by S. Ann Cole
I read as I eat.
I also break the rules and order wine for the first time ever, because the words on these pages are painting a vivid picture of Jaxon King.
I order another glass.
Or maybe I’m being too harsh. Jaxon is not a psychopath or a sociopath. He’s a con artist. Big difference. Psychopaths and sociopaths don’t have hearts or consciences. Jaxon King might not have a conscience, but he does have a heart, so he’s not what this book says.
I stop drinking.
If Jaxon is a psycho, then so is Markus. So is Alessa. So is Melanie. So is…
Me.
I slam the book shut.
No.
I signal for my check. The bill comes, and I pay up. I walk out of the restaurant. And leave the book behind on the table.
I don’t wish to be friends with paranoia, so I leave it where it belongs. Behind.
I walk the ten blocks back to the hotel and crawl into bed, no closer to a decision on what to do next. Or how to forget that a frosty-blue-eyed sonnet called Jaxon exists.
More than likely, that’s never going to happen. Jaxon was my first in so many different ways. And no one ever forgets their first, do they?
I’m awakened the following morning by the annoying sting of something digging into my flesh.
I flick open my eyes and find I’m on my stomach. As I roll onto my back, I feel it—a cool gold chain around my neck and a heavy, heart-shaped sapphire-and-diamond pendant resting on my chest.
No.
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and grasp the pendant. On an exhale, I slowly reopen my eyes, look down, and…my heart weeps.
The Blue Promise.
The necklace from the Castellos Museum. The same one a certain person picked up and kept.
Jaxon.
I jackknife up in bed, darting a frantic glance around the hotel room.
Kicking off the sheets, I scamper out of bed and run around the suite, checking every room, every crevice, every corner.
He’s not here.
But he was here.
Bloody hell.
I trek back into the bedroom and halt when I notice something on the pillow opposite the one I slept on.
With uncertain steps, I go over and pluck it up. It’s an instant photo. Of me. Asleep, in my ivory silk nightgown, with the necklace around my neck. I look…virginal.
Scrawled on the white space at the bottom of the photo is, “What I see when I think about the future.”
I flip it over. There’s writing on the back, too, written in silver pen on the black backing.
Anne Boleyn was never a virgin. She didn’t deserve the necklace. But you do. So take it as a symbol of my promise that I am yours, and yours alone.
Aww, how romantic. He’s gifting me the necklace he stole from me. Does he seriously think that will touch my heart?
The fact he got into my suite, put a necklace around my neck, and snapped pictures of me, all without my knowing, makes me clench my teeth in anger.
How the hell?
The wine.
Crap. See? This is why I don’t drink.
A scream of fury is caged up in my throat, begging to be let out. But before I can set it free, there’s a knock on the door.
Ma.
Damn it! Time to babysit.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Abel doesn’t help to distract me today. Jaxon dominates my mind.
I go through different levels of hating his guts to missing him with an alarming ache.
What gives him the right to break into my suite?
I hate him. I hate him so damn much.
On autopilot, I just go through the motions of the day. Abel is a famous baby, so my plan to take him to the park evaporates when I walk out of the hotel and am almost blinded by camera flashes going off at the stroller, forcing me to make a U-turn right back into the hotel.
Too distracted, I hadn’t thought through the idea. I wasn’t being smart. So, when Ma returns that evening and goes off on me, I take it without comment or excuses.
The following morning, I wake up to five pink, rough-cut diamonds on my pillow, along with another instant photo of me.
Again, there was writing on the back.
In case you’re planning to run away, don’t bother. I’ll find you wherever you go. I’ll break through any security you try to hide behind.
If you need to run, run to me. I’m where you belong.
I’m out of emotions. What do I do with this?
What do I do about this?
I stare at the five pink diamonds. Where did he get these? Now that I know he’s not a bad con artist, but a good con artist who actually steals back and not from, I’d like to believe these are legit and legally obtained.
I rub my thumb over one of the stones. They are worth a lifetime.
I close my fingers into a fist and let the stones dig into my flesh until the pain is too much.
Anger is not what I feel anymore. What I feel is fear.
Fear that he’s going to force himself right back into my heart.
Fear that I’ll let him.
I fear becoming weak and defenseless against him. I fear handing him the dagger to drive into my heart. All over again.
Chapter Fifty
Ma doesn’t bring Abel this morning. I suppose she’s still mad at me for attempting to take him to the park yesterday. Probably a good thing, as I’m in no better state today than I was yesterday.
So I just lock myself in my room and fear. All the seconds, all the minutes, all the hours, I’m fearing my feelings for Jaxon.
That night, I wrestle against my tiredness and stay up all night, waiting for the bastard to break into my suite so I can throttle him.
But he doesn’t show.
He doesn’t show the night after that, either. Nor the night that follows.
Wanker. Wanker. Wanker. That’s what he is. He’s messing with my head. Muddling me.
Of course, he knew if he came two nights in a row I’d start waiting up in the hopes of catching him in the act. He’s not stupid. I’m the lummox. I’ve successfully allowed him to get in my head and negate my smarts.
He won’t be sneaking in again.
And I can’t tell if that realization leaves me relieved, or heartbroken.
Chapter Fifty-One
I wake up in heat.
I wake up with my nipples taut, aching, and every nerve-ending on high alert.
I wake up with a writhe and a tremble.
I wake up with quickening breaths.
I wake up with a throbbing clit and my legs held apart.
I wake up to a hot, wet mouth on me.
I wake up to him.
I cannot react, because the pleasure rising in me far outweighs my indignation. His skin on my skin burns. His direct, intimate contact steals the soul from my body.
I knew I should be worried. I knew I should be afraid. Because right this moment, I’m sledgehammered. I’m claimed and owned and taken as hostage.
I’ve no chance.
I’m undone.
I do not open my eyes. I’m afraid if I do, it will make this all real. Maybe, if I keep my eyes closed, I can trick myself into believing it’s all a dream. I don’t want it to be real.
As his skillful tongue does me over, I feel blindly around for a pillow and quickly press it to my face while my legs spread traitorously wider, tattling to him just how much I’m begrudgingly enjoying this.
Lifting my legs over his shoulders, he completely wilds out, determined to drive me insane—tongue licking, lips kissing, mouth sucking, fingers pumping.
My legs freeze up, my fingers curl and grip the pillow. My hips levitate as my orgasm rolls and slices through me like a flaming ball of thorns, ripping me to pieces.
I scream into the pillow. “No, no, no. Yes! Oh, God. Yes!” I pray he can’t hear my muffled words.
With long, lazy swipes, he licks me down off my all-too-brief travel through
space. I fall back to Earth with a heaving chest and leaden limbs.
He moves, and my legs slide off his shoulders. He shifts my knickers back in place.
Terrified he might rip the pillow from my face and force me to admit this is real, I press it harder to my face, damn near suffocating myself.
Dragging in a long, deep breath, I wait. Wait for what feels like forever before my nightgown is pulled up, and his warm lips deposit a kiss just above my belly button.
My nightgown is pulled back down.
Footfalls echo away from the bed and out of the room. The door closes with a click. Seconds later, the suite door beeps with his exit.
Only then do I tear the pillow from my face and release the apprehensive breath I’ve been holding, and gasp for air.
Still, I don’t open my eyes.
He’s gone.
And that is good. Because when I finally open my eyes in the morning, I can tell myself it was all a dream. All a dream.
And in some twisted way, I win.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Except, when morning comes and I open my eyes, what I see is the word MINE scrawled with a black marker, in all-caps, on each of my inner thighs.
MINE on my breasts.
MINE three times across my stomach.
My nightgown is stained with his ink.
And my heart is marked with his claim.
My soul is soiled with his ownership.
And he has won.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Ma asks, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come along with us?”
Saskia, Jahleel, and I have just finished up with lunch at Mad46. It’s their last day here in the city, and with nothing scheduled, they’ve decided to spend it shopping.
“Positive,” I say.
For one, I hate shopping. And two, she’s only asking in an attempt to keep me occupied. She’s somehow convinced if she leaves me alone, she’ll find me dangling from a noose when she gets back.
Why? Well, I told her all about Jaxon.
Everything, this time. What he does, what I do, and everything that went down. She understands, and she doesn’t judge, but she’s worried because I’ve not grieved for him.
“Grieving is healthy and curative,” she told me. “The only way to get over something or someone is to admit the loss and go through the grieving process. Otherwise, you’ll just bury the pain inside you, and that will affect the way you treat newcomers in your life. And not for the better.”
But there’s nothing for me to grieve, is there? Because Jaxon’s not gone.
He’s still around. Stalking me. Marking me. Claiming me. He’s become my nightmare. The dream I never wake up from. He’s become the thing I hate and the thing I crave. I feel him in the beat of my heart, in the pulse of my veins.
No, he’s gone nowhere. He’s right here. Inside me. He’s conned himself into my head and my heart, and he has no intention of leaving.
So, no, big sis, there’s nothing for me to grieve over.
You grieve when you lose something. And I’ve not lost Jaxon King. I’ve gained him. Ten intense heartbreaks over.
Her forehead crinkles with concern, but she lets it go and rounds the table to plant a kiss on my cheek before leaving me to myself to not grieve.
I pull my newest volume of Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior from my handbag, and signal the waiter.
I’m ashamed of myself, but I can’t help it, I’m hooked. Each time I tell myself this will be the last volume I read, I find myself back at the comic store purchasing the next issue. Xxendra is a total badarse, and I dearly want to be her.
After the waiter comes over and gives me a refill on my iced tea, I thumb the comic open and settle in for a good read.
I’m almost halfway through the riveting graphic novel when a voice sounds from above. “Must be a damn good read to have you grinning like that.”
At the nearness of the voice, I look up and see a handsome bloke standing behind the chair across the table. He has pale-blue eyes, sun-streaked blond hair—the back and sides cut short and top left longer. A strong jaw and a crooked nose that tells a tale of being broken more than once.
He’s undeniably hot. But he’s not a pretty boy. Not a poem. He’s a drum-banging, cymbal-clashing, guitar-screaming rock song. His wickedly attractive features exaggerate the syllables of mischief.
His height and the broadness of his shoulders are imposing, and my unfailing memory reminds me where I’ve seen that body, that hair, that jawline before. In Philadelphia. He’s the one whose attention those two receptionists were preening over.
But who is he, and what does he want?
“It is,” I say uninvitingly. I close the comic and set it down on the table. Then, with the slowness of a slug, I take the last gulp of my iced tea before I tilt my head up to acknowledge the stranger. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Nah.” He chuckles and, without permission, pulls out the chair and lowers his linebacker body into it. He’s wearing black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a chocolate-brown leather jacket. “There’s a family rumor. Some brainy Brit’s got my little brother’s head done in and my father begging for mercy. I had to come see for myself what the minx who’s got my bro and dad on a leash looks like.”
“Excuse me?”
Jaxon has a brother? A brother who looks like this? A brother who doesn’t hide his effrontery as Jaxon does but wears it like a studded leather jacket?
He looks at me for a beat, then shrugs. “Of course they didn’t tell you. Big surprise. But yeah, I’m a King.”
“You’re older,” I say, suspicious. “Alessa—”
“Is not my mother,” he informs me. “I’m a bastard. Dad knocked up my mom in high school.”
His gaze shifts to something over my shoulder, and his smirk deepens.
“Thought I told you to stay away from my girl, King.” The growl comes from behind me.
No.
No, no, no. No, no, no. He’s not here. At my table.
“Never taken orders from you before, and ain’t gonna start now,” big brother King says.
The air behind me shifts, and a big, heated palm rests possessively on my shoulder. “It was a warning. Not an order.” Jaxon could be talking about the weather, his tone is so flat and unflappable.
King, on the other hand, just seems like a troublemaker as he grins and holds up his hands. “Just wanted to meet the girl that’s got you and Dad whipped.” He eyes me and winks. “Starting to think you guys are exaggerating. Look at her, she looks so innocent, innocuous.”
“You, of all people, should know that looks are deceiving,” Jaxon replies. “Time’s up. Don’t you have a girl to stalk?”
“She’s gone to L.A. for a wedding, so I’ve got time to meet my new sister.”
What?
“You’re stalking someone?” I ask, incredulous that he’d admit it out loud.
Without shame or apology, he lifts a shoulder. “Only the love of my life.”
Carefully, slowly, I ask, “Does she know she’s the love of your life?”
“Soon enough.” Producing a business card from his jacket, he slides it across the table with two fingers. “Let’s meet for drinks sometime. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about my little brother.”
I glance down at the card.
Christopher King
Consultant
[email protected]
What the hell does he consult about?
Annoyed, Jaxon says, “Be gone, brother.”
King rolls his eyes and flips him off as he leaves.
Jaxon doesn’t move. His hand is burning a hole into my shoulder. “Your time’s up, too, babe.”
A lump lumbers down my throat. “Pardon me?”
“The only reason you’re here and not with me is because I knew you wanted to spend time with your family.” His voice is still matter-of-fact. “They leave tomorrow. After that, we can resume our relationship.”
The man is clearly oblivious.
“We don’t have a relationship,” I remind him bitterly.
“You’re right. We don’t. We have something more than that. We have a blazing meteorite.”
“We have lies,” I counter.
“We have a tempest.”
I grind my teeth. “I want you to leave me alone.”
For a long moment, he’s silent. Then, his mouth is at my ear. “Did it hurt?”
I don’t give a shite, but he’s obviously not going away unless I play along. “What?”
“Seeing me kiss that girl. Finding out the truth about my family.” His breath is hot. It sends shivers down my spine. “Thinking of me.”
I seriously contemplate not answering. I contemplate just getting up and leaving without looking back. But that’s all I can do—contemplate. Because the truth is what I really want to do is spin around and throw myself into his arms, I miss him so much.
The truth is his hand on my shoulder brings me more peace and assurance of safety than anything else in the world. The truth is I miss being happy. And being happy means being with him. So all I do is contemplate.
I squeeze my eyes shut and admit in a whisper, “It hurts every day.”
“And you’ve never wondered why?” His voice is so calm, so confident. “You, Timberly Day, knower of facts and experiment enthusiast, never sought to understand why your heart hurts so hard every time you think of me and all I’ve done to you? You’ve never tried to understand why you can’t resist me? Why you’re so mad at me right now? Why you can’t just get up and walk away from me without looking back, even though you wish you could?”
Oh hell and damnation.
“Get out of my head,” I grit out.
“I’m not in your head, babe. Don’t you get it?” His hand moves down from my shoulder, over my breast, settling right over my heart. “I’m in here.”
Boom!
Just like that, my heartbeat shoots off, galloping, galloping, galloping. Racing to a finish line that is outside my chest…and inside his.
His hand presses down on me, absorbing the raging beat of my heart. “It hurts because you’ve fallen in love with me.” He nips at my earlobe. “And you’ve marked me with that love. So, I can’t let you go. I want that bespectacled, fact-spewing love forever.”