“There are my two girls.”
I glance up as he enters, and he is big and broad, his hair buzzed, his green Army T-shirt a second skin. It’s weird when he’s home and empty when he’s gone, which was six long months this time. He’s intimidating, a hero who expects me to be more than I often think I can be. And I love him. He sits between me and my mom. “Hi, Dad. I was just sampling your cookies. Making sure they were up to standard.”
“I’ll have to test them myself,” he says, snapping one up and tasting it, giving a thumbs-up before kissing my mom, who glows when he’s around. He shifts his attention back to me. “You skipped out on me today at the gun range.”
“Dance rehearsal,” I say.
He grimaces, proving he’s still not a fan of my dancing, and yet, he’d married a dance teacher. Sometimes I think he wants me to be the son he never had. “Have you been going to the gun range while I was gone?” he asks.
“Twice a week,” my mother assures him.
He arches a brow. “That means once a week, right?”
“Some weeks,” I admit.
A glass shatters somewhere in the house, and my father is on his feet in an instant. “Get in the pantry,” he orders softly.
“Dad—”
“Do it,” he hisses, pulling a gun from under his pant leg that I didn’t even know he carried, and judging from the stunned look on my mother’s face, she didn’t either.
She grabs my arm and drags me with her to the pantry and inside, shutting the door. We huddle together. “Mom—” I start, but she covers my mouth. Once she knows I’m quiet, she digs her phone from her apron and dials 911 but doesn’t speak. She sticks the phone back in her pocket, no doubt hoping someone comes.
There are crashing sounds and muffled gunfire, like a silencer is being used, and my mother and I both jump. And then there is silence. Oh God, the silence is deafening and I wait for my father to come to us, but he does not. I can’t take it anymore. I jerk away from my mother, every instinct I own telling me my father needs help. I open the door and gasp at the sight of him lying in a puddle of blood. I dash forward and fall to my knees.
“Dad. Dad.”
My mother drops down beside me, bursting into tears as she starts begging him to stay alive. “Gun,” my father murmurs. “Ella … Get … gun.”
I look down to find it at his fingers and I take it. “I have it.”
“Two … men.”
The kitchen door bursts open, a man in a mask and all black appearing, and my father hisses, “Shoot,” and instinct takes over. I raise the gun and fire at the man in black, and he tumbles forward. Another man follows him and I fire again. And again. He drops to his knees and falls face first. Sirens begin to sound and my mother is shaking my father.
“Wake up!” she shouts. “Wake up!”
“Ella. Ella. Holy hell!”
Kayden’s worried voice brings me back to the present and I blink to find myself sitting on the floor of the dressing room, clutching the ballerina slippers to my chest, Kayden squatting in front of me. “I’m okay,” I rasp out, but I’m trembling all over, deep, hard shakes that I feel clear to my soul.
Kayden doesn’t hear me though. He’s on his phone. “Nathan,” he says. “Ella passed out. She’s—”
I grab the phone and put it to my ear. “Okay. She’s … I’m okay. Don’t worry.” I drop the phone, dampness clinging to my cheeks. “I’m okay.”
His hands pat my arms. “You scared the shit out of me. Your teeth are chattering.”
“It was a … flashback. I just … I … It was bad. Give me … a moment to get past it.” I inhale, and I swear the breath feels like glass cutting my throat.
“We need to get you out of here,” Kayden says. “Can you stand?”
I grab his shirt and twist it in my fingers. “I need to tell you what I remembered. I just … I need to say it so I don’t forget it. Well … no. I won’t forget it. I just need to say it.”
“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m listening.”
“My father …” I inhale and try to calm the trembling running through my body. “Military. He was military, but I think some sort of special unit.” My words are stronger now. I feel the edge easing. “The memory,” I continue. “My father was home for once. I was seventeen.” I swipe at a tear dripping down my cheek and a cold, cold calmness begins to roll through me. “Men came into the house and my father made me and my mother hide in the pantry, like you hid in the closet, Kayden. No wonder you’re so familiar.”
He cups my cheek and I lean into the touch as he says, “You were right. We do know each other. You don’t have to talk about this now.”
“I need to. I can’t explain it, but I need to.” I pause to let the images solidify in my mind. “I heard the struggle between my father and the men in our house. There were shots, but they were muffled. Silencers. I knew they used silencers. After that, there was quiet, and I had the feeling my father needed me. I fought my mother to be free of her hold and I got out of the pantry and he was lying on the ground, bleeding. Dying.” My fingers dig into Kayden’s arms, which I didn’t even realize I was holding. “My father was holding a gun, and the two men who attacked him were still in the house.” My eyes meet Kayden’s. “I killed them, and my only regret is I didn’t do it sooner.” I push to my feet and Kayden follows. “I don’t regret it, the way you said you wouldn’t regret it if you found the people who killed Kevin and Elizabeth.”
His arm wraps my waist, and only then do I realize I was wobbling and he’s kept me from falling. “You saved your mother’s life.”
“But not his. Not my father’s.”
“And no one knows what that feels like more than me.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Now he says home and I want to be happy about that, but there is the ball in my chest that demands answers and actions. “We’re supposed to see the profiler.”
“It can wait, sweetheart.”
“It can’t wait. My father raised a fighter, and I’m going to fight.” I shove against him. “Let go. I need to stand on my own.”
He hesitates, but he releases me and I’m steady now, rejecting all weakness. I hold up the slippers. “I need these. Apparently I’m good with a gun and in ballet slippers. And I want to go to the shooting range, Kayden. Can the profiler meet us there?”
“Ella, I don’t think—”
My hand flattens on his chest. “I need to do this now. Please.”
His hand covers mine, his look probing, concerned, and whatever he sees, the result is his agreement. “I’ll have him meet us there.”
Thirty minutes later, after a silent drive to the outskirts of the city, in which I replay my father’s death far too many times, we arrive at the shooting range and sit at a small cafeteria-style table in the snack area. Tyler, a good-looking thirty-something blond American man, sits across from us.
“I’m ready when you’re ready,” Tyler says, opening his sketch pad, and it’s then that I notice the tattoo on his arm. “You’re a Hunter,” I say.
He glances at Kayden, who replies for him. “He transferred from a division in America.”
“And now you have resources inside the FBI,” I assume, shocked at just how far The Underground’s reach truly is.
“We always have,” Kayden surprises me by saying. “That’s how I met Tyler in the first place. Let’s get this drawing done.”
“Tell me about the shape of David’s face,” Tyler instructs, and I hesitate, suddenly reminded of how much Kayden hates the topic of my ex-fiancé, or whatever David was.
Kayden’s hand settles on my leg, a silent show of unity and understanding, just as his silence on the ride over here had been strength and comfort, rather than demand and questions. “Square,” I say. “Or his jaw was square and his cheekbones very defined.”
I watch as Tyler starts drawing, showing me his efforts, and when I give an approving nod, he asks, “Nose?”
“Straight
, but not large.”
We go on like this for fifteen minutes, until I am staring at a picture of the man from my memory. I glance at Kayden. “That’s him.”
Kayden eyes Tyler. “Scan that and send it to Matteo.”
“Will do, boss.” Tyler pushes to his feet.
“Wait,” I urge. “Can you draw a necklace if I describe it?”
Kayden gives him a nod and he sits back down. “I’m ready.”
I describe the butterfly, and in a matter of minutes he’s drafted an exact duplication of my memories. I am cold inside. So very cold, and the pulse in my temple seems to grow faster and deeper.
“The necklace is the key to everything,” I say, staring at it, not at either of the men. “Find it, and you’ll find out why Niccolo is after me.” I stand and walk to the shooting range’s registration counter, filling out my paperwork with one of the few English-speaking attendants.
“Gun preference?” the man asks when I return the forms to him.
There is no hesitation in my reply. “Do you have a Ruger LC9?” It’s the gun my father had me practice with.
“We do, and I must say that’s an excellent choice for a petite woman like yourself.”
I don’t reply, remembering a similar comment from my father. The attendant hands me earphones, safety glasses, and a small box with my weapon inside, and while I am aware of Kayden’s continued absence, I am focused on one thing. I need a gun in my hands. Adrenaline surges through me, and with it, a whirlwind of dark, edgy emotions. Anger. Loss. Guilt. More anger. I walk to the shooting area and stop at the first booth available, setting my box down and putting on my glasses and earphones.
Kayden steps behind me, but I don’t turn. I grasp the gun and aim at the target, and for a moment I’m back in that kitchen, firing at those men. I picture the man in black falling face first. I picture my father lying in his own blood with my mother sobbing over him. My finger comes down on the trigger and I empty the gun, every shot hitting within target range.
Then I settle the gun back inside the case, seal the lid, and take off my gear, tossing it into a basket next to me.
I face Kayden. “Is that accurate enough for you?” I don’t wait for an answer. “I’m done being afraid. I’m going to get answers about who I am, and I’m going to do it with whatever force is necessary.”
“I’m taking care of this for you,” he insists.
“Not anymore. You can stand by my side, step aside, or try to lock me up—but you’d better be sure I don’t have a gun if you do.” I shove the box at him and take off walking. He falls into step with me but doesn’t speak, dropping the gun off at the counter as we head to the door. We exit the building, gravel crunching under our boots, neither of us in a coat. I barely feel the rapidly dropping temperature, but I am aware of the unison of our steps. I stop at my side of the Jag and he opens my door, but before I can enter, he pulls me against him.
“I’m standing in front of you, protecting you, whether you like it or not.” He releases me and all but sets me in the car, shutting me inside.
My heart is racing, a new rush of adrenaline assaulting my body, and the instant he is in the car, the door sealed, we whirl on each other, our gazes colliding in a battle of wills. “I don’t need you to protect me,” I grind out through clenched teeth.
“Too fucking bad.”
“I am not your responsibility.”
“Yes. You are.”
“Says you.”
“That’s right. Says me. And if you think that because you can handle a gun, you can handle the mob, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re running on heartache and adrenaline right now. And you need to come down.”
“I just remembered killing two men, and watching my father die in a pool of his own blood. How the hell am I supposed to come down?”
“The same way I do. Sex.” His fingers twine in my hair and he drags my mouth to his, his tongue licking into my mouth, a hot rasp of demand. I lean into the kiss, needing the outlet, needing it so damn bad.
“Don’t you dare coddle me,” I hiss when his mouth leaves mine.
“You want dirty, sweetheart, I’ll give you dirty.” He releases me and starts the car.
twenty-one
Kayden and I enter the castle without speaking, sexual tension crackling between us, and he is right. I need to come down from the adrenaline rush. I need the escape I know he can give me and that he claims sex can deliver. Sex with him. And it’s not just about the escape. It’s about honesty and choice, about the freedom for him to be him and me to be whatever I feel I need to be right here and now with him. We climb the stairs side by side and he doesn’t touch me. I know it’s to drive anticipation, a way to claim control, and I’d rather he have it than I have this firestorm of emotions inside. With every step we take, the promise of an experience that will be dark, erotic, and all-consuming echoes through me.
My pulse races as we approach the door to his bedroom, our bedroom, and Kayden is at my back, reaching around me to open it, and still he does not touch me. I cross the threshold and he is quick to follow, a wolf at my back, and I am most definitely his willing prey. I whirl around to face him, and he kicks the door shut. “Get naked,” he orders, tearing his shirt over his head, giving me a wicked, hot view of taut skin over lean, hard muscle.
I wet my lips and turn away, walking to the rug in front of the fireplace as it flickers to life. There is no hesitation in me as I undress, and oh how I feel the heat of his stare, a heavy caress that might as well be his tongue for the way it licks every intimate part of me. I toss away my bra and step out of my panties, but when I’m about to face him again, his hand comes down on my back.
“On your knees,” he commands, his voice low, sultry in its demand, but the order stirs a memory I try to reject. On my knees. A tight knot forms in my chest as my mind takes me back to that night in the club. To the woman tied up. To me tied up and the punishment, and the pain, that followed. But this is not then or him. This is Kayden. This is a man I think I’m falling in love with, who I trust. He won’t hurt me. There is no question of this in my mind or heart, and it infuriates me that the monster of my past has invaded this night.
Rebelling against my own weakness, I lower myself to my knees, but Kayden doesn’t follow. Seconds tick by, and I listen for every sound that does not come, waiting for a touch I desperately crave, goose bumps rising on my skin that have nothing to do with being cold, and everything to do with how much I want Kayden. It is amazing to me how alive my nerve endings are, how my nipples tighten and my sex clenches, when he has done nothing but issue a command. That is the power of this man over me, but there is no fear. There is only arousal. And the promise of pleasure.
Finally, though, he kneels in front of me, naked, magnificently male, his thick shaft at my hip. There is power in knowing I arouse him, and that no matter what control I give him, it is never all his.
His finger slides under my chin, that one touch shivering through me and tightening my nipples, his gorgeous, pale blue eyes glinting with what manages to be lust and tenderness, when I never knew two such things could coexist. “The things I want to do to you are many, and not enough. But tonight, I have only one purpose. One goal. I want you to conquer a fear tonight.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Not of me, but this isn’t about me, now, is it? It’s about a past you might not fully realize, but it affects you and us.”
“You’re talking about him—and he doesn’t belong here with us.”
“He, like Elizabeth, has to be here, because those pieces of us we can’t escape. We shouldn’t try. They’re part of who we are, separately and together. We can’t pretend the things they make us feel don’t impact who we are.”
As much as I wish to reject this idea, Kayden is right, and he is only trying to make me, and us, stronger. “What are you suggesting?”
“I have no intention of destroying us, Ella. Just the opposite. I want to give you a memory of being tied up that isn
’t about punishment, but trust and pleasure. I want to bind your wrists.” He holds up a black silk sash. “This is your choice, though. Say yes or say no. It changes nothing and it does not mean we won’t try again later. There is no pressure. This isn’t our only night together.”
My chest is tight with the magnitude of this moment and the mix of nerves, arousal, and tenderness this man stirs in me. “Yes is my answer,” I whisper, but as sure as I am as I issue my reply, a dark memory tears at the back of my mind, words finding my lips that I did not even know existed. “But I will never call you Master.”
Surprise registers on his handsome face, his arm circling my waist, molding me close to him, that silk sash dangling at my hip, teasing my skin. “How do you even know that word?”
The question is a soft demand I can’t really answer. “It just came to me. I think … I know he made me call him that.”
“Made you? I’ve played around in that world, Ella, and you don’t make someone call you Master. It’s a choice. The submissive is ultimately in control, and I have no interest in your being my submissive. Because I like control during sex doesn’t make me your Master. You call me Kayden, or asshole; I don’t care. I care about your pleasure and your safety.” His tone is vehement, anger barely contained in its depths, and I can feel the thunder of his heart beneath my palm where my hand has settled. “Tell me you understand.”
“Yes. And it matters to me in ways I’m not sure I even understand yet. I don’t want to say no to you, Kayden.”
“But you can. Even after you say yes.” He cups my face and repeats those words. “Even after you say yes.”
“I know.”
“Now your promise.”
“I promise.”
He kisses me, a deep caress of his tongue against mine that entices, seduces, but I taste the gentleness in him, the worry, that places him, and us, so far from his version of “dirty” I am not sure we can find it again. “Don’t you dare coddle me,” I demand, shoving against his chest and grabbing the silk sash he’s allowed to fall to the floor. “Tie me up.”
Denial (Careless Whispers #1) Page 25