The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  I inhale her again, deeply, committing that scent to memory as best as I can. My throat squeezes and it feels like grief. A tiny part of me wonders if she knows who she really is, where she belongs but I would be shocked to find out that she had deceived me even more than she initially had. No way she knows.

  Either way, I had the DNA examined to be certain. It was easy enough to have their respective DNA extracted from hair follicles I had taken from Ena’s hairbrush and from Orin’s comb. Both samples were too easy to collect, a little part of me was hoping it would be difficult and we’d have more time together. Seventy-two hours never dragged on as long as these seventy-two hours did. The results came in just before we were to hit a gambling event held by Bratva. My hands shook as I read the email that relayed the truth.

  Ninety-nine point nine-seven-six percent probability of paternity.

  She’s a McCrae. That’s pretty goddamn conclusive. She’s Orin’s. When we hit the Bratva joint I tore into them, reckless and dangerous, foolish and unhinged with nothing but my hi-jacked woman on my mind. She’d been mine, I’d declared as much to every swinging dick in three counties but this changed everything. Murph eyed me warily after the dust had settled. We’d lumbered to Eden and celebrated a successful hit. I drank myself senseless without much care for the knife wound I vaguely registered acquiring.

  Kate was all too happy to give me a lift home. I had her drop me off in front of my penthouse causing her happiness to rapidly evaporate when I shrugged off her advances. She pawed at me like a fucking cat in heat and it made my lip curl and my skin crawl. That one is going to be a problem if she doesn’t get the hint. I vaguely recall the stink of that goddamn perfume she wears, filling my nose as she ran her hands up and down my chest. By the time I made it home I nearly dove out of her car.

  Home. To Ena.

  I dip my head down and kiss the back of her neck, the place where her birthmark is barely hidden by her hairline. I feel her adjust in my arms, her breathing shifts as she wakes up.

  “Birthmark?” I ask quietly, my finger tracing over her silky skin.

  “Mhmm. Don’t you have any birth marks?” Her voice is raspy from disuse and it makes her sound sultry and seductive.

  “Nah. Not that I’ve ever noticed anyway.”

  “You’ve got plenty of other marks though,” she says rolling to face me. She lifts her hand and begins running her fingertips along various scars and tattoos.

  “What’s this one?”

  “Lucky shot,” I answer as she touches the dimpled bullet wound scar. She snorts sarcastically.

  “This one?” Her fingers drift along the Z shaped scar that a broken beer bottle made during a brawl over money that Will hustled out of some poser thugs in Southie playing pool.

  “Just a good time with friends,” I smirk.

  “And this tattoo. What inspired this?” The feel of her lightly touching the rose on my chest sends a zip of lust straight to my cock. It’s quickly doused by my thoughts.

  “Orin. I got the rose because of Orin,” I admit quietly hating mentioning his name to her. It feels like maybe some cruel biological tether, invisible to the naked eye could somehow leap out and draw her back to the place from which she came, robbing me of the only fucking woman I’ve ever even considered to be worth my time. She’s more than worth my goddamn time. She worth everything. “My first good memories—when I was a skinny little punk teenager,” I laugh ruefully. “When I first came into his life I met him in his stupid rose garden. He’s a terrible gardener but he enjoys it. Used to spend time outside with him while he did his gardening,” I shrug one shoulder.

  “My mom has a green thumb. Big time. She used to take Lan and I outside to play while she worked in the yard. Believe it or not she had a rose bush she named Beast. She warned us to stay away from it but said if we could sniff the roses without getting cut we’d be ruined for all the roses in the world for the rest of our lives,” she laughs. Truly, laughs, loud and hard and unrepentant. She squeezes her green eyes shut and her cheeks turn pink as she recounts the story. She’s exactly what Orin said, she’s stunning. She continues to laugh and it’s almost manic. She rolls onto her side, away from me and laughs until she’s breathless and her shoulders are wracking.

  I frown and roll her back to me. Big tears swim in her eyes. Her full mouth is down turned at the edges. Her chin quivering.

  Ah. Fuck.

  “Sorry.” She swipes at her face and tries to get out of bed.

  “Nah, nah,” I say dragging her back to me. She falls back against the bed, still swiping her cheeks. “What’s that about?”

  “I don’t know. Stupid female emotion?” She laughs weakly.

  “Tell me,” I demand. She sighs and looks away then meets my gaze.

  “I miss them. I’m so grateful she’s back. I worry she’ll never be the same. I worry I’ll never be the same, either,” she says the last part on a whisper, looking at me almost shyly. “I worry that I don’t want to be the same.”

  I push her hands away from her face and take over wiping the moisture away from her eyes.

  “Miss Devlin, I think it’s my turn to pore over your body searching for scars and tattoos,” I say rolling so that I’m on top of her, eager to distract her from her tears. She smiles, sniffling.

  “I don’t have any tattoos and I only have a few scars. Never really had friends to just have a good time with.” She mocks my explanation for the beer bottle scar. She did have friends. She just didn’t know it. She had scores of people combing this city, this state, and the world for her until it was rumored that the Italians killed her tiny newborn self. The rumor spread and they claimed the kill and the search was over and Orin’s mourning began. She had a family and a whole bunch of misfit assholes that would have gladly taken a bullet for her—for Orin’s daughter. We were always here and she was always there.

  “Let’s have a look then,” I say tugging at her shirt. She laughs and allows me to peruse her body.

  Fuckin’ hell, this body.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of tasting her skin. I follow her hand where she’d pointed to a small neat scar on her abdomen.

  “Appendicitis. I was—mmm—twelve years old I think.” I kiss the nearly invisible scar. “This one was a dare. Jump the plywood bike ramp over the Flynn boys—twins that lived down the street. I cleared the twins but botched the landing.” She shrugs pointing at the road rash scar about the size of a half dollar on the side of her right knee. I rub my palm over the area and watch the goose bumps skate across her skin. With her arm raised I catch sight of a third scar.

  “And that one?” I ask motioning my chin to the inside of her left arm just between her elbow and bicep.

  She smiles stiffly. Robotically. “Cigarette.” She withdraws from my hold. “I need coffee. Do you want some?” she says over her shoulder as she leaves the room. I sit up on the side of the bed and clench my jaw. I can feel anger clawing at my throat. Herein lies my fuckin’ dilemma. I shouldn’t keep Ena. I shouldn’t demand she stay locked away in my home, doing as I please, attending to my every whim. But being here she’s safe. She’s also unsafe. If she’d grown up High Knoll no one would have put a fucking cigarette out on her. Then again, being the daughter or granddaughter of a boss doesn’t guarantee your safety. In fact, sometimes it guarantees your demise. Just ask the Italian Princessa I just returned safe and sound. Snagging a pair of pants from the drawer I tug them on and go find her.

  She’s in the kitchen busying herself with coffee beans and cups and appears to be planning on making breakfast if the bacon on the counter beside the stove is any indication.

  “Hey,” I say. She doesn’t acknowledge me. “Hey,” I say inserting more authority.

  “Leave it alone, please,” she says shaking her head with her back to me. She pours the beans into the grinder and presses the button. Affectively shutting me up for the next twenty seconds. She releases the button and struggles to open the canister. “Damn thing,” she
mutters. I stand there watching her, the jerk that I am. I cross my arms over my chest and watch my stubborn woman fight with a fuckin’ coffee grinder. The thing releases at once and goes flying. Fresh coffee soars all over the place and Ena growls under her breath. She crouches, immediately using her hands to rake the grounds into a pile. I grit and release my teeth repeatedly, willing myself not to lose control. Walking around the island, I lean forward gripping her by her shoulders I haul her out of the mess.

  “Stop. Who the fuck did that?” I insist in a less than nice tone, holding her abused arm up. A glassy look sweeps over her features and as emotionless and cold as I’ve seen her she gives in.

  “Rob and Viv. Rob smoked cheap menthols. I broke the ashtray he kept by his chair in the living room. It was an accident. Didn’t matter. He demanded I replace it. He knew I couldn’t. I was eight. So… he said I could be his new ashtray.” Her green eyes have darkened. Malice oozing from those depths. “The guy you saw me talking to at the bar at Eden.”

  “Bobby Bonner?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I’ll kill him,” I vow pulling her to me.

  “Hey, get in line,” she says without a trace of insincerity. She implies she’d end Bonner. And I believe her. Of course she would. She’s a McCrae. Whether he raised her or not, her genetics run deep.

  “Where can I find a broom?” she says, unwilling to discuss Bonner any further.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ena

  Something is wrong. Something is very, very, very wrong. One moment he’s shoving me back into my cage and locking the door, leaving for days and the next moment he’s back, drunk, stinking of Kate, looking very broken, wounded and once the alcohol cleared his system he was all soft, but firm, kind but demanding. He’s—he’s amazing. And I hate him for it. I hate that I don’t want to leave. I hate that he won’t let me see my mom and sister. I hate that I am not completely turned off by him. I hate that he doesn’t disgust me. I hate that even with the stench of Kate on his clothes last night I panicked when I saw the blood staining his shirt. I hate that worry for him made me instantly forget the obvious fact that he’d been around her at some point yesterday, last night, maybe the whole time he was gone. I hate that I fucking care about that in the first place. I hate that he makes me so fucking emotional and I hate, hate, hate that I don’t hate him at all.

  He hasn’t asked me anything further about Rob and Viv and that’s at least one small mercy. I can’t go down that shadowy path at the moment. The darkness in his eyes when I confessed that Rob had put out a cigarette on me made me lust for him but also for revenge. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always fantasized about revenge against those who’ve hurt me or my family and Rob definitely tops the list, but seeing Beast silently promise to see justice done…

  I can’t play executioner! I huff out a frustrated breath and run my hand through my hair, tugging tangles loose. Opening my laptop, I wait until it flickers to life then delete the file holding my notes about Lan’s disappearance. It’s difficult to believe that it’s been so many months since she first vanished. It’s hard to believe that we are well into August now and I’ve been in the company of High Knoll for these several weeks. It’s difficult to believe that she’s back. It’s also completely insane to believe in such a relatively short period of time, Carrick has bulldozed, threatened, squeezed, shoved, and barged into my heart.

  My dad must be rolling over in his grave. My stomach twists when I consider what he might say about all of this. He’d be sick over it. I can’t blame him. He knew I was a fucked up person. He knew I had a crappy first decade of life, and that I got a thrill out of doing things on my own, even if they were a bit sketchy. He knew being vengeful was something of a hobby for me.

  He still loved you just like you still love Carrick.

  I shake my head and inhale through my nose, deep and cleansing. Carrick has gone to the club, or so he says. I don’t know that he is honest with me. I don’t suppose he has to be. I’m his prisoner, his plaything—not his girlfriend. I’m no princess, and he’s no prince on the white horse. I’ve worked out. Cleaned up my laptop. Thrown things into a pile in my bedroom I no longer need. Stripped shoes, dresses, contact lenses case, and my burner cell phone. It’s nearly out of prepaid minutes anyway. The book I’ve been trying forever to read slips down a pile of things on the foot of the bed and I grab it by the front cover. My eyes catch on what’s written on the first page inside—something I’ve overlooked repeatedly. With an arrow drawn in red, pointing to the inscription.

  For the best big sis in the world. Sorry I ruined the other copy. Love you, E!

  -Lan

  Who is E, Abigail?

  -Beast

  “See somethin’ interesting?”

  “W—when did you write this?”

  “One of the many times you left your shit lying around. Honestly, baby,” he brushes my hair aside, kissing my jaw. “If I didn’t know any better I would have to think you wanted to get caught.”

  “You nearly killed me, so you’d be wrong. You may still follow through with that,” I muse critically.

  “No,” he nibbles on my earlobe. “You made a deal—a fair trade. A life for a life. I won’t let you out of this agreement, E,” he teases. “There is one thing I never sorted out though. Where’d you learn to dance like that,” he says growling, tugging closer me to him.

  “As crazy as it sounds, the gym. A forty-six year old retired dancer who now teaches Passion Cardio and Core Fitness.” I roll my eyes at the memory of the classes I took.

  “Maybe I’ll install a pole,” he says looking around. “Hate for you to waste all that talent.”

  “When did you know? How did you know? That I wasn’t who I said I was.”

  “Your ID. Noreen sent your information over along with a copy of that bogus ID you scored off of Slip. He happens to be a High Knoll associate. He works for me, Ena.”

  “Wow,” I breathe.

  “You also had the two different phone chargers in your room. I suspected you had a burner,” he says inspecting the discarded cell phone in my growing trash pile. “You also left a credit card receipt in a shopping bag. Found that when I cleared out your shithole.”

  I laugh humorlessly at how many times I’d screwed up. Many times he could have and probably should have just eliminated me.

  “You distracted me. A lot,” I explain.

  “You distract me too,” he says tugging me back to him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Beast

  When I stood over my dad that day he’d died at my hands, staring at the pool of dark red blood seeping from his busted head, I recall feeling two very clear things. First, I felt satisfied. Second, I knew I’d be a monster before I’d ever be a victim ever again. It was better to be the predator than prey. I decided from then on, I would always put myself first. I’d ensure my own safety and well being first. Then I’d inherited High Knoll. The crew and Orin took me in. They taught me how to survive and then how to thrive. They groomed me and I climbed the ranks, eventually finding myself where I am now. I’ve never warred with emotion, guilt, or a conscience. I believed I didn’t have one but since Ena… I’m not sure I know shit. I’m beginning to understand exactly how Helen, Eve, Cleopatra, and Mata capitalized on opportunity at the expense of the poor fucks that were unlucky enough to be so enamored by them.

  “Beautiful treacherous woman,” I whisper against her shoulder. She laughs her sultry, sex-sated laugh that makes my cock twitch.

  “Dangerous Beast in a castle,” she says rolling from her back to face me. Her emerald eyes are dilated in the low light of my bedroom. I study her face, tracing my fingertips over her jaw, her brow bone, her lips. She bites the pad of my thumb, lightly.

  “I won’t let you go,” I whisper more to myself than to her. “I’m not going to. I refuse. I just can’t.”

  No. You can’t do it because you’re a selfish fuck.

  “Then don’t,” she says intently,
green pools reduced to vivid rims around the black depths of her dilated pupils. “Carrick, I gotta see my mom and sister. Just once then do what you want with me—I’ll lie and tell them I got a job somewhere out of state—out of the country, but please let me see them one more time.”

  I’d hijack the universe at gunpoint and give you the fuckin’ stars one by one. Don’t you see that?

  “I’ll consider it,” I whisper with false finality, refusing to say what I mean, declining to discuss it further. I keep to myself that this woman is the one in power here. She’s the one at the helm. She’s the one holding me hostage. I won’t touch any of those topics. Instead I take what I need.

  Ever the selfish prick.

  I press myself into her, cupping her face in my hands, feeling my chest tighten and twist painfully. Slipping my tongue into her mouth I explore her, leisurely sliding and tangling with her. I scissor my legs between hers and take my time soaking her up.

  “Carrick,” she moans against my mouth, rolling so that she’s straddling my hips. She pulls the short, dark blue silk nightgown over her head, revealing herself to me. She’s incredible. I growl my appreciation and grind my hips upward, demanding more. She shimmies down my legs, tugging my underwear free. She tosses them aside and braces her arms beside my head, her auburn locks curtaining our faces.

  Without breaking eye contact, she manipulates her hips, smoothing her wetness up and down my cock. I grip her thighs and keep my eyes locked with hers. Waiting. She tilts her hips perfectly, positioning me just right. She eases down painfully slow. It’s all I can do to be still. My body is screaming at me to roll on top of her and fuck hard, bruising into her until she’s walking with a limp and the whole fucking building knows my name.

  I remain still, giving her the freedom to control this. Her mouth forms a O as she grinds down on my cock taking me to the root then grinding against my pubic bone, giving herself the fullness and friction she is seeking. With the moon on the horizon outside the window, her perfect mouth rounded in pleasure, me settled deep into her body, I can’t say that heaven could top this. Seeing as how I’m doomed to hell, I’d say this is my heaven. This is as good as it gets for me. And it’s pretty divine.