by Meghan March
Copyright © 2014 by Meghan March LLC
All rights reserved.
Photo © tankist276
Photo © MaxFX
Cover Designer: Helen Williams, AllBookedOut.com
Editor: Madison Seidler, www.madisonseidler.com
Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com
Warning: This book contains two alpha males determined to make one woman their own. Read at your own risk. Due to explicit sexual content, graphic language, and MFM ménage, it is recommended only for ages 17 and up.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Thank You
Acknowledgments
Beneath This Mask Teaser
September—Chicago.
A plane fell from the sky.
It was quite possibly the only interruption that could have dragged Rowan out of the epic pity party she was throwing herself. It was the kind of pity party one threw when a carefully planned life and decades of hard work were demolished by a complete and utter shit storm. And not demolition by a run-of-the-mill shit storm. A shit mudslide, followed by a category five shit hurricane. Rowan doubted anything other than the plane, the fifty-story building it toppled and the hundreds of lives that had been violently and tragically cut short could have pushed the thoughts of the lying asshole and blackballing bitch who owned his sad sack from her mind.
Rowan had to swallow back the bile that rose when what she’d just seen started to sink in. The loss of life ... What the hell just happened?
The symphony of honking horns that filled the Chicago streets died abruptly, right in time with the falling plane. For a single moment, the lunchtime crowds on North Wacker Drive completely stilled.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos erupted.
“We’re under attack!” a woman screamed. She was only three feet away from Ro, and her screech nearly ruptured an eardrum. Terrorists. Okay. That makes sense. Doesn’t it?
“Run!” a large man in a suit shouted as flames burst from the collapsing building.
Traffic stood still. The familiar sound of idling engines and car radios was eerily absent. Rowan’s gaze darted around frantically. The traffic lights and DO NOT WALK signs were dark. There were no fire truck sirens screaming toward the building that was quickly becoming a fully involved inferno. No ambulances were rushing to the scene to try to save potential survivors.
A greasy feeling of panic pooled in Ro’s stomach. Loud popping noises punctured through the sounds of chaos as the glass globes of the nearby light poles shattered before bursting into flames.
Without taking her eyes from the disaster playing out before her, Ro rooted around in her bag for her cell phone. Her panic spiked when she pressed the button and swiped her finger across the darkened screen. Nothing. It had been nearly fully charged when she’d unplugged it from the charger on her desk only twenty minutes ago. Ro’s continued furious pressing of buttons did nothing to bring it to life.
Her brain snapped into focus. No way. It’s not possible.
A firefighter crashed into her bistro table as he ran toward the burning building. Her uncapped bottle of iced tea toppled, spilling onto her lap. The splash of cold liquid freed Rowan from her temporary paralysis, just as three other firefighters ran past. Thank God help is on the way. In that moment, she made her decision. She reached down to yank off her pumps, swapped them for the ballet flats in her bag, and started to run.
The sidewalks were crammed with frantic people, and Ro veered into the road, running down the middle of two lanes of frozen cars. Dodging the doors that were flung open, she sprinted the five blocks to her condo, forcing down the bubbling fear that threatened to strangle her. Her building was still standing, and there was no sign of smoke or flames. Residents crowded the sidewalk in front of the building, some were yelling, but most looked completely bewildered. Ro shoved back the instinct to try to explain what she thought might be happening. They would all think she was crazy. As crazy as I sometimes thought dad was. She darted around the crowd and threw open the lobby door and headed for the stairs. Seven flights later, she bolted down the hall and jammed her keys into the lock.
Even though she knew her condo was going to be silent, it still felt unnatural. There was no hum from the fridge, and the displays on the microwave and stove were black. There was no annoying blink of 12:00.
As was typical when Rowan was alone, she started talking to the empty rooms.
“This isn’t happening.” She dropped her bag at the door and headed into the bedroom. “He couldn’t have been right. It’s just not possible. It should have been the opposite of possible.”
She tore off her light gray suit jacket and blouse, dropping them on the unmade bed. The tangled sheets were evidence of her sleepless night. It was unbelievable how the things that had kept Rowan up for all hours could instantly seem so inconsequential. Especially when she thought about the insane tragedy she had just witnessed. She could only begin to imagine how the people at Ground Zero had felt on that fateful September day. Sick with helplessness. Suffocated by fear. Ro leaned against the wall, sagging into it for support. She needed to stay calm. She needed to focus.
In the positive column—maybe the only item in the positive column—if her father’s Vietnam vet slash doomsday-prepper on steroids predictions had actually come to pass, the dick-tastic Charles, his strap-on wearing mistress of evil, and the utter disaster they’d made of Rowan’s professional life had just ceased to matter.
Ro pushed off the wall and headed to her dresser. The bottom drawer yielded a few well-worn pairs of jeans and old t-shirts she kept for sleeping in. Tossing them on the bed, she headed for the walk-in closet, flipping the light switch as she entered. No lights flicked on. Obviously. But the habit was too ingrained to stop.
The lack of lights triggered another bout of talking to herself. “I just can’t believe this is happening.” Ro knew, rationally, that she could be completely wrong. Probably was wrong. But something in her gut had her believing the worst. It was like a Magic 8 Ball from middle school: All signs point to yes. Too bad her gut had kept eerily silent about C
harles. Ro forced the thought away. Not important anymore.
Moving farther into the dark closet, Ro shoved aside the rows of sophisticated suits and the tasteful blouses she’d so carefully selected to make up her work wardrobe. No slut gear for her, despite what her recently acquired reputation at the firm would suggest. So ridiculously unimportant now. Within seconds, she had her hands on her salvation. A camouflage MOLLE backpack. Dad’s Army surplus special. This particular backpack was one she’d grudgingly dragged from dorm rooms to apartments before finally shoving it into the corner of her closet in the swanky condo she’d been oh-so-proud of until she realized just how superficial she’d become.
She hefted the bag from the closet and dropped it on the bed. She unzipped the main compartment and surveyed the contents. MREs, bottled water, first aid supplies, a flint and steel, lighters, Ka-Bar, compass, flashlight, batteries, hiking water filter, single person tent, emergency blanket, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a host of other random survival gear. And a taser, for the love of Christ. Dad must have added that during his only visit to the city last summer. Hell, knowing him, he’d probably swapped out most of the contents with fresh supplies. Her dad was strange and amazing that way. Anything to make sure his girls were safe. Even if they thought he was a few pieces short of a full puzzle some days. Returning to the closet, she felt around until she laid her hands on her only pair of hiking boots, tucked away in the back of her shoe rack, and then pulled a sparsely-used black Helly Hansen rain coat from a hook on the back of the closet door. Ro tossed the coat on the bed next to the backpack and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, handful of socks and underwear, and added it to the pile of jeans and t-shirts on the bed. She dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, then rolled the remaining clothes into small bundles and shoved everything that would fit in the backpack before sitting on the bed to pull on a thick pair of socks and the boots. From her position on the end of the bed, she could see directly out the window to the building frenzy on the streets below. Small fires were starting to spread and would soon probably rage out of control without the luxury of fire trucks. Would the hydrants even work? Mobs of people shoved their way in and out of the stores, carrying everything they could hold. Good to know it took less than ten minutes for the looting to begin.
Gunshots punched through the commotion, and Ro knew she was making the right decision. She hefted the backpack over her shoulders and started for the condo door, knowing she wouldn’t be coming back. It was a sad testament to her life that she had no problem walking away from everything. The only person she would have dragged out of the city was her assistant, Amber. But Amber was visiting her mother in Idaho. Which was probably for the best. Tears started to well up in Ro’s eyes when she realized she probably wouldn’t ever see her again. Because she’d spent nearly every waking hour at work, Amber had been her only real friend. Except for the few weeks when she’d “dated” Charles, Ro didn’t socialize. She didn’t have a group of girl pals she met up with for drinks. She only had acquaintances from work. And if they went out, they talked about work. And they’d been quick to drop her like a bad habit when the rumors started swirling. Ro silently wished them all the best of luck. She couldn’t hold it against them. Everything she’d spent the last ten years of her life working for had become essentially meaningless in a single, insane moment in time and so had the slights and grudges. It was time to let it go and unbury that country girl Ro had covered with layers of silk, suit, and polish. It was time to get the hell out of Chicago.
Six days later—Somewhere in Michigan.
Rowan’s heart beat erratically. The stitch in her side pinched viciously, and her lungs burned from exertion.
She darted into a thick stand of bushy pine trees, hoping she’d lost them. And if she hadn’t, Ro prayed the trees and the thickening darkness would at least make her difficult to spot.
Dropping her backpack, she fisted her hands on her hips and attempted to catch her breath. Damn, running sucked balls. Especially running for your life. Because Ro was pretty sure that was what she was doing. She studied the woods, watching for any hint of movement, ready to grab her bag and run again, but all she could see was the dim outline of trees. It was easy to forget how fast darkness fell in the woods. She focused, but heard nothing but the sounds of the forest bedding down for nightfall. Regardless, she wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight.
The events of the last hour, much like the last six days, had been surreal.
Avoiding towns and people as much as possible on her trek home seemed like the best choice on a short list of shitty alternatives. She’d stayed just off the roads, kept to herself, and ventured even farther afield to set up her makeshift camp each night. Sleeping with one eye open was hell on the REM cycle. Exhaustion seemed to double the weight of her pack and make every mile longer than the last.
The evening had started much the same as the last six had—Rowan walked until she wanted to cry at the thought of taking another step, and then started assessing her options for the night. She’d been in Michigan for a few days, and houses were becoming fewer and farther between. She figured she had to be within a few days from home, depending on whether she could continue the pace she’d set. And that was debatable.
With thoughts of home distracting her, Ro ventured deeper into the woods than she’d planned. Then she heard the scream. Not a help I’m a damsel in distress type scream, but a wild and desperate keening sound that was wholly primal fear and cornered animal. The kind of scream that sounded like someone was fighting for her life … or dying. The kind of scream that a sane woman, on her own and six days into what might truly be The Apocalypse, ran away from. Not toward.
But that scream ... even though it was irrational, Ro pictured her sister. When the second scream pierced the tranquility of the woods at sunset, Ro couldn’t help but move furtively toward the sound until she spotted what appeared to be the redneck trailer-hood in the middle of the woods. Four mobile homes, so rusted it was impossible to tell what color they might have been during their younger days, formed a square. Most of the windows were boarded shut, and one had a roof-type structure built over it that extended beyond the trailer to a workshop area. A long stack of neatly piled firewood ran behind the workshop and trailer. Ro ducked behind the pile and peeked over the top. Animal skins were stretched on frames, and a fresh carcass sat on a workbench, waiting to be butchered. Flies buzzed around the blood that pooled on the tabletop. Dead doe eyes stared back at Rowan. And then she saw her.
The kick of adrenaline that sent her running toward danger drained out of Ro like water cupped in the palm of her hand, leaving icy shivers of fear in its wake.
A man with greasy, gray and red streaked hair and a shaggy beard dragged a woman by her hair out of the trailer directly across from Ro and pulled her off the ground to her knees. His gut hung over the dark pants he wore, and his faded red plaid flannel shirt split between the buttons to contain his bulk. The screen door slammed against the rusted exterior as two other men burst out, one clutching his unzipped crotch with both hands, heading toward Red and the hysterical woman who was clawing at the hand he had twisted in her brownish blonde hair.
“Listen to me, you stupid cunt,” Red said, pulling a wicked buck knife from the sheath at his belt. He tugged her hair back and pressed the knife to her throat. The woman stopped struggling. “I will gut you like a fucking pig if you make another sound.” Her cries dropped to whimpers.
“Fuck that, Pa. I’m going to cut that bitch! She almost bit my fucking cock off!” This was from the crotch-cradler. Ro cringed. He sounded seriously evil. The man behind him shoved him aside.
“That fucking cunt ain’t worth the food it takes to keep her alive. I say we bury her and find us a more ... accommodatin’ female.” He spit a long stream of tobacco juice at the kneeling woman.
She looked pitiful—brown liquid dripping down her cheek, her clothes torn, and her eyes wild and terrified. The feelings of helplessness that had been swirl
ing through Ro since that plane went down multiplied. She wished for a gun. Or an RPG. Or a freaking Black Hawk helicopter. Anything to eliminate these disgusting men from the face of the planet.
Red leaned closer to the woman and started to speak. Unable to make out what he was saying, Ro edged around the end of the woodpile, just beyond the roof covering the workshop. Bad decision. Her backpack strap caught on a piece of kindling and started a firewood avalanche. All three heads swung toward the sound. Their eyes widened. Red released the woman’s hair, and she collapsed onto the dirt.
“Get her!”
Saying a quick prayer for the woman, Ro bolted. I can’t help her if I’m dead. Ro promised herself she’d find a way to help her. As soon as she made sure she wasn’t their next victim.
Fast-forward to the present.
Breathing starting to slow, Ro crouched, flipped open her compass, and flicked on her penlight. She needed to head northeast. After getting her bearings, Ro snapped off the light and leaned up against one of the trees for a blissful moment of rest and listened for any hint of her pursuers.
A stick snapped in the darkness.
The image of Red’s wicked hunting knife flashed through Ro’s mind, and the evil words of the creepy trio had her shouldering her backpack and springing into motion.
Unable to see through the utter blackness that had settled over the woods, and too scared of drawing attention to her position to use her light, Ro just ran. Hands out, crashing through brush and swerving between the trees, she tried to block the branches, but they scraped across her face. The needles on the pine trees felt like porcupine quills when they made contact with her hands and cheeks. She ignored the sting and focused on putting as much ground between them as she could. Ro hoped their bulk would inhibit their ability to run long distances, but she didn’t slow down. The creepy trio might have endurance down to a science if they were used to living off the land.
The roar of her pulse made it nearly impossible to hear, but she thought she heard a man’s voice behind her. She risked a quick backward glance. If she saw red flannel and scraggly gray and red hair, she’d lose her shit.