Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  One of his hands holds me close to his big, protective body, while the other one runs over me, physically inspecting me for injuries.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble into his erratically thrusting torso.

  My guarantee appeases his worries so quickly, the tightness spread across his chest loosens before my eyes. I don’t know how much time passes before he delicately draws me back by the tops of my shoulders. When his eyes drop to mine, I take in a sharp breath. The pain in his breathtakingly beautiful irises is more than I can bear. They are striking and tormented at the same time, just like our first meeting in the elevator four years ago.

  When the moisture in my eyes becomes too great to ignore, Marcus cups my jaw so his thumbs can sweep away my tears the moment they fall. Once the small handful of disobedient tears has been cleared off my cheeks, he locks his eyes with mine. They express so much without a word needing to be spilled from his lips. His anguish. His relief. His disappointment. They are all conveyed by his beautiful green irises. The previously stated responses I can understand, but there is one emotion leaving me a little baffled. The deep, dark cloud of guilt. What could he possibly be feeling guilty over? I chose to leave with Richard. I was the one who put my life at risk. So if anyone should be harboring guilt, it should be me.

  Before I can voice that to Marcus, Shian appears at our side. “Two local detectives want to ask Cleo a few questions,” Shian advises, her dark gaze bouncing between Marcus and me.

  “No,” Marcus replies, answering on my behalf.

  Although peeved he didn’t check with me first, I’m also grateful. From the circumstances of my day, I am exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. And in all honesty, with a bombardment of emotions hammering me, I don’t think I could handle any more.

  Shian and Marcus continue speaking, but since I have my ear pressed against Marcus’s torso, I can’t hear a word they are saying. I don’t need to hear Marcus speak to know his thoughts, though, the frantic beat of his heart tells me everything I need to know. Although angry, he is more concerned about my safety than punishing my stupidity. I don’t know whether I should be disappointed or pleased by that revelation.

  Marcus’s eyes lower to mine when I work my neck side to side, struggling to ease the knot that formed there after my earlier fall. I wouldn’t necessarily say it's painful; it's more annoying than anything.

  “Are you sore?” Marcus questions me as his fiercely dark eyes dance between mine.

  I attempt to speak, but Shian beats me. “The paramedics checked her over. Other than a few scratches—”

  Marcus cuts off Shian’s reassurance that I am uninjured with a sweep of his hand through the air. His eyes remain arrested on me as he reads the response from my eyes.

  Not receiving the intended message, Marcus devotes his focus back to Shian. “I’m taking Cleo home. If you or the local authorities wish to ask her any more questions, you can tomorrow morning.”

  Shian once again attempts to speak. Marcus once again cuts her off, this time with a rueful glare. The vibrant hum of chatter filling the room with energy dulls to a faint buzz when Marcus and Shian participate in a sweat-producing stare down. If I weren’t trapped in the depths of despair, I’d be just as fascinated as the other hundred or so spectators mesmerized by the two alphas going to war.

  But since I’m on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, I harness my desires and lock eyes with Shian. “I know you don’t know me from a bar of soap, so you have no reason to believe me, but I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve given you every snippet of my life that involved Richard, so can’t the rest wait until the morning?”

  Shian stops glaring at Marcus, her sole focus now on me. The anger radiating from her eyes simmers from a raging tornado to a summer shower when she sees the truth beaming from my sagging gaze.

  “Okay,” she says, nodding.

  Bitter relief engulfs me.

  “But you're not to talk to anyone in regards to this case. Not the local authorities, your sister, or those pesky reporters you work with,” Shian adds on, her tone growing snarky toward the end. “If you’re even tempted to have a cry-fest confession, call me. I’m the girl for the job.”

  My brow arches as disbelief taints my face. Nothing against Shian—she sat by my side most of the afternoon while I sniveled nonstop about Richard and why he’d ever think jumping off a cliff was his only option—but she still doesn’t seem to have the nurturing vibe.

  “Hey,” Shian jeers, her voice shifting from austere to playful. “I’ve comforted grown men in the midst of a cry-fest.” Her shoulder touches her ear when she shrugs. “I may have been the cause of their tears, but that’s not the point.”

  A giggle spills from my mouth before I have the chance to shut it down. I smack my lips together, mortified I’ve become such a heartless wrench, I can’t even spend a few measly hours mourning the loss of a work colleague with respect. I am a terrible person.

  Spotting my horrified expression, Shian runs her hand down my arm. “Don’t feel guilty, Cleo. You did nothing wrong. Richard reacted the way he did as he didn’t want to face the consequences of his actions like a real man. His choices should not be carried on your shoulders.”

  I’m shocked when I don’t see the faintest bit of remorse in her eyes. You’d think knowing she shot Richard mere seconds before he plunged to his death would have her insides twisting, but she doesn’t appear the slightest bit fazed. She either conceals her shrewdness well, or she is more coldhearted than I initially perceived. When she runs her hand down my arm for the third time in under a minute, I am assuming it's the latter. She has learned to hide her emotions well.

  After bidding farewell to the two detectives wishing to speak to me with a dip of his chin, Marcus guides me to a car idling at the front of the café. A giant beast of a man with shoulders as broad as the grin on his face opens the passenger side door for me when he notices our approach. His black suit and white dress shirt showcases his impressive frame well, but I’ve always believed people’s eyes are the windows to their souls, so the sunglasses he wears don’t allow me to get an accurate read on him.

  “Cleo,” he greets me, my name rumbling out of his mouth in a thick purr.

  I smile, hiding my unease about why he seems so familiar, yet I swear I haven’t seen him before. Shrugging off my confusion as a consequence of a long day, I slide into the passenger seat of the car he is holding open for me. The ache of my weary muscles dulls when the softness of well-worn leather gently caresses them.

  While fastening my seatbelt, suspicion taints my face. The interior of the car is in severe need of an upgrade. Don’t get me wrong, it has nothing on my Buick, but it would be a minimum of fifteen years old. The vinyl on the dash is cracked and faded to a point it's beyond repair, the parking brake is cranked high between the two front seats, and there is a pair of fluffy white dice hanging from the rearview mirror. Although presumptuous of me to say, I highly doubt this car is from Marcus’s fleet. Even Abel’s car isn’t as outdated as this one.

  I swing my eyes to Marcus. Sensing my inquisitive stare, he finishes tugging a baseball cap down low on his head before lifting his eyes to me.

  “Whose car is this?” I ask when he fails to the read the silent questions my eyes are relaying.

  The twinkle in his eyes grows for every second spent staring at me in silence. “I don’t know,” he eventually mutters, his smooth voice cracking with concealed laughter. “But you can be assured the paparazzi didn’t peer in my direction when this bad boy rolled into the parking lot.”

  Another inappropriate giggle leaves my mouth before I can shut it down. I know I shouldn’t feel remorse about the actions of others, but that doesn’t stop it from occurring. Remorse is one of those things you can’t control. It sneaks up on you when you least expect, more often than not leaving you feeling more remorseful than you were to begin with.

  My eyes lift from my intertwined hands when Marcus tracks his thumb along the
throb in my throat. “Don’t feel guilty, Cleo. As Shian already stated, the actions of a grown man should never be placed on another’s shoulders, much less the woman he lured into a trap with the intent to harm her.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m feeling guilty; I just hate that Richard thought he had no other option than to harm himself. What could he have possibly done that was so bad suicide was his only option?” My teeth munch on my bottom lip as I struggle to hold my tears.

  “This,” Marcus barely whispers, rubbing at the heavy groove scoured between my lowered brows. “And this,” he continues, trailing his thumb to the tears threatening to spill from my eyes at any moment. “When you hurt someone you care about, your brain doesn’t function the same way. Even when your intentions are to ease their pain, most of the time you end up doing more bad than good.”

  My breath hitches halfway to my lungs when his eyes tell me his statement is more referring to himself than Richard. Is that what his earlier guilt was about? His actions during our week apart?

  My suspicions are confirmed when the guilt in his eyes darkens as he brushes the back of his fingers over the area where my cheek used to be marked. Although the injuries from my attack five days ago are no longer visible, Marcus’s memory is so fervent, he caresses the exact area that stung with pain after I was struck.

  Hating the remorse his eyes are carrying, I nuzzle into his embrace. His sweet breath fans my lips when he exhales harshly, seemingly surprised by my loving gesture. His shocked response entices my nurturing nature even more. I lean across the cranked parking brake so I can press my lips against his. Our kiss is nothing more than an innocent schoolyard peck, but it soothes me more than I could ever explain.

  It must have the same effect on Marcus, as the instant our lips touch, the heavy grooves on his forehead vanish. Careful not to irritate the scratches on my arms, he seizes my wrists and pulls me to sit cradled in his lap. Although it's a tight squeeze in the confines of the unknown stranger’s car, nothing could dampen the comfort his tenderness awards me with. He doesn’t speak. He just holds me close to his body as the warmth of his hands pacifies my shaking limbs. I’m sure our gesture isn’t uncommon for this location; it appears to be the perfect setting for a raunchy rendezvous. Although I’m sure most of the couples who parked here aren’t doing so to admire the scenery.

  After taking a few moments to ease the pain in my heart using nothing more than his touch, Marcus locks his eyes with me. “Let’s get you home.”

  I attempt to correct him that Ravenshoe isn’t my home, but no matter how hard I try to fire the rebuttal off my tongue, my mouth refuses to relinquish it.

  I’ve never had a fondness for lying.

  4

  Twenty minutes later, we pull into Marcus’s residence. Since the security system is still down, Marcus parks on the far left-hand side of the driveway. After shutting down the engine, he curls out of the driver’s seat and urgently strides to my side of the car. I undo my seatbelt and clamber out when he opens the passenger side door for me. My face grimaces when my muscles kick up a stink about my abrupt movements. My throbbing joints didn’t appreciate the tight confines of the car as much as my heart did.

  Marcus’s hand stiffening on my lower back reveals he noticed my grimace, but he remains quiet, his sole focus devoted to guiding me into his residence. Silent determination beams out of him in hot, invisible waves. If brooding personalities made me nervous, his swift change in demeanor would have me sweating profusely. But since I have gotten used to his ominous moods, the sweat misting my skin isn’t from fear; it's based solely on excitement.

  The longer we continue with our trek, the firmer Marcus’s stance becomes. The energy bouncing between us is as crackling as ever, but it’s been somewhat downplayed by the rigidness thickening the air. His composure reminds me of the minutes leading up to his departure this morning. Although Marcus never mentioned what his emergency meeting pertained to, the fretful mask that slipped over his face when he advised me he had to leave had my stomach twisting in knots. Marcus is a very reserved man who guards his emotions with the same protectiveness a father uses to shield his children, but the worry his eyes held this morning was unmissable. He was the most fretful I’ve ever seen him—until now.

  “Did you get everything sorted before you had to leave?”

  “Hmm?” Marcus’s gaze remains fixated on the entranceway of his property.

  My brows stitch, stunned by his blasé response. Marcus is a highly intelligent man. Daftness does not belong in his repertoire.

  I lock my eyes with his. “Your emergency meeting with the band? Did you get everything worked out before you had to. . .umm . . . come get me?”

  I roll my eyes, loathing my inability to leave things on the table. If I learned to reel in my annoying habit of needing to know everything, I wouldn’t be subjected to the murderous glare Marcus is now directing at me. His gaze is downright furious, and it sets my pulse racing.

  The beat of my heart slows when I realize his wrathful snarl isn’t directed at me. He is peering past my shoulder, not into my eyes. With my heart thumping against my ribcage, I swing my eyes in the direction Marcus’s are facing. The twisting sensation in my stomach moves to the base of my throat when I spot Abel standing at the entranceway. He is next to a lady wearing a fitted black pantsuit that showcases the generous curve of her hips. Although her stance is strong, even my poor eyesight can see the gleam of remorse in her eyes. It's an exact replica of the remorse Abel’s are transmitting.

  Panic clutches my heart when Abel’s begging-for-forgiveness eyes stray to his shuffling feet, Marcus’s irate gaze too much for him to bear. My back is relieved of the feverish heat pumping out of Marcus when I pace away from him. My wish to undo the mistakes I made has my speed increasing with every step I take.

  Abel is taken aback when I throw my arms around his small torso and hug him fiercely. I silently thank him for the assistance he gave me earlier, while also relaying to Marcus he has no reason to be angry at him. Abel did everything in his power to stop me from going with Richard, so if anyone should be dealing with Marcus’s anger, it should be me.

  My assumptions about Marcus’s anger are proven wrong when Marcus angrily snarls, “You assured me Richard would be arrested before he got in sniffing distance of Cleo. That was the only reason I agreed to leave. I took you at your word that you’d protect her.”

  “Whoa, what?” I ask, peeling back from Abel to drift my eyes between Marcus and the unknown woman he is fiercely scolding. “You knew Richard was here? What he was planning to do?”

  Marcus’s jaw tenses, but his lips stay snapped shut. He doesn’t attempt to deny or agree with my accusations. When my eyes lock on his female companion, she mimics his stance, although her remorseful eyes are more forthcoming than Marcus’s resolute gaze.

  I turn my eyes to Abel, hoping the bond we’ve grown the past four days will be greater than his loyalty to Marcus. He rapidly blinks, fighting hard to ignore the moisture glistening in his usually forthright eyes. I say “usually” as today his eyes are as emotionless as Delilah’s Christmas message in the eCard she sent last year. It was as cold and heartless as she is.

  I drift my eyes back to Marcus. “Did you know Richard was in Florida?” I ask again, my stubbornness not allowing me to back down without answers.

  Acting like I’m not even in his presence, Marcus keeps his furious gaze locked on the unknown African American lady I’d guess to be mid-to-late forties. Although her clipped black afro hair, beautifully clear skin, and small smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose gives her the appearance of a gentle soul, the glare she is directing at Marcus upends her homely façade. Her narrowed gaze is just as ruthless as Marcus’s.

  She flinches when Marcus snarls, “Years on the force and a weasel of man like him still got away from you.” My stomach flips from the viciousness of his words. It wasn’t what he said that has my stomach twisted in knots, it was the way he said it.


  “Please,” retaliates the unnamed lady, her voice drenched in sassiness. “If you didn’t bring the FBI in, this case would have closed days ago. But you had to bring in the bigwigs, who, of course, wanted to get him on more than standard stalking charges.”

  I back down from my stern stance, my intuition telling me I’ll get more answers watching these two go to battle than Marcus could ever relay. Abel also regresses. He follows me to the edge of the patio, where we stand in silence, watching the two powerhouses go toe to toe.

  “It was one agent, Regina,” Marcus replies to her sneered comment, throwing his arms into the air. I’m not going to lie, even in the tenseness of the situation, my pussy pulses from his domineering gesture.

  Regina spreads her hands across her ample hips. “You know as well as anyone, Marcus. It takes one person to bring down an entire team.”

  A blaze of anger flashes in Marcus’s eyes. “If it weren’t for that one agent, Richard could have had Cleo halfway to Mexico by now!”

  Regina’s curt laugh does nothing to ease the tension binding my stomach in knots. “That would have never happened if Cleo didn’t leave with him. No one was prepared for that. You weren’t even prepared for that. It left us scrambling.”

  Marcus’s jaw tightens so firmly it almost snaps. As his squinted gaze drifts to me, he clenches his fists open and closed. His eyes relay his disappointment without a syllable leaving his mouth. Not trusting my legs to keep me upright, I slip my hand into Abel’s sweaty palm. Within a matter of seconds, my stupidity steamrolls me into silence.

  Only now am I realizing how much danger I put myself in. Who knows what would have happened if Shian’s operation didn’t catch up to us? My heart falls from my ribcage. The idea of being seriously injured isn’t the cause; it's the idea of leaving Lexi alone and defenseless. I’m struggling to come to terms with knowing one day I’ll be the last Garcia left in Montclair; I never considered the consequences for Lexi if that happened to her.