She shakes her head.
No.
“Are you refusing me?”
Those eyes flash one more time, lightning in blue. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? I have to do what you say.”
I can tell by the way her shoulders curve toward mine that she wants to obey me. I’ve seen what it does to her body. I’ve seen how she revels in that pleasure. My other hand balls into a fist. I release both of them, but it takes all the effort in the world.
I could make her come with me. I could take her by the wrists, take those bound hands, and—
But it’s not what I want.
“Step forward.”
She does, tentative.
“Wrists.”
I undo the cuffs and hang them on the hook just outside the door.
“Come with me.”
Justice drops her wrists in front of her, head drooping as if her only obsession is the floor at her feet.
I don’t want to force her. Not this time. Not on the last night.
“Do you—want to come to my rooms?” The question feels flat and strange on my tongue. I’m not used to asking.
A single shake of her head. That’s all I get.
No.
No, no, no.
26
Justice
I know it’s the end when Cassian comes to get me himself.
The morning started like all the others, with Mika taking me to be bathed. Did I imagine it, or was she gentler this time? I caught her watching me, like there was some clue hidden in my face, twice.
When it was over, she brought me back to my cell.
I thought I would be relieved, when this ended. When I was brought here I didn’t know if it would end, but now the ending is a far worse prospect than being here.
I was awake all night, thinking of what Cassian said and what it means.
I’ve had enough time to consider all the possibilities, and the one I’ve settled on is the most dangerous of all.
My brother was always the one who was going to take over my father’s business. It’s that way for most fathers and sons in our circle. My father has been unique in the way he used his daughters—most men only use them to make alliances by marriage. They still have a fetish for feudal England.
That’s not my brother’s plan for me.
My father never spoke to Tripp. At this point, he can’t possibly still consider himself my boyfriend. What Cassian said must be true, because nobody else knew where I’d be that night. Nobody else knew where we were supposed to meet.
The person who knew Tripp the most, other than me, was my brother.
They were friends.
The realization came upon me after I’d cried out all my futile disappointment into the flimsy pillow last night. Tripp knew Hector. They saw each other on social occasions, and at one of the parties I threw they spent several minutes huddled in the corner, leaning in close to talk.
Why would I have thought twice about that?
Tripp can’t possibly consider me his girlfriend anymore, because I know what Hector would have given him in exchange for...me.
I can’t go back.
I can’t go back, because when I was bent over that bench, the belt coming down on my ass in white-hot stripes, it came to me that Cassian is wrong.
He thinks these contracts aren’t about emotion. He thinks they’re about settling scores and walking away, his hands still clean. And maybe it is that way, for him. Maybe his mind discards what he knows about each of the women he punishes and breaks, and it’s as if they never existed.
But to them—to us—it will always be as if he existed. As if he owned us.
It’s twisted, how much I still want to belong to him. It’s beyond fucked up. I have the sense that other women—they’re glad to be free, but they’ll always watch themselves. They’ll always wonder if they’ll have to return here. I bet most of them never do. I bet most of them fall in line.
My father used my sister and me as bait, as lures, to get the men he was paid to target to a clean room with no witnesses.
Cassian’s business is punishment. My father’s business is death. And I was the beautiful thing that led men there.
If Hector has his way, I’ll do more than take men by the hand. I can feel it in my bones.
I can’t go back.
At first I think he’s taking me to release me when he opens the door to the cell, but he holds up the cuffs. And like a good girl, I go and hold out my wrists. It’s so sick, the relief I taste on my tongue. If he punishes me again, I’ve bought another hour with him, and not out there.
In the room, a chair sits squarely in the center, like it did the first night I was here. I hardly look at it, expecting him to take me to the bench, but he doesn’t.
He sits in the chair, and waits.
I’m the sacrifice, and I’ll have to offer myself.
I want to offer myself.
My heart breaks.
Wordlessly, I bend myself over his lap.
I don’t want to give myself over to him, but the moment his legs press into my belly and his hand goes over my waist, holding me still, I do.
The crying—there’s been enough crying. I have cried more tears than I ever have. But they sting my eyes nonetheless.
There’s no growl from Cassian, no number of strokes, no reminder that I’m here to be punished—to pay for my sins. He will still punish me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve already paid.
Why does it feel like my chest is caving in? Why does it feel like my first love is breaking up with me in the corner of the prep school courtyard?
He rubs a palm over my ass, centering it, and I brace my toes against the floor, lifting up for him. My tears form a miniature puddle on the other side.
With the first strike, they triple.
I want him so much.
I want this so much.
I want to be held over his lap, and for the pain of the punishments to wash away the guilt that chokes me for all I’ve done in my life. One, two, three, four. I want a hundred. I want a thousand. I’ll never have this again, and I want it to last. What other man could understand the filthy part of my soul that needs this? What other man has the same darkness inside of him? He’s the only one who knows the depth of my need. He’s the only one, only one, only one.
It’s over too soon.
My ass burns and stings. I’m sure it’s pink. My toes are no longer braced against the floor—I hang over his lap, a puppet with her strings cut. He could never break me by keeping me here. He can only break me by letting me go.
He rubs his hand over my ass. His palm feels cool, but I know it’s mostly that my skin is hot. A sob heaves my chest. No. No, this can’t be—
Cassian slides his fingers between my legs.
My toes are instantly against the floor again, lifting toward him, giving myself, and I clap my own hand over my lips, covering the gasp. I don’t have to see his face to know this is a gift. An awful, terrible, wonderful gift.
He pins me there, fingertips stroking, working, gathering my juices. It takes no time until I’m rocking my hips against him. It’s sheer pleasure, all twisted up with my broken heart.
“Yes,” he hisses, the word barely louder then a breath, and I shatter on his fingers, biting into my own knuckle to keep quiet.
He holds me there until I settle back into stillness, the aftershocks of release still rushing through my veins.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
Cassian lifts me from his lap, standing me next to the chair, and rises. I take in the movement like it’s the last sight I’ll ever see. Those strong lines, hidden from me by a suit that looks like it was made for him. I’m seized with jealousy for that suit. It gets to touch his skin.
He lets Mika in. She carries a dress folded over her arm and a pair of flats. They’re not mine—they cut the dress off my skin on the first day I was here and I don’t know when I lost my shoes—but it’s a flimsy black dress, a halter top. Too cold fo
r fall. It’s the equivalent of what I came here in, which strikes me as both mean-spirited and symmetrical, in a terrible kind of way.
Cassian takes the clothes from Mika and nods toward the door. She walks out without a word.
He pulls the dress over my head. No bra. No panties. His protocols are meant to humiliate until the last possible moment. I can admire his dedication, even though I want to fall in a heap at his feet and beg him for mercy.
Then he puts the flats at my feet, and I step into them.
There are no words.
There are simply no words.
My pulse throbs in my veins. I thought I knew fear the night those men put me into the back of that car. I didn’t know fear at all.
He looks down at me, his dark eyes filled with an unnameable emotion.
When he raises a hand to stroke it against my cheek I don’t bat it away. No—it only strikes a match of hope at the center of my chest. I raise my face to his.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Cassian leads me to the stairs.
I haven’t thought much of that other door at the end of the hallway—the one they carried me through. It never seemed like it would be an option for me. Cassian strides toward it with his head held high, and something about the way he moves reminds me of a man going toward the gallows. Not that I’ve ever seen a man going to the gallows, except in the movies. And it’s not him who will have to survive this. It’s me.
I press my lips together, willing myself not to say a word. I’ve faced all of this and come through it. I won’t fall apart now.
I tell myself that, but at the bottom of the staircase, my body revolts.
Cassian reaches for the handle of the door and I jerk backward, moving up one step.
“No. Please.”
The words fall on deaf ears. He turns to look at me, a slight irritation curving his mouth. “It’s time.”
“Please.”
He takes me by the elbow.
I pull back against him. He’s too strong—it will never work. I can’t manhandle the both of us up the stairs, so I yank my arm out of his hand and twist away. Maybe if I can get to the top, he’ll let me stay—maybe if I can get to the top, I can bargain with him—
He wraps his arms bodily around me, and God help me, I am so desperate for his touch that I let it happen.
But it’s not a hug. He’s not holding me close for comfort. He lifts me toward the door effortlessly, without even a deep breath, and shoves it open.
The cold is bracing. How did it get so cold in—what, five days? It wasn’t this cold when I left the club, and it filters through my dress like it’s made of paper. It might as well be. Cassian puts me out on the sidewalk and turns me to face the street.
I whirl around and grab for his sleeve, feeling the most pathetic I’ve ever felt, like a little girl grabbing for her father’s hand, but he is not my father, and my father wouldn’t save me anyway. He pulls his sleeve away so I can’t touch it, and for some reason this is the thing that breaks me all the way down.
“No. Please.”
“It’s my family.” His beautiful face is twisted. He has to be struggling. He has to know this is a mistake. “There are people who watch. I can’t—” He shakes his head. “I can’t. You don’t understand.”
“I understand,” I shout at him, like shouting can make any difference.
“It’s time to go.” This time his eyes are painted with pain. “Go, Justice.”
I spin around in the street, looking for which way to run, knowing even as I do that it’s going to be pointless. Someone has arranged all this. Someone will be waiting for me. And if they get me back to my family’s home, it’ll all be over. I know it. Hector will keep me on my knees and worse for an endless parade of men, and my father will let him, because that’s the way they are.
I’m still looking for a way out when I spot the SUV.
I’d know it anywhere.
It’s one of my father’s fleet, used by his men.
I gasp in a breath and turn back toward Cassian, but he’s already gone, his hand on the door.
“Cassian—” It’s a strangled scream.
He doesn’t turn back.
He pulls the door open and steps inside.
I sprint for the door, one of my shoes coming off in the process. As my hands close around the metal handle, he reaches up for something, a switch of some kind, and I feel the click of the lock reverberate through my palms.
“Cassian!” This time it’s a real scream.
He turns away from the window.
I scream again.
He’s gone.
27
Cassian
Every step up the stairs, with her screams ringing in my ears, taunts me with exactly who I am.
A slave.
A slave to the legacy my father signed me up for. A slave to the eyes and ears watching me from across the ocean. It’s worth it to them, to own me. All their interests are bound up inextricably with the people here who live in high-rises, who fight and fuck and claw at one another and want retribution afterward. And I’m the one who gives it to them. They don’t want to get their hands dirty. They don’t want blood spilled, unless it’s in my punishment room, and that’s all I’m ever going to be.
I’m the second signature on a contract. And sometimes, I’m not even that. I’m just the hand that delivers justice. For everyone except me.
Have I ever walked up these stairs, like this, before? No. Not even one time. I’ve never taken a contract back out. I’ve never left one there, with her fate lurking in the street.
I’ve never cared.
Never once have I allowed myself to care. Because caring about contracts is a recipe for disaster.
I get to the top of the stairs and punch in the code at the top, blindly, so haphazardly that I get it wrong twice before the damn thing opens. The hallway itself guts me. It’s like she’s left her scent everywhere she touched, everywhere she’s been, and I will never be able to see this carpeting or that doorway without thinking of her again.
So I don’t look. I just keep going, through one hall, down another, another, and all the while she’s screaming for me in the back of my mind.
I only discover where I’m going when I get there and find Lysander sprawled in front of the bank of monitors, his feet up on the desk, scrolling through his phone. He glances up at me, desultory, sighing, useless. He doesn’t know anything and he never will, because I’ve fucking saved him from that, like I saved him from everything else. “Did you take that last one out to the curb? We need to clear out the room for something worth more money.”
I’m on top of him before I know what I’m doing, hauling him up by the front of his collar. He twists in my grip. “What the fuck, Cash?” A leering smile spreads across his face. “Did you fall for the bitch? No, you never would. It’s below our standards.”
I’m as surprised as he is when my fist makes contact with the side of his face. I release him just after the blow lands, dropping him back on his ass in the seat and leaning in close. “Say another word about her, Lysander. Say it.”
His hand is on his jaw, his eyes are latched on mine, and I can hear his breath in his throat. But he doesn’t say anything.
He’s in here, and despite what I’ve done to him, he’s still safe. He’ll be all right. The bruise will heal. He will forever depend on my mercy, forever rely on me not sending him back to the Family to have a lesson in the way they do business.
But with Justice...
What the fuck am I sending her back to?
And what else matters if I do?
Lysander’s eyes turn wary, like he’s waiting to see if I’m about to kill him. I must look murderous. I could go farther than I’ve already gone, but I won’t, because it’s a waste.
It’s all a waste, if I don’t have her. It’s all a waste, if she’s not breathing, if she’s not living, if not with me than somewhere else on this earth.
I put her out by the curb. I
did what he said. Like garbage, waiting to be collected. And if she’s sane, she’ll never forgive me for that.
I grab Lysander’s head in both my hands and he pulls back. “Thank you, you stupid bastard.” I’m hardly done spitting the words into his face before I’m moving again, tearing for the door like getting to her is the only thing that will save me.
Because it is. The only thing that will save me. No—not even that. I’m not worried about being saved. God can crush me beneath his heel, for all I care, he can blow me away with a tornado or rip through my innards with a gunshot, as long as I can get to her.
Mika is in the hall when I burst through and flattens herself against the wall, her face white. Has she ever seen me run? Have I ever run through the house before? Have I ever had a reason? The air burns in my lungs, but it’s not because running is particularly taxing. It’s because something is threatening to rise in my throat, and I don’t know what it is, but I’m not letting it into the world. A sob? A scream? It doesn’t matter.
I fly down the stairs two at a time, then three. How long has it been since I left? A minute? Two? If I’m too late—
I burst through the door and out into the cool. The fall is turning, icing into winter, and the cold finds every available seam to exploit. I took her to the left.
There’s no one there, just evening fading into darkness.
But to the right—
A black SUV is pulled up to the curb.
There are two men.
There is Justice, in the dress she arrived in, that awful thing that doesn’t deserve her.
And she is not going quietly.
Another scream splits the air. It’s not my name. She doesn’t think I’m coming. It’s a curse, followed by another, followed by pure rage.
I run.
They don’t see me coming until I’m almost there.
“Hey, this guy—”
The first man doubles over with a whoosh of breath from my fist buried in his gut. I’m taller than both of them, but the only advantage I have here is surprise. I don’t know if they’re armed. I’m assuming they are. And I’m not. But my fury is enough. It has to be enough.
Cards of Love: Justice Page 13