The Bridal Candidate 2 (Heart Connections)

by Linda Verji

  THE BRIDAL CANDIDATE 2

  A Heart Connections Novel (Book #2)

  Linda Verji

  Titles Available In The Heart Connections Series

  The Bridal Candidate 1 (#1)

  The Bridal Candidate 2 (#2)

  For information on Linda Verji’s other books and series join Linda’s Reading Group

  Copyright © 2016 by Linda Verji

  www.lindaverji.com

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent from the author, excepting brief quotes in reviews.

  This is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  An Interracial BWWM Romantic Drama

  Rated 18+ for Explicit Sex and Strong Language

  Cover Design By Indigo Forest Designs

  'With every choice you risk the life you could have had. With every decision you lose it.’

  ~ Cassia Leo ~

  PROLOGUE

  The darkness was overwhelming. It permeated the rancid air, clung to every inch of the grimy walls of the tiny concrete cell, and enveloped Lincoln Ware as he lay on a dirty mattress set upon an even dirtier floor. Like a yawning mass of nothingness, the darkness taunted and laughed at him, reminding him that there was no escape from its shadowy clutches.

  Perhaps dying was better, Lincoln thought as he dragged the thin, musty blanket to his chin and curled himself up in a tight ball to ward off the cold. In death there was no feeling.

  No feeling pain.

  No feeling hopeless.

  No feeling forgotten.

  Sometimes he wondered why he hadn’t given in to the darkness yet, as did his captors. Any sane man would’ve given in by now; given them what they wanted just so he could be free again. But Lincoln wouldn’t.

  Aiko. Her name floated through the darkness reminding him of why he refused to surrender. Like an invisible light, her name infected his mind with renewed vigor and fortified him against the shadows. The years since he’d last seen her should’ve erased his memory of her face. Yet they hadn’t. His memory of her was still fresh as if he’d seen her just the previous day; coffee dark skin, liquid brown eyes, that jagged scar that run down her left cheek.

  Aiko. She was the reason he refused to give in, give up or die. She was his invisible cell-mate, keeping him company in his solitary confinement. Sometimes, it felt like she wasn’t just in his head; that she was actually there. And he found himself talking with her, laughing with her. Even though he’d lost hope that he’d ever see her again in this lifetime, she remained his second conscience, reminding him of what he – what they stood for.

  Strength. Honor. Loyalty.

  Clang. Lincoln sat up at the sudden sound, immediately recognizing it as that of the metal door at the end of the hallway. His deduction was confirmed when a streak of light emerged beneath his door breaking his cell’s pitch black monotony. He tensed and held his breath, waiting to hear what sound would emerge afterwards. When he heard the shuffling of feet and the squeaky wheels of a cart being pushed along the hallway, he sighed in relief. The cart was good. It meant food.

  The cart paused a few feet from Lincoln’s cell, then moved again. Paused then moved again. Paused then moved again. Three prisoners down, fourteen to go, Lincoln counted. This cell block was so quiet and in permanent darkness that if it wasn’t for the food-cart and the day trips to the work-farm, he wouldn’t even know that he had other cellmates - cellmates he wasn’t allowed to talk to.

  He’d learnt that the hard way.

  Lincoln scrambled towards his door when he heard the cart stop at Prisoner Eight’s cell, and cupped his palm beneath the hatch. A few seconds later the cart squeaked its way to his door. There was no alert; just the metallic flap covering the hatch being pushed inwards then a bowl dropping. Even though Lincoln caught the full plastic bowl deftly in his cupped palms some of its contents sloshed onto his hands. Fortunately, the food was never hot enough to leave burns. On his first few days here, he’d been stupid enough to believe that if your bowl dropped to the floor you could ask more. He was wrong.

  He’d learnt that the hard way.

  Bowl in hand, Lincoln crawled back to his sleeping pad by the wall. When he tipped the bowl to his mouth he wasn’t surprised to find that it was the usual fare; a watery cornmeal porridge that tasted like it was made from sewer water and ass. Anyone else would’ve thrown it away. But Lincoln was a soldier. He knew the value of food – any food. He gurgled the porridge down like it was a gourmet soup made by a five-star chef. Some of the liquid spilled onto his ragged beard, but he let it stay. In this world there was no use for finesse or table manners.

  When he was done eating, he crawled back to the door, and pushed the bowl through the hatch. It landed with a thump on the other side of the door. Moments later, the food-cart wheeled past his door again, stopping only to collect his bowl before it exited the block. With the food-cart gone, the block and all its prisoners were once more plunged into darkness. By no means was the meal filling, but it was enough to allow Lincoln to go to sleep without abject hunger nipping at his insides.

  He was beginning to drift off when he heard another clang. The door was being opened again. Lincoln hurriedly sat up again, this time real fear coursing through him because he knew that this time it couldn’t be food. It had to be pain. The sound of heavy, booted footsteps followed soon after the opening of the main door. All the muscles in Lincoln’s body tensed as he waited to see where the footsteps would stop, prayed that the pain was headed to someone else’s cell.

  Prisoner One, Prisoner Two, Prisoner Three. Lincoln’s heart started to thump harder as the heavy footsteps kept coming. Prisoner Four, Prisoner Five. He started praying. Not my cell. Not my cell. Prisoner Six, Prisoner Seven. Please stop at Prisoner Eight, he prayed.

  They didn’t stop moving. Not until they got to Prisoner Nine’s cell. Lincoln’s cell.

  When he heard the jingle of keys outside his cell, Lincoln’s lungs tightened until it felt as if every breath of air had been sucked out of them. He forced himself to breathe and stand up. He may be afraid of what was coming next but he would never allow them to see it. Maybe he’d break tomorrow, maybe he’d break next week. But today wasn’t going to be that day.

  The metallic door flew open sending blinding light spilling into the room. Lincoln had to blink several times before his gaze was clear enough that he could see the two guards standing at the doorway. Like almost every other guard in this cesspit, they were short, slightly built and sallow-skinned. They both had slit thin eyes, military buzz-cuts and wore bulgy brown uniforms.

  “Seoljeong,” one of the guards barked as he stomped into the room. Lincoln had since learnt that the word meant ‘turn’, so he did. His learning the language had been deliberate. In fact his captors had encouraged it, allowing a tutor to come to his cell twice a week for the last five years. Lincoln still didn’t know why they wanted him to learn their language. Maybe it was to make sure he understood them every time they insulted him or tortured the answers to their questions out of him.

  The guard snatched Lincoln’s arm and twisted it behind him until a shaft of pain seared through his back and shoulder. Lincoln grunted through clenched teeth and bent forward to ease the piercing ache. The guard laughed contemptuously before enthusiastically twisting Lincoln’s other arm too so he could handcuff him completely. Once done with the handcuffing, the guard threw a black hood over Lincoln’s head plunging him once more i
nto darkness.

  He didn’t know why they bothered with the hood. He knew every inch of this prison like it was part of his body. He’d studied it, memorized it, analyzed it, even almost escaped it once – so really, what was the point of the hood?

  “Move,” the guard barked in Korean as he shoved Lincoln in the general direction of the door. “Taejwa Ryang wants to see you.”

  Lincoln’s insides tightened at the mention of the name. Taejwa Ryang was what they called the mad man who run this particular horror show. The mention of the general’s name was enough to make any man break into a cold sweat. A session with Ryang could be anything from tutoring him in English to having the heels of your feet set on fire just for his amusement.

  With effort Lincoln brushed his fear to the side, took a breath and limped out of his cell at the guards’ behest. They led him across the hallway, up a set of stairs, through another hallway which he knew hosted another set of cells then out of the building and into the rain. The heavy splashing downpour soaked into the hood over his face and his clothes as did the cold. Yet he felt none of it. His thoughts were too pre-occupied with the fear of what was to come.

  Warmth greeted him when they entered another building, but even that warmth wasn’t enough to dispel the icy tentacles of fear scratching at Lincoln’s insides. The fear only increased in magnitude as they walked down the long hallway then stopped. One of guards knocked on the door.

  “Enter.” A voice filtered from the other side of the door.

  As soon as the door opened warm air laced with a hint of cinnamon inundated Lincoln’s senses. One of the guards shoved him into the room then the black hood was whipped off his face. Bright light immediately jabbed his eyes, and he had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted enough for him to take in his surroundings.

  There was nothing remarkable about this office. Its beige walls were unornamented except for the massive picture of the nation’s leader. The concrete floors was uncarpeted and the shabby, wooden and brown leather furniture seemed to have been chosen for its ability to disappear into the bland walls.

  The man seated behind the only desk in the room was just as nondescript. Ryang was slight of frame and could’ve been any age between forty and eighty. His midnight black hair was parted at the side and combed back neatly while beady eyes hid behind practical wire-rimmed spectacles. A brown cigar danced on his thin lips, its ashes somehow managing not to stain his white double-breasted shirt buttoned to his Adam’s apple. He looked like someone’s harmless accountant.

  Anyone who knew him knew better. The only accounting Ryang did was keeping a running tally of the prisoners he had broken for his country. And harmless? Hah.

  The moment Ryang saw Lincoln he smiled.

  “Ah, you are finally here,” he said slowly in English, like someone who was trying to make sure they were using the right words. Tapping his cigar against the ash-tray, he gave Lincoln a once-over then clucked his tongue in false sympathy. “You do not look correct.”

  Lincoln’s brow scrunched up as he tried to figure out what the man meant. When it hit him, he corrected, “No, I don’t look well.”

  “Ah, yes. That is what I meant. Thank you,” Ryang gave him a congenial smile. “You don’t look well, my American teacher.”

  Lincoln’s heartbeat froze at the mention of his nationality. For the last five years, he’d been claiming to be a Liberian businessman. They’d doubted the businessman part, but they’d always believed that he was Liberian – or at least that’s what he’d thought. How had they found out?

  “No?” Lincoln gave Ryang his best mock-shock look. “And here I was thinking I’d worn my best suit to this party.”

  “I like that, Franklin,” Ryang mentioning the name Lincoln had declared as his when they’d tortured him. “How you have managed to keep your funny in these difficult times.” He laughed as he waggled his finger at Lincoln. “It has give me many laughs these years since we’ve been together.”

  “That’s all I’m here for. To give you laughs.” Lincoln shrugged. The action immediately sent a stab of pain through his back and handcuffed arms but he kept his face expressionless, loath to show Ryang any weakness.

  “Funny Franklin.” Ryang gave Lincoln an affable condescending smile, but there was little humor in his beady, cold eyes as he stood up. Taking a long pull of his cigar, he rounded his desk. “Unfortunately our funny times together has come to an end.”

  Lincoln immediately tensed because that only meant one thing. They were finally going to kill him. It took every inch of effort in him to keep the fear from his voice as he said, “Oh?”

  His tension only increased as the general approached him. The man’s eyes were dark and lethal in his calm face as he came to a stop directly in front of Lincoln. Though shorter than Lincoln by a couple of inches, Ryang had the kind of aura that could make even a giant tremble.

  “Yes, oh!” Ryang sighed as if he was genuinely remorsefully. “It seems that your friends have finally remembered you.”

  Friends? What the hell was this psychopath talking about. Lincoln said calmly, “Is that so?”

  “It is so.” Ryang circled Lincoln like a hungry shark. “Today you go home.”

  If this were his first day here, Lincoln would’ve been excited. But Ryang had teased and tortured him with that promise so many times that it’d ceased to have any effect on him. He uttered a bored, “Hurray!”

  “Tch. Tch. Tch.” Ryang clucked his tongue as he came to a stand in front of Lincoln. Searching Lincoln’s face with his observant eyes, he noted, “You don’t believe?”

  Lincoln merely stared at him.

  “Disappointing.” Ryang shook his head as he took another long pull of his cigar. “But you will see.” He stared at Lincoln for a long moment. Lincoln returned that stare with a glare of his own. His eyes as ice-cold as the smile that tilted his thin lips, Ryang said, “Before you go I must give you gift.”

  Then without warning, he removed the cigar from his mouth and stuck the butt into Lincoln’s forehead. Lincoln hissed as immediate pain seared through his face and he bent his head in pain.

  Ryang forcefully pushed up Lincoln’s face until they were eye-to-eye. His gaze gleaming with malicious triumph, he said, “Goodbye, my friend. Do not forget me for I will not forget you.” He patted Lincoln’s cheek. “Perhaps I will come and see you in this your America.”

  He flicked his wrist and the hood was one more thrown over Lincoln’s face plunging him in darkness.

  “His friends are outside the gates,” Ryang said in Korean, obviously for the benefit of his guards. “Make sure to remind them of our generosity before you hand him over.”

  Moments later the guards shoved Lincoln out of the office. Even as they led him once more through the hall, he still didn’t believe that he was actually going home. Ryang had lied about that so many times that it was a waste of time to get excited. Once outside, Lincoln closed his eyes and braced himself, ready for a shot to the back of his head as they usually did with prisoners they were done with.

  But the shot never came.

  Instead, the guards circled the building and walked him towards the parking lot. Surprise bloomed inside Lincoln when he felt asphalt bite into the soles of his feet. That surprise was joined by tentative hope when he heard the growl of a vehicle coming alive and the clang of metallic doors being opened. But it was only when the guards forcefully hauled up him into the back of what he assumed was the prison van that hope really began to swell inside him.

  Could it really be happening?

  Was he really going home?

  CHAPTER 1

  Montgomery, Alabama.

  Two weeks later.

  Damián opened his eyes to find his fiancée watching him with a soft smile on her face. He’d never tire of that smile. Every time he saw it, his breath caught and his pulse stuttered in its path. Every inch of her was beautiful. Her eyes were dark brown pools that he could lose himself in, her lips so lush they begged t
o be kissed, her body a playground he never wanted to exit. Even the scar that ran along her left cheek was beautiful – just because it was part of her. He couldn’t deny the chord of possessive pleasure that throbbed through him at seeing her here in his home… in his bed.

  “That was amazing,” Aiko said as she rubbed her palm over his heart.

  “It was.” He returned with a smile, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

  Yes! Their slow lovemaking just moments ago had been amazing. Not that he was surprised. Sex between them had always been amazing. Aiko knew every inch of him; what turned him on, what didn’t, how to please him, how to make him beg for mercy. And he loved her even more for it.

  Who would’ve believed it? He. Damián Colter. In love? Shocking! Hell, five months ago, he would’ve been the first one in line betting against such a ridiculous thing happening. Yet it had happened, and he was beyond grateful that it had. Aiko was everything he’d ever wished for in a partner.

  Loving. Loyal. Passionate. Nurturing. Everything!

  He still couldn’t believe his luck. When he’d walked into Heart Connections five months ago, he didn’t expect to find the perfect woman, just someone who could take his daughter off his hands. To have found a woman like Aiko – a woman who’d taught him that falling in love wasn’t weakness, a woman who’d taught him what fatherhood really was and improved his relationship with his daughter in the process… Well, it was beyond amazing.

  He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm more securely around her waist. Now that he had so much love and happiness in his life, he had no intention of ever letting it go. She seemed just as eager to keep him close to her because she cuddled even closer to him. The tender moment was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.