Empire

by Lili St. Germain

  Ten years. She’d be fine. She’d be happy again.

  Was she fucking somebody else?

  ‘Pack a bag,’ Dornan called into the bedroom.

  Mariana appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing except panties and a confused look on her face. Her hair was wild, from where he’d ground her into the bed, and her nipples still glistened from where his mouth had just been.

  Dornan groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. His dick hurt at the thought of fucking her again, yet, of its own accord, it stirred to life once more. She was the only woman in the world capable of killing him via sex. She’d literally suck the life out of him if he wasn’t careful. He could fuck her all day, every day, and still the itch would not be scratched away.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Can you please put some fucking clothes on,’ Dornan asked, squeezing his cock through his jeans. His clothes were already in the trunk of the car that waited for them downstairs – one small bag and a pair of shoes, enough for a quick jaunt out of LA.

  Mariana raised one eyebrow, her lips tugging upward in the closest thing he’d seen to a smile in a while. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever said that to me before,’ she said, leaning against the doorframe that led to the bedroom.

  In the hallway, Dornan slipped his boots on, then his leather jacket. His fingers smelled like sex, and that was okay with him. There would be a lot more sex where they were headed.

  Was she fucking somebody else?

  ‘Where are we going?’ Mariana called from the bedroom. ‘I’m kind of tired. Can we just stay here?’

  No. They could not just stay here. Fuck.

  Dornan strode back into the bedroom to see Mariana on her back in the centre of the bed, again, with nothing on except those damn lace panties that left nothing to the imagination. Her legs were parted enough that he could see her pussy through the fine material.

  Who else had seen her like this?

  Without thinking, he yanked the edge of the comforter up and threw it over her, so she was sandwiched like a burrito.

  The post-coital calm disappeared from her face and she sat up on the bed, alarmed. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Is it bad? Are you taking me to Emilio? He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? Motherfucker.’

  The motherfucker didn’t seem to be directed at his father specifically; rather, it sounded like Mariana chastising herself, her voice ringing with disbelief.

  ‘Hey.’ He touched her thigh; she was shaking. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Mariana yelled, hitting the bed with her fists.

  Something about her anger made him feel calmer. Almost like a transference. She was terrified, staring down at the comforter like it might offer up an answer to her problems, and he felt soothed by her desperation. Probably because the more desperate she was, the more she had to rely on him to survive.

  ‘I’m just taking you somewhere because I fucked up your birthday. Okay? Don’t ruin the surprise.’ He softened his words for her, slowed them right down. Like soothing a child.

  Her eyes lifted to meet his. ‘Your father sent me a surprise for my birthday. I don’t want a fucking surprise.’

  Well, shit. ‘We’re going to Vegas. The Wynn. Room service and champagne. You’ll like it.’

  Her shoulders fell; she exhaled a breath that she’d been holding in for a while. ‘What did Emilio say?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘About Vegas? Nothing. I didn’t tell him.’ It was true. Pop could hold the fort down for twenty-four goddamn hours.

  ‘Not about Vegas, Dornan. What did he say about what I did?’

  He licked his lips. ‘Nothing much. I think he’s more impressed than mad. But I get the impression if you ever pull that shit again, he’ll shoot you in your fucking face. So maybe call me next time you decide to stage a coup.’

  Her eyes were like fucking laser beams slicing him to bloody ribbons. ‘Maybe tell him the same thing,’ she said, and just like that, their connection was broken. She got up off the bed and started opening and slamming cupboards, her tits bouncing as she stomped around the room in her little panties and nothing else.

  Who else has seen her like this?

  Dornan thought it wise to shut up. He waited patiently until she had ventured into the bathroom, probably to pack make-up or something, and then he took the opportunity to rummage through her closet as quietly as possible. He knew what he was looking for. And when he found it, he smirked. He pulled the dress out, slipped it from its hanger, and rolled it up into a ball, shoving it into her bag underneath the rest of the clothes she’d packed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he called into the bathroom.

  They were already going to hit traffic, at this rate.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MARIANA

  Ten years in America and I’d never set foot in Nevada. Sure, I’d seen it in movies, read about the place, but driving into Sin City in the back of a pimped-out limousine was something entirely different to experience. The place was alive and dying all at once – the towering hotels, the decaying storefronts, the shells of high-rise buildings long since abandoned and waiting for their date with the demolition crew.

  It was a place of extremes, more so than Los Angeles could ever be. It made me realise how out of my comfort zone I felt in this foreign city. It was only a five-hour drive, even with the traffic we’d hit on the highway, but it was another universe. The sun had risen while we were driving, or rather, while we were being driven. Dornan spent the majority of the drive on the phone to various club members. Viper called about a shipment of weapons, then Chad called his father to let him know about a deal going down with another club. I caught snippets of each conversation but tried to ignore it for the most part, thankful for the distraction that business afforded Dornan.

  And then there was John. He called a few times before Dornan answered. Their conversation was brief and to the point; from the sounds of it, they were going to deal with things like adults and pretend nothing had ever happened. Fucking males and their inability to figure shit out. Not that I particularly cared. After the sex I’d just experienced underneath Dornan’s greedy hands, I was feeling exposed. Vulnerable. Memories of the good times had started flooding back to me. I’d never forgive him for the things he did, for the death and destruction he’d brought upon us, but I was starting to feel an aching void inside me that was the space he used to occupy. The darkest recess inside my treacherous heart muscle called out for Dornan Ross to put me back together again, to hold me close, to cradle me safely in his strong arms.

  He hadn’t been that man in a long time, but then, I hadn’t been that girl in years, either.

  Driving down the main street in Vegas was . . . interesting. I wondered why Dornan had chosen this place, of all places. When I asked him, he shrugged, a hint of something in his eyes. Don’t ruin the surprise, he kept telling me, and I just prayed that the surprise wasn’t my own violent death in a Vegas motel room at eight in the morning.

  If I died here, I’d be so fucking pissed, I’d haunt Dornan and his father until their last breath. I made that vow, just as we pulled up in front of a swanky building, its gold mirrored windows reflecting the desert and surrounding buildings with a brilliant sheen.

  I found myself marvelling at the change in Dornan; the rough biker carried himself like a businessman going to a high-powered meeting where he would call the shots. He was dressed up more than normal, even though he was still sporting his uniform. But the leather jacket bore no insignia, his hair was neat instead of mussed up by the wind and his helmet, and his black T-shirt looked like it came from an expensive store, hugging his broad chest in all the right places. His dark denim jeans were a slimmer cut than usual, his boots were new, and goddamn it, my lover looked like he’d just entered the WITSEC program for former bikers and drug cartel members. He looked like sex on a stick, his stubble neatly trimmed and sculpted around his chin, his dark eyes flanked by thick eyelashes that most females would be envious of, and t
he salt-and-pepper at his temples softened his dark brown mop of hair. The one tell-tale sign that he was a criminal was the slight bulge at the spot where the waistband of his jeans gripped his lower back, a gun neatly stashed against his skin, should we encounter any trouble. Oh, and the fact that he had two black eyes and a broken nose. Thanks, John.

  We didn’t need to check in, a private butler whisking us straight from the limo to our room. It was a penthouse suite overlooking Vegas. The city was a mess of contradictions – who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put a city in the middle of a desert, anyway? So many buildings. So many billboards, each screaming about a two-for-one seafood buffet, or a shooting range, when they weren’t loudly advertising their respective casino floors. It was overwhelming, suddenly being thrust into the artifice of it all. I hadn’t had any time to prep. I didn’t even know what the hell I’d packed in my bag, though I suspected it was mostly summer dresses and flip-flops. This was something entirely different. This was about Dornan and Mariana and nobody else.

  And yet, when I locked myself in the bathroom to freshen up, I stared at the edge of the basin and remembered John.

  This was my first time in Vegas, and it was likely also my last, because I was either about to be killed, or, if I survived this ‘surprise trip’ and John and I managed to get away, we’d be going a little further afield than the next state over.

  When I was done, the image of that Denny’s bathroom still visceral and unrelenting in my mind, I headed back out to the suite. It was bigger than my apartment, and looked like something out of a Vogue Living magazine. Dornan was standing at the window, his hands folded across his chest as he watched the city stir into action below. For a city that was switched on twenty-four seven, it sure seemed sluggish on a Monday morning. Probably everyone was hungover, or broke, or both.

  ‘What are we really doing here?’ I asked, joining him at the full-length window.

  He turned to me, his face impossible to read. ‘Brunch. You should wear the white dress.’

  Oh.

  Shit.

  How fucking stupid was I? I caught my reaction before my face conveyed it, tamped it down quickly and trapped it.

  The white dress.

  The trip to Vegas.

  The last-minute plans.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I repeated, my chest a carved-out hollow because I already knew the answer. Dornan didn’t answer. He opened my overnight bag and pulled out the white dress, handing it to me with an air of finality.

  The dress in one hand, I stared down at Las Vegas Boulevard and wondered, if I ran at the glass hard enough, would it break and let me fall to my bloody death fifty floors below? I handed it back. Dornan laid the dress out on the bed instead, smoothing out the creases.

  ‘Your father would never allow this,’ I said, staring at the dress Dornan had arranged. I didn’t have my burner phone with me. I couldn’t call John. Fuck! I needed to call John.

  Right.

  Now.

  Dornan smirked, standing before me and tugging the hem of my dress. I resisted, holding on to that hem with everything I had. Dornan raised his eyebrows and took hold of my wrists, squeezing them just enough to show his strength.

  ‘Allow what?’

  I rolled my eyes, trying to shake his grip off, but he was having none of it. He tightened his fingers around my wrists, and they throbbed in protest.

  ‘A trip to Vegas. A white dress. Look at what you’re wearing!’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe we’re going to have a nice dinner.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the morning,’ I shot back. My wrists were on fire. There’d be marks on them tonight.

  ‘Maybe we’re going to have a nice brunch,’ Dornan said, his jaw tensed, his demeanour no longer amused. Now he just looked fed up.

  ‘I’m not marrying you,’ I said, the words out of my mouth before I could think twice.

  He slapped me across the face so hard I tasted blood. My wrists were free, though, and purely on instinct I punched him in the face, as hard as I could.

  Right in the nose.

  The nose that John had broken the night before. Teamwork.

  Blood exploded from his face and he stepped back, cupping his hands over his nose. All I could see were his eyes – black, cold, determined. The pain of my blow hadn’t angered him, or so it seemed. No, it seemed that the violence had only strengthened his resolve.

  He took his hands away and blood dripped onto his shirt, a chilling grin spreading across his face. His nose was bent slightly, and red.

  Oh, Jesus. I was going to pay for that.

  He came at me like a fucking CIA operative: blunt, fast, effective. He grabbed my hair and yanked, spinning me until I was in his arms. Before I could break free, he had his arms locked around my neck, squeezing against my carotid artery, and within a matter of seconds, the room went black.

  ***

  I woke up on the plush carpeted floor of the limousine we’d travelled in to Vegas. I had no idea how I’d gotten there, or how long I’d been there. I had some drool on my cheek. I wiped it away, craning my head to take in the dimly lit interior of the car.

  Dornan sat on the seat above me, his knees wide, his face clean. He held an ice pack against the bridge of his nose, but the damn thing was swelling anyway. There were dark circles under his eyes, and cuts on his skin from the fight with John. He looked terrible.

  ‘It’s lucky I brought an extra shirt,’ he said, taking the ice pack away from his nose. ‘Though we’re gonna have to retouch the photos.’

  I sat up on my elbows, noticing the white dress now on me. The air-conditioning was cold between my thighs. I felt with one hand – no panties. Figured.

  ‘How kind of you to dress me,’ I said, dragging myself to my knees and sliding up onto the seat opposite. I was four feet away from Dornan, but if I’d been able to jump out of the limousine, I would have. We weren’t moving. I looked out of the window to see a large, garish sign in the shape of an arrow, pointing down at a chapel that was adorned with Elvis.

  Could life get any worse? I looked around the car for something sharp that I could use to kill myself. There was nothing sharp, unless you counted Dornan’s eyes. I had the sudden urge to crawl over to him and rip those eyes out of their sockets.

  Dornan tossed my purse at me. It hit my arm and fell onto the seat beside me.

  ‘Put some fucking make-up on,’ he said. ‘You look like shit.’

  He tossed something else at me. Panties. Black lacy ones. I rolled my eyes, hooking them over my shoes and sliding them up my thighs and over my ass. Better. That felt better.

  ‘Why do I need make-up?’ I asked, rummaging through my bag. I still had my gun. I pulled it out and pointed it at Dornan’s head. I smiled, amused.

  ‘I thought you would have taken this out,’ I said, marvelling at the way it felt in my hand. It felt like power.

  He grinned, holding out his open hand. Nestled in his palm, six shiny bullets.

  I stuffed the useless gun back into my purse and yanked out my make-up bag. I took my sweet time applying foundation and blush.

  ***

  ‘Why’d you want me to wear make-up, anyway?’ I asked Dornan as we approached the counter inside the chapel. ‘It’s not like anyone’s going to see this.’

  He smiled a plastic smile, one hand pressed into the small of my back as he drove me towards the tired-looking woman behind the counter that screamed CHEAP WEDDING CEREMONIES.

  ‘Our children will ask to see the photos one day,’ he said, his voice steeled, his expression a mask of self-preservation. ‘You should look beautiful for them.’

  My knees actually buckled when he said that. They just plain stopped working, and the ground rushed up at me. Dornan’s big hands were there to keep me steady, of course. He leaned me into him, tucked me into his side so I was pressed against him.

  ‘I’m going to throw up,’ I said, scanning the foyer for a bathroom.

  ‘Oh, good,’ Dornan replied, half-
dragging me towards the sign marked BATHROOMS. ‘Maybe you’re knocked up again already.’

  Fucking bastard. His casual indifference stung. He pushed me into the women’s toilets and into the first stall, gathering my long hair up off my face as I dry-retched over the bowl.

  ‘I’m more used to holding your hair when my dick’s in your mouth,’ he said, and I would have cringed had there not been a steady stream of vomit coming out of my mouth. My stomach roiled again, once, twice. False alarms. I flushed, jerking back from Dornan’s grip as I pushed past him and out of the cubicle.

  A woman was washing her hands, wearing a wedding dress so enormous it took up most of the square footage in the small area. She looked at Dornan in the mirror, and he stared back until she cast her gaze to the ground.

  ‘You feeling better, honey?’ he asked, rubbing my back in mock concern.

  I could tell he was mocking me because of the pissy look on his face. I looked at his nose and wanted to punch it again. He glared at the woman and she scurried out of the bathroom, her dress bunching up as she got stuck in the door before she popped out onto the other side like a champagne cork being let free. The door swung shut again and we were alone.

  ‘I’m not marrying you,’ I said.

  Dornan didn’t say anything, just looked at the ceiling. I glanced at his fists. Yeah. He was about to fucking rage.

  ‘Give me one of those bullets,’ I said, gesturing to his pants pocket. ‘I’ll put it right in my head. You won’t have to worry about me causing problems anymore.’

  I’d put the bullet in him first, but he didn’t need to know that, did he?

  ‘That sweet act back at the apartment, what was that?’ I was hurting. I felt like he’d stabbed me right in the chest. He’d been soft and tender and I had fallen for it, so desperate to believe that there was still some good in him. I’d been betraying him for months. I was in love with another man. But the way he had been with me – tender – it tore my soul to shreds. He had tricked me. I had fallen for it.