by JL Mac
“Nah, nah, Miss Devlin. All mine remember?”
How could I ever forget?
Even if I somehow survive this man, I highly doubt that I can ever forget a single thing about him—us.
A buzzing sound fills the silence between us and Beast hoists me up without ever taking his eyes off mine to reach into the pocket of his shorts. “Yeah,” he greets. “Send her up.” He hangs up and deposits his phone on the table. “Come meet Frieda. She cooks, cleans, and basically takes care of shit for me. She will now babysit you when I’m not around.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say in protest, which is dumb because it’s not like he’s interested in my opinion on anything. He ignores me, dragging me behind him toward the open front foyer of his penthouse. A bell chimes signaling someone has arrived and doors slide open revealing an older woman with dark hair struck through with a copious amount of silver. She steps into the foyer and hugs Beast, beaming in a motherly way. Her tawny brown eyes find me and sweep over me with obvious criticism.
“You and Orin,” she says accusatorily, shaking her head dismally.
“Frieda, thanks for coming by. This is Ena. She does nothing and goes nowhere without my permission. Feed her. Help her… settle in,” he says with a smug gleam in his eye. “I have a business trip to pack for,” he announces turning on his heel. My chest squeezes with anxiety. The auction. Frieda keeps eyeing me like I’m the gum she stepped on in the parking lot of the grocery store. I roll my eyes and return to my gilded cage to pace the floor because quite frankly, that’s all I can do. Lan’s fate is out of my hands now. I’ve placed her destiny in a set of violent, scarred, murdering fists belonging to the most vicious yet capable man I’ve ever met.
Beast clears his throat, announcing his presence. I whirl around to find him prowling right toward me. I hang my head and hate myself for feeling relieved to see him there with his bag by the door. If I prayed much, now would be the time to kneel and repent. Instead I find myself praying to Beast, my gaze lowered, my forehead resting against his chest. My heart is racing wildly. Tears are threatening. Beast wraps his arms around me, his hands resting at the base of my spine.
“Please. Please, find her.” It comes out in a voice I hardly recognize. Perhaps because I know this is it. This is the end of the road for someone. Either Lan is coming home and it’s the end of my road as a free woman or Lan isn’t coming back and it’s the end of her road in life. I swallow hard and release him to swipe at the rogue tear that has escaped. I sniffle and try not to meet his all-consuming gaze.
“Try not to piss off Frieda,” he warns with the hint of playfulness in his cruel voice.
“That’s going to be difficult. She already hates me.”
“Nah. She’s got a thing for Orin and you probably remind her of his dead wife. She hated her from what I’m told,” he says quietly, twisting my hair around his fingers. He brings his hands to my face and brushes his lips against mine then pulls back, looking at me intently. “I expect you to be in my bed when I get back.”
I nod, swallowing back my tears. This feels like the edge of the cliff. It feels like the part when your destiny is decided. You either plunge to your death, aware of the ground as you make your final descent or… or someone saves you. Snags you from the brink just in the nick of time and at the most critical moment of your life. I have the distinct gut feeling that Beast is both for me. He is the end and the beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beast
New York always puts me in a foul mood. Reluctantly spending a fuck ton of money puts me in a foul mood too but this is business and I have to do what I have to do. Yeah, sure. Buying Alana Perryman is High Knoll’s concern. Keep tellin’ yourself that, Carrick.
I have to do this for myself, for High Knoll.
For Ena.
The New York stink and blowing thousands upon thousands of dollars on two girls tonight isn’t what has me on edge. Ena Devlin is in my fuckin’ head. Still. Maybe even worse than when she was just my little liar sashaying around Eden. I thought—fuck… I don’t have a clue what I thought. Part of me thinks that maybe I assumed that if I discovered she’d been a conniving manipulative bitch I’d happily toss her out with the trash but part of me thinks that discovering her motives, her real name only made me desperate to have her. Pleased to keep her around until this intrigue and desire with her is out of my system. The woman has me spellbound and despite being the one holding her captive, she very much holds the reins in her delicate, soft fingers.
Something about her…
“Sir, we’re about fifteen minutes away,” the driver announces before rolling the privacy screen back between us. I glance at Murph who has his version of an incredulous look on his face.
“Gonna spit it out?” I press him.
“Nothin’ to say.” His tone could not be more detached but I can tell he’s thinking something.
“Yeah, sure,” I grumble. “So we’re getting the girls and flying back tonight. Then we take them to the apartment. Stay with them until we can make drop off arrangements.”
“The apartment may be a bad idea with all the guys coming and going.”
“Good point. Can you keep them at your place until we set up drop off arrangements?” Murph scoffs and shakes his head.
“Sure. Houseguests. And what if we can’t get either one of them?”
“I’m gonna be one pissed off motherfucker.”
“We prepared to go after them if someone else has em’?”
“I’ll speak with Or first, but yeah. We may have to do just that.” I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. “And Murph, I’ll never question your judgment again,” I admit begrudgingly.
He nods tightly then looks out at the New York night as we navigate through it on our way to buy a couple of girls off sick Russian Bratva fucks.
“Gentlemen,” a thickly accented woman greets us. A black half-mask conceals most of her face but she’s naked with exception to a thin sparkling chain serving as a G-string. She escorts us through a dimly lit corridor to a private room that reminds me of balcony seats at the theatre. There are box seats separated by adjoining walls. The lower level is also sectioned off but from up here I can see the tops of people’s heads below. “Enjoy, gentlemen,” she bows and leaves. There is a center stage with a catwalk leading to a larger circular stage. On the small drink table between our seats is a tablet. I pick it up and press a button, bringing the screen to life. A screen with high definition closed circuit television camera views pops up along with a second box detailing a lineup.
“These motherfuckers,” I grumble waiting for the event to begin. Murph grunts his agreement and crosses his arms over his chest. They have quite the production set up for The Flower March.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. Let the bidding begin,” a faceless voice announces from hidden speakers. The screen of the tablet in my hands flickers and life, close up footage of the first girl pops up. I look to the stage below and see the hooded man leading the woman—girl down the catwalk by a leather leash. She’s completely nude except for a black blindfold, black thong and a black collar, which is affixed, to her neck. A low murmuring of approval buzzes through the large room and I grit my teeth. A sort of asset list is on the screen beside the video frame.
Age: 15
Build: Petite.
Ethnicity: Asian (mixed)
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Weight: 109 lbs.
Breast: 32 A
Disposition: Submissive.
Experience: Inexperienced, non-virgin.
The small bidding box on the screen lights with numbers as the attendees begin making their bids. The numbers speed skyward and I watch them carefully, curious what to expect in terms of expense. After a few minutes of parading the girl around the circular stage, the bidding begins to slow and a timer counting down from thirty-seconds begins to flash on the screen, warning that bidding is nearly up.
“One oh seven,” I whisper, tilting the screen toward Murph so he can see the winning bid. His eyes cut to the screen like he’s just watched someone puke. Having been sold for a whopping one hundred and seven thousand dollars, the girl is escorted from the stage like livestock at the auction. The next girl is led onto the stage and her credentials are listed on my screen.
Age: 17
Build: Petite.
Ethnicity: Caucasian.
Hair: Brown.
Eyes: Blue.
Weight: 116 lbs.
Breast: 32 B
Disposition: Submissive.
Experience: Certified virgin.
The crowd murmurs their excitement, likely at the bit about her being a certified virgin. What the fuck do they do to certify that? The hooded man pulls her along, ignoring her stumbling. Murph rubs his chin, muffling his growl. The bidding shoots skyward, fast. By the time the thirty second countdown box pops up the girl has someone willing to pay two hundred thirteen thousand dollars for her.
I rub my eyes, wondering when I’ll forget this shit. I’m no chivalrous gentleman, and I am definitely no saint. I don’t mind subjugating women but they’re willing women who’ve asked to be subjugated, usually for a hell of a stack of cash. The girl is escorted from the stage and the next girl is ushered up in her place.
Age: 17
Build: Medium.
Ethnicity: European. (Italian)
Hair: Brown.
Eyes: Brown.
Weight: 121 lbs.
Breast: 34 B
Disposition: Moderate.
Experience: Inexperienced, non-virgin.
“There’s one of ‘em,” I whisper to Murph, motioning to the stage where the fucker in the mask is tugging the Princessa forward. I nearly laugh at the tidbit noting her disposition as moderate. Based on the amount of fight she’s putting up on stage, I suspect her disposition is a little worse than moderate. If the old Capo could see this he’d have a coronary on the spot.
Bidding begins and climbs at a steady, albeit slower rate than the other girls. It’s likely her non-virgin with an attitude detail is to thank for that. It’s good news for my bank account. I jab my finger on the red box with bold white letters reading BID. I punch in my initial bid and someone almost immediately outbids me. I increase by ten grand.
Eighty-seven grand.
The bid jumps three more times by only a few thousand each time before I raise my bid yet again with seven seconds to spare.
One hundred two grand.
I take a deep breath of relief glad to have snagged the Italian slob’s granddaughter. Now, he owes me, real fuckin’ big. Plus interest. Six more girls are trotted out and sold to sick fucks willing to pay a hell of a lot of cash. The numbers are staggering. It’s no wonder these Bratva pigs wade into the human trafficking waters. I glance at the new girl’s description as they begin pulling her out onto the catwalk. My eyes hone in on her disposition. Aggressive. That’s Ena’s sister. I just know it. If there’s one thing I’d be willing to bet the bank on it would be that Ena Devlin doesn’t have a sister who’d go quietly. Not when Ena Devlin has been her example growing up.
Age: 19
Build: Medium.
Ethnicity: Caucasian.
Hair: Blonde.
Eyes: Blue.
Weight: 119 lbs.
Breast: 34 C
Disposition: Aggressive.
Experience: Certified virgin.
“That’s her,” I whisper to Murph. He narrows his eyes and leans forward in his seat, his gaze locking onto the hooded asshole practically dragging her down the catwalk toward the circular stage. Murph’s jaw hardens; his eyes turn wild and animalistic, true to his nickname. I know the look. He looks ready to burn the fuckin’ place down. He’s had enough of this and so have I. “Cool it,” I warn. The bidding begins and the numbers fire off at an astounding rate. She’s blonde and clearly pretty but her attitude sucks. No shock to me of course. She’s Ena’s sister. Some sick fucks enjoy a fighter though. They seek it, in fact. They revel the thought of breaking her. My jaw tightens as I jab my first bid into the number pad on the screen. “Goddamn Bratva,” I grind.
One hundred forty-nine grand.
As expected, a bid twelve grand higher bumps me. It continues to work upward, as does my heart rate. I glance at Murph who is sitting on the edge of his seat, a thin sheen of sweat at his hairline. He is barely containing himself.
“What the fuck,” I breathe and jab my final bid as the clock begins winding down. A new bid bumps mine out of the race by another ten grand. Ena’s face flashes in my mind and I imagine how disappointed she’d be. I imagine having to let her go and dread blooms in my chest. With five seconds to go Murph snags the tablet and adds an additional fifty grand to my two-hundred twenty-eight thousand dollars.
The clock rolls to zero and a SOLD box flashes on the screen of the tablet. I sag against the seatback with relief. I don’t know whether to kick Murph’s ass or celebrate with him.
We just bought the ticket securing High Knoll’s ownership of all territories in Boston and mine to own Ena. Forever.
It only cost me three hundred eighty thousand dollars. A steal if there ever was one.
We sedated the Italian Princessa and I had intended to sedate Alana too but I wondered if she’d answer a few questions about that unnerving sister of hers. As expected Alana Perryman looked like she’d just walked through hell and back. Dark circles underscored the cerulean eyes I’d seen in photos on Ena’s cellphone. Her hair draped limply on her shoulders, somehow less bright than the pictures I had seen. Her skin was dull and her stare vacant.
“Nothing to say?”
“No. You’re a sick freak!” she spat and tried launching her frail body at me. Luckily both missed the mark. Murph leapt to his feet and caught her around the waist, hauling her up off her feet. He murmured placating things close to her ear to which she seemed to respond to.
“You may be interested to know who sent me.” I sigh straightening my cuff links.
“Doubt it. Sick assholes,” she screamed in that shrill voice in an octave that only women can achieve.
“I’ll tell Ena you weren’t interested in hearing about it,” I say casually, peeking out the jet window. We won’t be in the air long. The flight from New York to Boston isn’t much to speak of.
“E—Ena? No. You lie.” Her chin crinkles as tears well, fat and heavy in her blue eyes.
“The one and only,” I say holding up a picture on my cell phone of her sister riding in the car on the way to Arman’s place. She hadn’t been aware I’d snapped it and I wasn’t even certain why I’d done it only that I did because I wanted to look at her any time I felt the desire to.
Ena. My property. That certainly has a nice ring to it.
“What did you do to her?” she whispers ready to spit fire.
Definitely sisters, these two.
“Nothing she didn’t signup for and agree to, I assure you. In fact, she’s asleep in my home, in Boston.”
“She’s okay?” she sobs.
“Yes. She’s been working overtime findin’ you. That’s where we came in. You’re welcome.”
“She’s safe though? She needs to be safe. He can get in! He’ll get to her! He told me if I didn’t cooperate… he—he—warned me—if I said anything to anyone, he’d sell her too!” She rambles on at a thousand words a second forcing me to shake my head and put my hand up.
“Yes she’s safe. I can guarantee you no one is getting to Ena. Now who is this person threatening to take her?” I grit feeling ready to murder and maim.
She falls limp in Murph’s arms, shock and visible relief seeming to seize her brain. “Kevin Santini. He’s a cop. He—he was my dad’s partner before my dad was killed. He’s the one who kidnapped me.” She seems nearly ready to faint and Murphy carefully gathers her up and deposits her into a seat across from his. She sinks down into her seat and seems lost in her own mind. Murph takes a seat across from me and I see
him flexing his hand, balling it and unballing it.
“Where is he?” I ask Murph in a hushed tone.
“Still being held at the apartment,” he whispers with those animalistic eyes that won him his nickname. Relief floods me and for a moment and I mentally pat myself on the back for deciding to snatch up Teeny when I did. It would seem like his house of cards is collapsing and that makes for a reckless, desperate man. The idea that he could have stolen Ena… my Ena… It makes me fantasize about dismembering him piece by piece for even having made the threat. His time will come but for now, I have other pressing things to handle.
“Make sure the men keep him there. I gotta talk to Or.” Murphy nods, wordlessly and I get to my feet and ease closer to Alana.
“Now, Miss Perryman, let’s go over the story for your return, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ena
I’ve stayed up channel surfing and pacing in my new bedroom until a headache has formed, wracking my brain, and my heels hurt from stamping across the marble floor. I do a series of workouts. Pushups and sit-ups, squats and lunges. Sitting by the phone or by the door waiting for news about something massive is a form of torture. I’d done my duty earlier today and sent mom more bullshit pictures I’d lifted off the web followed by text messages about how amazing Crater Lake in Oregon was and how Yellowstone was so peaceful despite the fact that it could technically erupt at any point killing millions of people and change the geography of the planet. She’d texted me back with a bug-eyed emoji.
It’s some time predawn before I finally feel as though I will collapse. I curl up on my side, facing the magnificent waterfront view and drift off compelling myself to believe that if there is a way to get Lan, Carrick, The Beast of Boston, Ferguson is definitely the man that can make it happen.