Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  Realizing I’ve overachieved when it comes to punishing myself, Marcus shifts his focus back to Regina. Although they continue slinging insults at each other for the next ten minutes, my exhausted brain is too fried to absorb all their comments. I get enough snippets to gain an understanding of what their argument pertains to—Marcus is annoyed Regina didn’t keep her word; Regina is annoyed I left with Richard—but not enough to ease the sick feeling twisting my gut.

  My attention only snaps back to the present when the Regina says, “You should have kept your agent on Cleo’s sister, then none of this would have happened.”

  I gulp down the bile rapidly surging to the back of my throat as I step closer to them. “What does Lexi have to do with this?” I ask as my eyes dance between two pairs of narrowed gazes gawking at me with apprehension.

  Regina licks her lips, but not a word seeps from her mouth. Marcus's lips move in preparation to speak, but his eyes convey he won’t tell me anything I don’t already know.

  “You might want to wipe the dishonesty from your eyes before that lie comes spilling out your mouth,” I mutter with my eyes locked on Marcus. “Because no matter how much you try to mask shit with bullshit, it still smells like shit.”

  Regina’s lips twitch as she struggles to hold her smile. “You were right; I don’t even know her, and I already like her,” she chuckles while moving to stand next to Abel.

  Abel’s eyes spark with mischief as he nods. My pursuit to unearth Lexi’s connection to this case is temporarily impeded when my spent brain notices the similarities between Regina and Abel. Same rounded cheeks, same smattering of freckles across their identical noses, and same big, worldly eyes. The only difference between them is Regina is a good twenty to thirty years younger than Abel, and she is female.

  I suck in a deep breath when reality dawns.

  Noticing my gasping expression, Abel says, “Ms. Cleo, please meet my daughter, Regina, long-standing member of Ravenshoe PD.” The twinkle of admiration in his eyes intensifies when he shifts them to Regina. “Regina, this is the lovely Ms. Cleo I’ve been telling you about, Mr. Everett’s girlfriend.” He overemphasizes my title with a dramatic flair I haven’t heard him use the past four days.

  When Regina thrusts out her hand in offering, it snaps me out of my shocked trance. Seizing the opportunity bestowed by her friendly gesture, I accept her handshake before pulling her in close.

  “What does my sister have to do with Richard’s case?” I ask, keeping my hand clenched around hers to ensure she understands the urgency of my question.

  Although my nerves are rattled from today’s tumultuous events, it isn’t bad enough to snuff my overwhelming desire to protect my sister. Technically, she was the reason I left with Richard, so if Regina has knowledge that will back up my intuition, I want to hear about it. Then maybe I won’t feel so stupid about the foolish decisions I made today.

  When Regina’s eyes stray to Marcus, who is standing behind my left shoulder, I step in the direction of her path, cutting off any warning he is relaying to her.

  “Do you work for Ravenshoe PD or Marcus?” I query, my tone unforgiving with my snarled-in-anger words.

  Regina’s eyes return to me. She doesn’t answer my question; her stern glare alone ensures there is no doubt where her loyalties lie. She may be like family to Marcus, but she has just as much blue blood running through her veins as she does red.

  “I’m Lexi’s legal guardian, so I am within my rights to request information on any matters pertaining to her,” I mutter, using the same excuse I always use when meddling in Lexi’s life.

  Regina doesn’t accept my declaration with the same amount of ease Lexi’s college professors and work colleagues did. Don’t get me wrong, the remorse in her eyes did double, and the tightness in her shoulders relaxed, but she holds herself firm with dignified respect.

  “That may have been the case after your parents’ unfortunate passing, but when Lexi turned eighteen, the rights of who she wants to be updated on her personal matters reverted to her,” Regina replies, her tone repentant but to the point.

  I release Regina’s hand as confusion overwhelm me. What does that mean? Is she saying Lexi is aware of everything happening but requested for me not to be updated?

  Reading the silent questions my eyes are asking, Regina explains, “But, in saying that, Richard’s arrival in Florida clearly iterates what I’ve been saying all along. His focus was never on your sister. He only wanted you. Despite the numerous pictures he had of her, she was never in any danger.”

  If she is aiming to lessen my panicked confusion, she is doing a terrible job. I’m more frightened now than ever. My baffled eyes stray to Marcus when he runs the back of his fingers down my cheek, removing a tear I didn’t realize had spilled from my eye until now.

  “Is Lexi safe?” I ask Marcus even though his eyes are already conveying his answer.

  The curt nod of his head sends more tears trickling down my face. These are filled with gratitude.

  “Yes,” he murmurs before banding his arms around my quivering shoulders. His hold is so firm, my feet lift off the ground. “Just like you, I’d never let anything happen to her, Cleo,” he mutters, his assured tone boosting the confidence of his statement.

  “Does she know about Richard? And the photos?” I mumble into his chest.

  “Yes,” he repeats. His warm breath fans the hairs clinging to my neck.

  Marcus’s movements are so agile, I don’t realize he is moving until we arrive at his office I left in a flurry mere hours ago. My entire universe has been upended so much since then, it truly feels like a lifetime has passed in a matter of hours.

  Holding me close, Marcus strides across the room, lifts the chair toppled on the floor, then sits in front of his desk. As he logs in to his computer, Regina and Abel hover by the door. Their presence is strong enough I’d never forget they were here, but not overly intrusive. My nose tingles when the computer monitor illuminates, displaying I’ve missed thirty-three FaceTime chat requests from Lexi the past three hours. Oh god—she must have been panicked out of her mind.

  “She’s okay,” Marcus informs me, intuiting the reason for the new bout of moisture in my eyes. “She was updated on your whereabouts the instant Shian arrived on scene.”

  Before I can communicate my thanks, Lexi’s beautiful face fills the computer.

  “Cleo. . . Jesus, you scared me!” she scolds down the line as angry, hot tears stream down her face as freely as mine do.

  5

  “Another hot chocolate?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you,” I reply to Abel, who is clearing away the empty plates and mugs left on the coffee table by the multiple agents filling Marcus’s large living room.

  I stand from the couch I’ve been sitting on the past two hours and make my way to the side of the room. Like he has done numerous times tonight, Marcus stops speaking to the agent he’s communicating with so his eyes can track my every move. When I stop at the side of the main living space, his eyes lock and hold with mine. The worry his eyes have held the past three hours intensifies when he takes in my slumped frame and drooping eyes. I am genuinely exhausted—the most tired I’ve ever been.

  After speaking with Lexi for nearly an hour, our call was interrupted by Shian and a handful of local and interstate FBI agents. Although she hasn’t said anything, I’m relatively confident Shian caught wind of Regina’s presence at Marcus’s residence. Since Richard’s case is being jointly investigated by interstate agents, no one was willing to wait until tomorrow morning to question me. That’s means I’ve spent the last two hours discovering my decision to leave with Richard today was one of the silliest I’ve made. He’s not only been stalking me relentlessly the past two years, he also bugged my work computer, landline, and my home PC. He was watching me even more than Marcus was the past three months.

  I know this may categorize me as coldhearted bitch, but I’m just being honest. I thought discovering Richard was
stalking me would be the most upsetting issue I’d face today. It wasn’t. It was discovering Marcus brought me here under the guise he wanted me to know him, when in reality, he only brought me here as the FBI figured it was a way to force Richard to react.

  By drawing Richard out of his comfort zone, Shian assumed he would make a mistake. She was right, but it doesn’t lessen the devastation on my behalf. I only agreed to come here as I wanted to experience the real Marcus—the man behind the disguise he wears in front of others.

  Now, I’ll leave with more questions than I arrived with. Such as, how long has he known about Richard? Did he only bring me here because it was the safer option than his sub house in town? And, last, but not at all least, do I still hold the title of his girlfriend?

  Deep down inside, I know why Marcus didn’t tell me what was happening: I would have never left Montclair if I knew the reason he wanted me to go with him, but it doesn’t stop me wondering if that's the only reason he deceived me the past four days. Was his deceit just a one-off lie? Or will it be something that will continue in our relationship? If we still have a relationship.

  My heart-wrenching inner turmoil simmers to a dull bubble when my body’s primitive awareness of Marcus’s proximity activates. My body senses his nearness mere moments before he curls his arms around my waist and pulls me to his torso. Needing his comfort to soothe the hesitation prickling my spine, I melt into his embrace. The generous curve of my backside nuzzles into his crotch as my heavy head lolls onto his hard pec muscle.

  “Nearly done,” he mutters against my hair before he presses a kiss to my temple.

  He sways his hips. His movements are so smooth, he could rock me to sleep. Witnessing him display his nurturing side in front of the dozen pairs of eyes gawking at us makes me realize the man standing behind me is Marcus—not Master Chains. Although they are technically one and the same, the past two weeks have awarded me with so much insight into Marcus’s unique personality, I can confidently distinguish which person I am interacting with.

  The man who finger-fucked me on his couch in his living room was Master Chains. The man who intuited my every need, want, and desire while eating pizza with his bandmates was Marcus. The man who sat at the breakfast bar two weeks ago, negotiating with me to become his sub without looking at me was Master Chains. The man who pinned me to the wall as we bartered our terms on more amicable grounds was Marcus. There are many more instances I can give that clearly define whom I was associating with at the time. . . all but one. The man I associated with in his playroom four days ago was neither Marcus or Master Chains. He was a little bit of them both.

  Wanting to confirm my suspicions that the man making me swoon is Marcus, I pivot on my heels to face him. The air is sucked from my lungs from the sheer closeness of his exquisitely handsome face. God, he is gorgeous: plump lips and soul-stealing eyes on a face carved by the world’s best sculptor to bring women to their knees. I’m not going to lie, I’d give anything to pretend he brought me here because he wanted to, not because he was forced to.

  When stupid tears loom in my eyes, Marcus’s dark brows slant. “Cleo. . . don’t,” he mutters as his worried eyes dart between mine. “Whatever you're thinking, it isn’t true. Your tired head isn’t letting you see the full picture.”

  I stare up at him, blinking and confused. I either said my thoughts out loud, or he can indeed read my inner monologue. My attempt to interpret his riddled statement is lost when Shian arrives at our side. My eyes roll skywards, announcing my annoyance at her unfortunate timing. Any time things get interesting between Marcus and me, she appears like magic, thwarting the intrigue bristling between us. We’ve barely spoken more than a sentence to each other the past three hours. With our communication skills already lacking, the last thing we need is someone interfering.

  My heart stops beating when Marcus asks, “Any news on Richard?”

  Shian quirks her lips before shaking her head. “No. With the bad lighting, they put off the recovery until the morning.”

  “Recovery?” I ask, confusion evident in my tone.

  Marcus only stiffens for the quickest moment, but it's long enough for me to notice. “The recovery of Richard’s body, Cleo,” he explains, his tone a unique mix of infuriation and anger. “The FBI isn’t undertaking a rescue mission. It's a recovery mission.”

  The salad sandwich I consumed for dinner threatens to resurface. Although I know there is no way Richard would have survived the fall, a small part of me was hoping there was a possibility he would be found alive. Then I could have placed him into the ground myself.

  I stiffen, stunned by my callousness. I’d like to say I am utterly flabbergasted by my reaction, but that would be untrue. Since the death of my parents and Tate, I’ve become a little bitter with matters pertaining to life and death. My parents and brother were wonderful, hard-working members of society who never stepped out of line or said a bad word about anyone, yet they were taken from me way too soon. At times, Lexi may be the bane of my existence, but she doesn’t deserve the short life sentence she’s been issued either. So, although the final words Richard spoke to me have been running through my mind on repeat the last two hours, all the horrid things I’ve learned about him are swinging the pendulum in the opposite direction it was sitting when he plunged to his death.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying my heart isn’t pained by his decision—self-harm should never be an option—I just don’t have enough tears left to shed over a man who taunted me more than he was kind to me. Furthermore, most of my tears were depleted at my parents and Tate’s funeral. The rest will remain for the day I say my final goodbye to Lexi.

  My tear-welling eyes rocket to Marcus when he says, “We’ll discuss it more thoroughly in New York tomorrow.”

  The gurgling of my stomach intensifies as the despicable thoughts plaguing me the past two hours ring true. The fact Marcus wants to take me home immediately following the closing of Richard’s case proves he didn’t bring me here of his own free will—he was forced to.

  My stomach lurches into my throat when a new reality dawns: does he even want me here now? Or is he once again being strong-armed?

  Incapable of ignoring my flipping stomach for a moment longer, I step out of Marcus’s hold. When he puts up a protest about my unexpected departure, I mumble, “I’m going to grab a shower.” My tone is so to the point, there is no chance my declaration could be construed as a question.

  My unchecked pace out of Marcus’s living room is so fast, the air ripples in my wake. Ignoring Marcus and Shian’s demands for me to stop, I take the stairs two at a time, my desire to get away from it all so fervent I’m practically sprinting.

  I only just make it into the guest powder room before the dinner I consumed resurfaces in the ghastliest way. My back bends harshly as my body works hard to expel the products that have been swirling relentlessly the past two hours.

  Once every crumb of my sandwich has been dispelled, I rest my backside on the balls of my feet. I jump, frightened beyond belief when a damp washcloth brushes my bare shoulder. It isn’t the fact someone has snuck up on me unaware that has me jumping out of my skin; it's the fact they just witnessed me at my worst. Always desiring to represent the well-put-together Cleo, no one has ever seen me this disheveled.

  After gathering my heart from the floor, I accept the lily-scented cloth from the wrinkled hand while raising my eyes to my savior. A grin curls on my cracked lips when the soulful dark eyes of Abel peer back at me.

  “Uh-uh,” Abel mutters firmly, reading my apology for what he witnessed before it has the chance to be articulated. “You have had a very rough day, Ms. Cleo. Side effects of this nature are perfectly normal.”

  Stealing my chance to refute his claim that my sickness is associated with Richard, he moves to the window perched above the vanity to crack it open. As cool, salty air blows into the small confines, he lowers the toilet seat, flushes the cistern, then replaces my washcloth with a new one.
/>   Warmth blooms across my chest when he says, “Come on, let me have a look at you?”

  Not waiting for me to reply, he places the back of his hand on my forehead to check for a temperature as his worldly eyes dart between mine, as if he is physically inspecting my soul for internal injuries.

  “I’m not sick,” I mumble, my voice showing my delight for his caring nature. “I’m just—”

  “A Garcia,” Abel interrupts.

  The expression marring his adorable face causes a small chuckle to escape from my lips. His brow is arched high, and his nose is pointed down. He reminds me of Mr. Fitzgerald, my fifth-grade science teacher—in a less scary type of way.

  As he times my pulse, Abel glares into my eyes, daring me to negate his true statement. I keep my mouth shut. Abel and I have shared many stories the past four days; most featured Lexi and my Garcia antics. Although I downplayed my influence in the stories I shared, Abel knows before my tragic loss, I was just as much a part of the antics as Lexi was.

  After washing his hands in the sink, Abel gently caresses my neck with both his hands. Just him taking the weight off my tired head is a godsend.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs to himself before he abruptly cracks my neck to the right.

  My eyes bulge as panic makes itself known. My alarm doesn’t last long. Only long enough for me to realize whatever Abel just did to my neck completely erased the consequence of my tumble out of Richard’s car. All the pain throbbing in my neck the past three hours has vanished, taking my thumping headache right along with it.

  I lock my eyes with Abel, shock smeared on my face. “What did you do?”

  He humbly shrugs. “An old trick I learned during my years of service.”

  My O-formed mouth shifts into a smile when he playfully salutes. “You were in the military?”

  Abel gathers the two dirty washcloths from my hands to place them in the woven hamper under the vanity sink while answering, “Yes. Sergeant First Class Brown at your service, Ms. Cleo.”