. “Will you help me?”

  He dips his tongue inside me before returning to my clit, teasing it, then sucking hard, making me cry out. Making me squeeze my legs tight around his neck as he slides one hand up to my breast, pinches my nipple.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, closing my eyes. His tongue is soft, the scruff of his jaw rough, and I come. I come on his tongue as we negotiate murder. I come hard as he tells me he’ll possess me. Own every part of me.

  I’m gasping for breath when I loosen my legs from his neck. He straightens, looks down at me, doesn’t wipe his glistening lips. Instead, with one hand, he undoes his jeans, pushes them down. He leans over me, thrusting into me so hard, my breath catches. He brings his face to mine, kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, his tongue, and I open for him. He’s rough, fucking me hard, and it’s not long before I’m coming again, clinging to him, digging my nails into his shoulders as he mutters a curse, his mouth still against mine, his breath short gasps as I feel him come inside me, filling me up.

  When he pulls out of me, he lays a hand on my belly, holding me down. He’s watching cum spill out of me, I feel its warmth slide down my thighs. He looks at me as I rise to a seat, snakes his hand up my back, to my neck and into my hair and kisses me roughly, drawing me to stand. When he’s done kissing me, he keeps his hand at the back of my head, holds me close, his eyes unreadable.

  “Tell me why.”

  I shake my head no.

  He squeezes his fingers in my hair, making me flinch.

  “What did he do to you?” he asks.

  I can’t tell him. I promised Jones. Besides, if I did, he’d be repulsed by me and some part of me, it needs him. It needs Killian Black. Needs him to want me.

  “Will you help me?”

  He releases me, steps back, tucks his dick into his briefs and pulls his jeans closed. All the while, he doesn’t release me from his gaze.

  “You don’t want blood on your hands, Cilla.”

  That’s not what I expect. Not what I want to hear. “I know what I want.”

  He shakes his head. “Tell me why.”

  “I told you I can’t. Can’t you help me without asking that one thing? Can’t you leave that one piece of me to me?”

  “I’ll kill him for you, I’ll make it slow. Pound by pound if that’s what you want. But you need to tell me why.”

  “I don’t want you to kill him for me. I want to take the pound of flesh. Me.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not poetry, that.” He touches my cheek. “You’re not cut out—”

  “You don’t know me!” I yell. Kill stands watching. If he’s shocked or even surprised, he doesn’t show it. This man is like a vault, everything locked up tight, yet he wants everything from me. Wants me stripped naked. Laid bare.

  I fist my hands at my sides, punch them into his chest. He takes my wrists, holds me there.

  “You don’t know anything about me, Killian Black!” I hear how my voice has changed, hear it break. I try to pull free, but I can’t. “I thought you would help me.”

  “I will. I already told you I will. I just need to know why.”

  I shake my head and this time, when I try to break free, he releases me. I run into the bedroom. His. It’s where we slept last night. But I stop, shake my head, back up into the hallway. He’s standing at the other end of it watching me, so I turn, and I run into another room. The one he’d put me in the first night. I slam the door shut and slap my hands onto my face, press against my eyes.

  “Cilla.”

  “Leave me alone,” I manage. I’m not screaming anymore.

  He opens the door, but I can’t look at him. I run into the bathroom and close the door, sit with my back to it and I cry. I just sit there and weep. There’s no sound, and somehow, I’m calm but I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop the tears and there’s just so many of them, a never-ending waterfall. And even when I know he’s gone, I just keep sitting there, weeping.

  I was close. So close. But it’s gone now. All my strength of the night before, it’s gone. That sliver of light, of hope, it’s being washed away by this unending fall of tears.

  18

  Kill

  The one thing I don’t need right now is fucking Benji in the lobby. Cilla’s in her room falling apart. I’m standing here like some asshole not knowing what the fuck to do for the first time in my life, and my idiot cousin chooses this moment to show up.

  “Send him up,” I growl into the phone.

  I text Hugo in the meantime. He checked in early this morning to tell me he’d landed but I haven’t heard from him since.

  “Anything yet?” I text.

  “Nothing. I’m about to knock on an old housekeeper’s door.”

  Of course he’d have nothing. Callahan is no fool. He won’t leave a trail. />
  “Keep me posted.”

  “She’s about ninety-four so I don’t expect much.”

  “Let me know anyway.”

  The elevator doors slide open and Benji steps off wearing a big grin and those stupid shoes with the platforms again. His eyes bounce around the room and he’s holding his hands together nervously like an addict in withdrawal.

  “Ben,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t like how we left things.”

  I just look at him.

  “Can I have a drink?” he asks.

  “It’s early for that, isn’t it?”

  He’s agitated, on edge. “I just need a drink.”

  “Sit down.” I pour him a whiskey and sit across from him. “What are you doing here, Ben?”

  He swallows half the whiskey before speaking. “I want you to know I’m loyal to you. We’re family.”

  I sit and silently wait.

  “What my father did, it was wrong. Didn’t feel right I brought that up the other night. Ginny was a good friend to me.”

  I nod my head. He’s the last person I want to talk about this with, but he’s right. He and Ginny were friends and her death impacted him badly. It’s one of the reasons I’ve always felt a responsibility to him.

  “You came here to tell me that?”

  “No, there’s something else. I need your help.”

  Ah. “What now?”

  “I’m in trouble, Kill. Real trouble.”

  “What was it, two months since you were last in real trouble?”

  “It’s worse this time. For real.”

  “M-hm.”

  “I owe money.”

  “Same trouble, different day.”

  He sighs. Grits his teeth.

  “Is that why you put Jones up to stealing that bag of coke from me?”

  “I wasn’t stealing from you. It’s Benedetti’s coke.”

  “You know I almost broke both his arms and legs for it, right? Yet you walk away scot-free.”

  “But you didn’t,” Ben says, surprising me with his seemingly sudden sobriety. His rage. His knowledge.