by Angel Payne
“What do you want?”
There’s a hitch of a female’s breath, as if my malevolence has found its way through our connection. I can only hope. At last, a voice like dark syrup oozes back at me, “Reece. Darling.”
“If you mean the guy who’s going to greet tomorrow’s sunrise with his hands around your neck, then yeah, ‘darling’ works.”
Her petulant huff fills the line while raw fury swells my blood. “Now is that any way to speak to your creator…Señor Bolt?”
“Sorry,” I rebut. “I missed Frankenstein’s TED talk.”
Her syrup spins into a light laugh. “Ay. You were never this funny in the lab, darling.”
“Sorry again. I was a little busy being turned into a fucking one-fifty-watt freak.”
“But have you not heard? Freaks are all the fashion now. And as for fucking…” Her mirth turns sultry. “I would like to think that some pleasures are worth waiting for.”
I twist my lips, fighting a fresh coil in my stomach along with the deeper, darker memories her words bring. Being braced on a steel lab table, my arms and legs bound, surgical lights blinding me to the outskirts of the room. Her voice, in that tone, ordering the technicians to increase the wattage to my groin. Her heavy sigh as my cock responded in kind…
I thrust the images away with a jerk of my head and a savage rumble in my throat. “Well, I’m done with waiting, bitch. State your demands, and let’s get on with it.”
Despite that I already know what those ultimatums are going to be.
Despite how I understand this could all end up with me being back on that damn table soon.
Better me than Emma.
Dear God…anyone but her.
Nothing solidifies my intention more than the cheeky tsks that come through the line, each stabbing the severe truth back into my psyche—this demoness still holds all the fucking cards.
Or does she?
“I have a name, you know,” she murmurs, with at least half of her confidence replaced by irritation. I turn and pace slowly back out into the alley, free of the echoes of the main event room. If that is a fissure in her composure that I hear, I want to be ready to pick at it. Stab into it. Make the monster bleed.
“Yeah?” I counter, purposely injecting my tone with a low—and false—note of lust. “And I think you’re mistaking me for someone who cares about it.”
“Faline.” She blurts it nearly immediately—and definitely desperately. I want to rejoice and recoil at once. My instincts are right. She wants me but not just for what’s between my legs. “You may call me Faline.” She’s back to the Spanish sun croon. “Why don’t you start practicing now so you can say it clearly when your lips are between my thighs?”
When every rat in New York grows a brain and turns into an Uber driver.
It fits. I have a strong commiseration with the rats of the world right now. To that end, it gives me more than thorough pleasure to drawl into the phone, “Just tell me where and when you want this to go down, bitch.”
Now I’m walking a line. Might just have toed too far over the thing, if the heavy breathing from Faline’s end is any indication. Either that or the woman gets very turned-on from men jerking on her dominatrix chain. Neither matters to me, because ultimately, I have what she wants.
Me.
But damn it, she has what I want—and fuck it if her silk scarf of a laugh doesn’t clearly lay that out.
This is going to be a head-to-head battle of two monumental wills.
And I have to keep my shit together enough to stay one step ahead of the bitch.
Like right now, as Foley walks out with pen and paper in hand, pointing at the phone in my hand. As Faline continues loving the sound of her own laughter, I instantly interpret what the guy needs, and I scribble Emma’s cell number onto the pad. I look up long enough to catch Foley pulling his hands apart, thumbs and forefingers pushed together, in the universal sign for “string it out.” I nod on the outside but groan on the inside. I’d like nothing more than to never hear this woman’s voice again.
“Well, well, well. You are a fun one, aren’t you?” she husks, dragging me back into the swamp of her energy. “Maybe having you back in the fold will be good for more than just a little recreation.”
“You’re just figuring that out now?” I’m rudderless about how to sound. Foley’s useless for feedback, having already returned inside. His head is bent into his own phone, hopefully on a direct line with one of his spy-world contacts across the country. Getting triangulation on the call might be our fastest route to Faline—and even if Emma isn’t with her, it’ll be a start in the right direction. Well, a better one than the knowledge of the Consortium’s connection to the Scorpios. “Did you really just commit the biggest mistake in the book when it comes to me, Faline?”
She sends out a sound like a purr and a hum. “And what might that be, Reece Richards?”
“Believing everything you read about me.”
“Ah. That mistake.” The purr-hum again. “Well, then. It shall be enjoyable to separate fact from fiction. Maybe you’ll give me a pleasant surprise.”
I spin, crunching loose pavement, as if the action will help me keep a grip on the buttons of this conversation—fastenings that her tone is clearly twisting free. “I’m full of them,” I babble, grinding to a new stop as if that’ll also mute my urgency. Christ. The last time I was this nervous talking to a female, I was twelve and hoping to cop a feel up Amanda Ogden’s sweater after I took her to the Manhattan Cotillion’s winter formal. “Surprises, you know. As if anything surprises you anymore?”
Fuck. This shit is staler than the cookies they served at that damn dance. And there’s a lot more on the line than Amanda Ogden’s nipples. But the rule has to hold true, even for a bitch like Faline. Get a girl to start talking about herself, and—
“We shall see about that too, won’t we?”
“About what?” At last, a line I don’t have to work so hard for. “Fact, fiction, or you being surprised by either?”
“As I said”—and suddenly, she’s biting my head off as if I said her ass looked big in that train wreck of a beaded gown—“we shall see, Reece Richards.”
But worse than her snip is the new noise in my ear.
The false placidity of a dial tone.
“Shit,” I choke out, only to roar it again at full volume. I barely restrain myself from hurling the phone down the alley.
“Hey!” Despite Foley’s bulldog bark, his presence gives me some needed calm. Not a lot but enough to realize that if he’s taking the time to be pissy about my rage, he’s got actionable news. “We got it locked down.” He holds up his cell. “Em’s phone is at Teterboro. Now whether she’s anywhere near the damn thing—”
“Let’s roll.” I bite it out fast, not only because every second is precious right now, but if I start moving again, I’m likely to overlook the need to question him why my woman is suddenly “Em” to him.
Helping in that distraction is the arrival of a couple of black Escalades that screech to dual stops after barreling up the narrow back road. My nerve endings are naturally called to alert, until Foley walks to the driver’s side of the front truck and smacks palms with the driver in a classic mano a mano, missing everything but the shoulder bump. Before they’re done, Foley motions me over with a jog of his head.
“Took the liberty of calling in the cavalry, in a manner of speaking,” he explains, motioning toward a guy who looks like he should be blown up fifty feet high over Times Square in nothing but his underwear, despite the black turtleneck and flak vest in which he’s now dressed. “This is Sergeant Ethan Archer. We do sets at Malibu or Venice when he’s in LA. And, oh yeah—he also dabbles a bit in Spec Ops from time to time.”
“Army,” the guy says in answer to the curiosity in my stare. “Out of JBLM, Washington State.” He smiles and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. Most of the fuckers in here will be calling me Runway. Feel free to do the same.” He cocks a t
humb toward the second row of the car, where a couple of lean-muscled guys wave their hellos. One looks descended from real ninjas, despite his angular Asian features being surrounded by spiked hair the color of an eggplant. The other has equally chiseled features but thick ginger hair and grins as if he’s about to file a report for his Hollywood interview show.
Foley pivots around, pointing at the next Escalade. “You might know pretty boy number two back there.”
I walk a couple of steps before laughing as recognition hits. “Dan Colton?”
The CEO of Colton Steel, also a contender for underwear-over-the-Square placement, leans his tawny head out and beams a movie-star smile. “Hello there, sir. Understand you have need of some guys who know what the hell they’re doing?”
“Which completely qualifies you,” Foley cuts in. “As long as you don’t take the labels off the foot pedals.”
“What the fuck?” I mutter as the two men flip joking middle fingers at each other. “Ohhh. Wait a second.” I narrow my gaze back at Dan. “You used to be a G-man too, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He smirks Foley’s way. “CIA. Showed this choad a few tricks when we worked a few overlapping cases.”
“Yeah,” Foley retorts. “Just as soon as I showed him the basics, like how to turn on a computer.”
Colton throws him another mocking glower before tossing back his head to beckon me over. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s do this. Time’s burning.” He nods a silent you’re welcome to my grateful glance before calling out, “Hop in down here, Richards. Kane’s riding shotgun”—he nods toward the dark-haired hulk of a guy in the passenger seat—“but the back seat’s clear, and we brought flak jackets for you and Folic Acid there.” He gives my leathers a fast but professional assessment. “But since we’re already giving you a gold star for coming to class prepared, you can use the drive time to brief us all on a secure channel. We’ll be locked and loaded once we hit Teterboro to get your girl.”
“Fucking. Perfect,” I answer instantly.
“Just as long as ‘Folic Acid’ hits the skids right now,” Foley mutters while we break into a jog toward the rear Escalade.
“What?” I counter. “You prefer Sally?”
He rolls his eyes. “Thousands of dudes doing this dangerous spy shit across the globe, and I’m the one frontloaded with the lame call signs.”
I’m tempted to one-up him on that. Just try thinking about getting through orgasms that feel like your dick’s been jammed in a light socket. But right now, I really am like a rat in a lab maze, unable to comprehend anything beyond the route in front of me and the walls around me.
Walls with gears I can hear turning every minute, cranking their confines tighter in on me. Tighter.
But I trudge one foot in front of the other. Then again and again. To the end of the row, then around another twist. Inhale, exhale, repeat—no matter how hard it feels to live another minute without her.
To think about her in the captivity of those fucking bastards…
Another step.
Another turn.
Another breath.
Praying she’ll be at the end of the maze.
And if Faline is there with her?
All the better.
As I yank my bow tie free and strip off my formal shirt to replace it with a Henley and a bulletproof vest, I allow myself to affirm it with a low growl. I don’t mind that the sound burns every inch of my throat. I don’t even mind that the fire spreads lower, through my chest, claiming every rib like napalm through a forest. The fury is perfect. My purpose is seared on my conscious—and its promise blazes in a savage snarl from my lips.
“Your rat’s grown out his teeth, bitch. And now he isn’t afraid to use them.”
Chapter Two
Emma
“It’s time for you to spill, sister.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Lydia speak those words with something other than a snarky grin and a matching wink. The difference between that and this fear-tinged growl are like soft jazz and punk rock—and right now, I seriously wish I could flip the channel back to sappy saxes and crooning clarinets.
Yeah, and I also wish my backside were parked on something other than a concrete floor that might as well be a slab of ice. And that I’d put on my Phantom sweatshirt instead of my Waitress T-shirt before answering Lydia’s text. And that I’d managed to snap two coherent thoughts together once I had found her, trembling and bound and terrified, at the mercy of thugs obeying the orders of a woman who makes Lucrezia Borgia seem like Twilight Sparkle. That I’d been able to think of any other option than obeying the bitch with just as much blind stupidity. Even if I’d thought it through to leave behind some kind of clue for Reece…
Reece.
My chest squeezes as his name echoes through my heart. I let my eyes do the same while knocking my head back against the storage room’s wall, but only for a fast second. Only long enough to let a silent scream tear through me, soaked in the anguish of imagining what he’s enduring right now—a pain I felt from the moment I got into the van next to Lydia. As soon as my dread soaked down to my knees, making me fall into the seat next to my sister, they’d rammed the door shut behind me with a horrifying whump, not only locking us into the car but flooding my system in pure fear. The goons hadn’t even had time to bind me yet, but I didn’t even think of moving. I’d been helpless. Paralyzed. Terrified that if I even breathed, they’d injure ’Dia—or worse.
I wince from just recalling the moment—and the long minutes that went by after that, in which I was too terrified to gather even one pertinent fact about the city streets on which we drove. I would’ve had time too. This crew was smart about the getaway, immediately slowing to match the pace of traffic from the moment we emerged onto the main roads. They turned the vehicle into just one of a thousand in the Village, even near midnight on a Sunday. When NYPD sped by, lights and sirens at full wattage and wail, they hadn’t even slowed at the sight of a catering van making its way across town. As the sirens had gotten fainter, my spirit had sunk deeper—then even deeper still—into the mire of one awful revelation.
This feisty damsel-in-distress stuff is no effing fun.
The declaration, while stemming from despair, gives back a weird blessing to me, the form of much-needed fury. There’s the strength I need to straighten my posture and reopen my eyes, despite knowing the sight that’ll rip me open again when I do.
My sister’s terrified face.
Correction. This feisty damsel-in-distress stuff is impossible.
If fate needs another chance to drive that point in deeper, it’s when I struggle to give my shoulders a break from their tension because of my bound wrists at the small of my back. The motion makes me squirm, and I’m immediately alerted about the hugeness of that mistake when my full bladder aches for relief.
“Damn it.”
“What?” Concern replaces ’Dia’s fear as she wiggles closer. “Are you all right, baby girl? Are you hurt? Goddamnit. If they’ve hurt you—”
“I’m fine.” I push it from between locked teeth. Going for any other option would have me succumbing to the stings behind my eyes. Lydia. Always my fiery, plucky, protective big sister—even now, when she’s been captured, kidnapped, and entrapped by the Asshole Dumpling Gang, and I’m the reason. Even when she’s shivering just as badly as I am and her arms and hands probably hurt worse. Holy shit. Her arms. The instruments of her profession. The powerhouses of the winning streak she’s been on, even earning her the attention of a few potential sponsors.
Okay, screw the damsel in distress. Plot twist. I’m now one pissed-off princess.
“You don’t sound fine.” Lydia mutters it as if we’re simply out for lunch and there’s too much mayo on my sandwich.
“I’m mad, okay?” I let all my frustration dump into the words, knowing ’Dia already hears and understands the dread that’s driving it. I just wish my wrenched heart and fried nerve endings did. They crumble just enough to let hot
tears well and spill, and I instantly duck my head to hide the awful weakness. “You…you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be tied up like this, miserable like this, because of something you have nothing to do with. As soon as those piss buckets had me, they should have let you go. I should have made them let you go. Now, you’re caught in the middle, and—”
“Okay, stop.” She’s close enough now to jab her knee into my thigh. Hard. “Every day, people get dragged into circumstances they have nothing to do with, okay?”
I jerk my head up, side-eyeing her. No. Side-glaring her. “That’s your tack for making me feel better?”
“What?” she rebuts. “The truth?”
“God, I hate it when you’re practical. Ow. Hey!” The last of it punches out as she knees me even harder.
“And I hate it when you’re melodramatic.”
“Excuse me, Vivien Leigh?”
Her turn for the side-glare. “Fiddle dee-dee, wench.”
I give her a dismissive eye roll before jerking my head a little higher. Sweep my gaze up and over the concrete ceiling from which a long lighting fixture hangs, its fluorescents illuminating several steel shelves filled with hundreds of boxes. A mind-boggling sea of numbers is stamped on the end of each box. At the back of the room, tucked into the space between the shelves and the wall, are a couple of leather bucket seats, as well as some crescent-shaped control panels outfitted with enough switches and levers and lights to put the Starship Enterprise to shame.
“I’m not melodramatic,” I mutter. “I’m realistic.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
Soft snort. “I have to pee.”
“Thanks for that reminder too.” Unbelievably, she’s able to push to her feet without using the wall for leverage, wobbling but keeping her balance on her four-inch heels. And once again, my sister flabbergasts me. I’m in padded flats and my feet are already screaming. Lydia’s in the latest Louboutins yet struts like a queen toward the back of the room. “Maybe they have a spare potty hanging out around here,” she calls. “Hell, I’ll even take a dismembered airplane crapper right now.”