Or am I still jumping to conclusions, my feelings for her warping me, feeding this delirious sense of panic?
Questions, I have so many questions. One too many for my brain to handle at the moment. My girl . . . My poor girl might’ve been the victim of—
No. It can’t be. He’s her fucking brother, for God’s sake.
A brother that stares at her as if he owns her.
Oh, Jesus. Lord. Please let me be wrong. Please—
Ring! Ring! Rinnnnggg!
I freeze in place at the incessant ringing of my doorbell.
Who in God’s name could it be? I don’t ever have company, don’t mingle with my neighbors. Unless it’s—
“Ruby,” I mutter.
Bet you twenty bucks she went after Nathaniel again and is resorting to showing up my place, rather than sending a text she knows will go unanswered.
I stomp over to my intercom and press down on the “talk” button long enough to snap, “I’m letting you up but swear to God, we’re discussing this bullshit”, then I press the button to open the downstairs door.
In the midst of pacing in front of my condo door, I mentally talk myself through ignoring the feeling in my chest. Pushing it all back and hiding it from Ruby long enough to deal with her once and for all.
I do agree something’s up with Nathaniel, but whatever it is, it isn’t more important than this fucking case!
Isn’t more important than Kiera, you mean.
Kiera. My Kiera. Fuck! It would make so much sickening sense. That instability I’ve seen in her gaze. The bone-deep pain she works so hard to hide—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Ruby.
“If you even say Blackstone’s name, I’m going to—” Without stealing a peek through the peephole, I throw open door fully expecting it to be my partner.
But it’s not.
“Kiera?” My voice raises several octaves in shock.
Out in the hallway, with the moonlight pouring in through the windows, my girl stares at me with those very eyes I just described.
Aching. Stark. Pleading.
And without me asking a single question, without her saying a single word, that repulsive suspicion is solidified, forever changing my world.
Forever altering my very Catholic soul.
I knew deep down, the moment I met her, that she would change me. That she would most likely finish leading me down the road of my own spiritual darkness.
I was right.
The shift within me is palpable, a vengeful rage that instantly permeates every atom of my being. Hand shaking against the door, I swallow the acrid lump in my throat, hating that I even have to ask for this confirmation of what I already know. “Kiera—”
“I need you right now.” She’s trembling even harder than I am, small hands fisted at her sides, seeming so small and vulnerable in that black trench coat. “Please.”
Questions are going to have to wait, as much as I hate it. I’ve never seen her like this. Never even thought it possible. “Anything. Anything you need, baby.”
“You. No thinking. Just feeling. I need to feel you.” With that she steps fully into my apartment, a single tear trekking down her cheek, and throws herself into my arms.
To be continued . . .
“Never again,” I mumble against her lips. “Don’t you ever distance yourself from me again, you hear me? Do. You. Hear. Me?”
In her frantic state, hands tugging at my clothes, teeth clashing against my own, Kiera nods.
It’s not enough, though.
I want to hear it.
No, I need to hear it. Need the confirmation loud and clear, because I won’t survive that shit a second time.
The last week of my life made a mockery of hell. I’ll chain her to my fucking bed before I ever allow her to put either one of us through that again.
So many unanswered questions remain between us, a dark charm of despair just waiting to be unleashed. Yet, for now, she’s getting the reprieve she sought with her distance. A chance to escape my inquisition.
First, she needs to understand one very basic fact: she’s mine. She made sure of that. And the shit she pulled the last week, running from me like that, is beyond unacceptable.
Grabbing her wrists, I secure her arms behind her back and push her down onto my straining erection, forcing her still. She mewls above me, desperate for a lick of friction, but I won’t give it to her until I hear the fucking words.
“Answer me,” I grit. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what, Kiera? Say it.”
“Yes, I understand,” she moans, louder still when I grind into her.
“You understand what?”
“No more running, no distance. I get it, Mav—never again, I promise!”
Hallelujah.
It’s like music to my goddamn ears.
My face splits in two, drawing an equally elated smile on her lips. I do nothing but stare at her in awe. She’s so fucking beautiful, all the more so when she smiles.
How is that even possible when she’s so perfect already?
Draping herself over me once more, she initiates another mind-numbing kiss. Still ravenous and passionate, but not as erratic. I release her wrists from my grip and rake my hands into her hair, kissing her back with everything I’ve got.
“I missed you so much, baby. Was going out my damn mind,” I admit.
“Me, too, Mav. I’m sorry. So sorry.” Her tongue meets my own again, sinfully circling. Gliding.
Hands on my shoulders, she eases back now that I’ve given her leeway, taking over. Hips writhing. Head falling back, baring that sexy neck.
She’s so fucking wet I can feel the heat of her through my slacks.
Her eyes lazily glide open, filled with luscious desire—
In the blink of an eye, her head jerks sideways. Her body stills. The pulse on the side of her neck begins to beat harder.
It’d be easy to say it’s because of the lust, but her pale skin whitens to a dangerous degree.
Her gray eyes widen and in profile I can see the pupil of her right eye shrink with . . .
Is that fear in her gaze?
More than fear. It seems to be a bone-deep terror, a dread that’s suddenly consuming her from within.
N. Isabelle Blanco is the Amazon Bestselling Author of the Allure Series, the Need Series with K.I.Lynn, and many others. At the age of three, due to an odd fascination with studying her mother’s handwriting, she began to read and write. By the time she’d reached kindergarten, she had an extensive vocabulary and her obsession with words began to bleed into every aspect of her life.
That is, until coffee came a long and took over everything else.
Nowadays, N. spends most of her days surviving the crazy New York rush and arguing with her characters every ten minutes or so, all in the hopes of one day getting them under control.
Sign up for her newsletter at http://bit.ly/NIBnewsletter to be the first to know how all these arguments turn out.
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Self-published author Dee Garcia was born in Miami, Florida. A voracious fan of romance novels and a long time lover of the written word, her mission is to craft unique, compelling stories that will give her readers a place to briefly escape the monotony of everyday reality. With fierce, headstrong heroine’s and swoon-worthy, possessive Alpha males weaved into her thrilling tales, Dee hopes to leave her mark on the Indie world, one decadent plot twist at a time.
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Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three Page 9