by Skye Warren
I grow still. “You’re going to keep it?”
“What a dilemma,” he says with faux sympathy, turning back to the page, reading again. “And the man I truly want has no money, no family name. No chance of winning my father’s approval. We both know that it’s impossible, but the heart doesn’t believe in boundaries.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. My righteous indignation toward Gabriel is eclipsed by the realization that my mother loved another man. At least she did once.
I know from archeological mythology that history isn’t about facts—it’s a story told by the survivors. The victors, both literal and figurative. I know that she married Geoffrey James, my father. They were wed until her death. Theirs was a happy marriage, a loving one, or so I thought. What if there’s another side to the story? Hers.
“Give me that.”
He slaps the diary shut, examining the well-worn cover. “No, I don’t believe I will.”
“It’s mine.”
“Actually I believe it belongs to your mother, but that’s neither here nor there. The holding company couldn’t possibly let go of something materially valuable to the property.”
“The diary isn’t going to affect the auction!”
“Won’t it? I think you’ll bid higher if the diary is included.” He slips the diary into his inside coat pocket.
“I’m already willing to bid everything I have.”
“Did you consider that I might be protecting you? You might not like what you find inside.”
“No,” I say, taking a step closer. We’re chest to chest, face-to-face. Or we would be if I wasn’t a full foot shorter than him. “Because you don’t know what’s in that journal, so how could you know whether I’ll like it? And besides, you don’t want to protect me. You want to hurt me.”
He draws a finger down my cheek, almost tender. “You might be right about that. I get hard just thinking about your blood on my sheets.”
My hand is up before I can consider the consequences, slapping him across the face. In the aftermath, my hand hurts more than I would have expected. And his head is turned away. From the side I can see the corner of his lips turn up.
When he faces me, there’s no warmth in his golden-brown eyes. The fire has frozen, crystallized like the frosted glass that lights his face. “God, you really did forget. You thought I was your knight in fucking armor, riding in to defend your castle.”
“No,” I whisper, but I’m terrified he’s right. That the limo driver and Charlotte Thomas and even Harper’s drunken declarations of Gabriel’s regret convinced me that he’s a good man. I thought I had kept my guard up, but now I see how utterly defenseless I am. He’s not going to save my castle. He’s going to burn it down.
Amusement would be easier to bear. The genuine sympathy lighting his eyes makes my stomach turn over. “My sweet little virgin,” he murmurs. “Always thinking the best of people. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
A single tear escapes my lashes, rolling down my cheek. “I don’t.”
“Oh, but you do. Did you think I bought you out of kindness? That I couldn’t bear to see you touched by any of those other men?”
“No,” I whisper, broken.
“Or maybe you believed I started to care for you, that I couldn’t bear to hurt you anymore.”
I shake my head in wordless denial. He sees too deep into my heart, into dreams I never dared to speak. Hoping for the impossible. A lion could never fall in love with a mouse.
He steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I fell madly in love with your beautiful little cunt. I loved the way it felt around my cock. I dream about it, darling.”
“Go to hell.”
“Maybe I should ask for your father’s permission to marry your sweet pussy.”
“Stop it.” I’m infuriated, almost out of breath with the force of my anger.
“Mr. James, I know that you and I have many differences, but I hope we can come together over our mutual enjoyment of a good fuck.”
“Don’t you dare talk about him. You don’t know anything about him.”
“I think you’re the one in the dark where your father is concerned.”
A scoffing sound escapes me. “And I should believe anything you say? You already gave fake evidence to the prosecutor so that you could get your revenge. You ruined him.”
“He cheated me.”
“That excuse is getting old. So what? He cheated you. You have more than enough money, and he has nothing. Don’t you care that he’s suffering? Don’t you see that he’s lost everything?”
“Not his loyal daughter. You rushed to his side as soon as you left me.”
“He had a heart attack!”
“And what if I’m sick,” he says, mocking. “Will you rush to my bedside?”
“Yes,” I say, words sharp with venom. “I’ll be there to watch your pain. And I’ll enjoy it.”
A chuckle. “Something to look forward to.”
I stalk away, trying to clear my head. Mind games. He’s only doing this to mess with me. He doesn’t care about the diary—and he doesn’t care about me, either. It’s about winning for him.
Turning to face him, I force myself to lower my eyes, to speak in deference. “Please, Gabriel. There must be some way I can convince you to give me the diary.”
His surprise ripples through the air, almost tangible. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you would like this,” I say, keeping my chin lowered, my voice soft.
If he wants me to beg, I’ll do it. If he needs this to feel like he won, I’ll give that to him. The diary is worth everything to me. More than the house. It has the answers to my mother.
The key to unlock my family’s past.
His stillness echoes louder than any command, settling around me like vines.
There’s something dark about being with Gabriel here—in the house where I grew up. In the legacy he took from me. In the place he might help me get back.
My voice is low. “What do you want?”
“Everything.”
“I’ve already given you that.”
“Not even close.” He stalks around me, circling like a predator. “I want you bent over and broken. I want you bleeding at my feet, little virgin.”
I shiver despite my determination. “You’re depraved.”
“That’s right.” He stands behind me, large hands clasped gently on my waist. It would be a tender embrace if I didn’t know his intentions. “And you’re the object of my depravity, the target of every dark wish, the canvas I want to paint. I won’t be satisfied until I’ve marked every inch of you, inside and out.”
A hard swallow. “Then why did you let me go?”
“Ah, little virgin,” he says gently. “So that I could chase you.”
Chapter Twelve
I knew where my mother was going based on the jewels she wore. Pearls for charity luncheons. Diamonds for society balls. That night she wore a large ruby pendant, a necklace I’d never seen before.
Where are you going, Mama?
A party, she said absently.
Can I come?
Her laugh was a strange sound. You’re too young, Avery. And thank God for that.
When will I be old enough?
She looked at me, her eyes softening. I don’t know, but it’s nothing to rush. Stay here, sweetheart. Stay small. That’s when you’re safe. Stay safe.
She left that night and never came home.
A drunk driver hit her. She died on the way to the hospital.
Daddy told me what happened in a rough voice, eyes red from crying. My eight-year-old brain didn’t want to believe it. I searched the house for her, convinced she was playing hide-and-seek, hoping that it was all a bad dream.
When I finally accepted she was gone, I crawled into bed and stayed there for two weeks. Both Daddy and Rosita begged me to eat, but I could only curl up beneath the covers, huddled in the dark as if the cramped, airless space wasn’t in
the world without my mother.
As if it would keep me safe.
Gabriel reaches for me, and I react on instinct.
I whirl, dashing for the metal stairs. A low ottoman catches my foot, and I land hard on my knees. I can feel Gabriel behind me—his breath, his excitement. And then his hand on my wrist.
Something wild rattles inside me, and I let it free.
Without looking I kick backward, pulling a grunt from him. His grip loosens enough for me to twist away, and then I’m flying down the metal steps, dashing through the hallway.
I know this house better than him, but without furniture there’s nowhere to hide. Instinct alone propels me down the hall, hair flying behind me, breath shallow.
On some level I know it’s useless to run. He’ll only enjoy it. But the deeper animal side of me recognized the danger in his eyes. The sharpness of his teeth.
I’m acting on pure survival. Fight-or-flight.
My room is an empty shell, an architectural dig into the time before.
The time when I was still innocent.
Footsteps follow me—closer, closer.
I duck into the closet and hold my breath. This is how I played hide-and-seek with my mother, shaking with nervousness as I heard her voice. Where is my little Avery? She’s quiet as a mouse!
And then he’s in my room. He stills.
“Where could you be?” comes his liquid voice. “So small. So sweet. I can almost smell you.”
Because he’s a wild animal made to look human. A predator living among prey.
Anxiety clenches my throat. It’s a struggle not to move, but even flat against the wall my heart beats wildly. He must hear it. He must feel it vibrating through the house.
He crosses the room with a leisurely stride, hitting that board that creaks ever since I spilled a glass of water. I can envision him looking out the window at the unkempt lawn.
“The chase makes it better, don’t you think? If I touched you, would you be wet?”
No. It’s impossible.
Except there’s heat coursing through me. Anticipation. And my body can’t seem to tell the difference between fear and arousal. Or maybe they’re the same thing, mixed together by the sexual awakening of the auction. Maybe I only get turned on by a man owning me.
The doorknob turns. The closet door opens, letting in a sliver of light.
He steps inside, blocking the light with his body. “Found you,” he murmurs.
“You never really let me go.”
A low laugh is the only response.
Because it’s the truth. He toys with me, letting me run only to pick me up by my tail. It’s a twisted game, meant to amuse him, meant to scare me.
Mr. Miller thought you might like to spend time in the house before the auction.
This is why he had the limo pick me up early. Not kindness. Not understanding. Pure sexual power, made colder by the fact that we’re in the house he took from me.
It’s already wrong to be here with him in my family’s legacy. Already humiliating to be hunted like an animal. That’s what he means to do—break my spirit. Twist my love.
Even knowing I’ll lose, I’m not ready to give in.
I tilt my face to his, lips inches away. He wants my capture more than my surrender, so I let him cover the distance. His lips claim mine in a bruising statement. He invades me with tongue and teeth, with force and electric pleasure—for five seconds. Four. Three, two, one.
And then I bite down, hard enough to taste the copper of his blood, brutal enough to hear him grunt in response. It’s the follow-up knee between his legs that makes him stumble back. The powerful force of him thuds against the wall, and I know I only have seconds of freedom.
Then I’m flying down the stairs, through empty halls and echoing wood floors. My breath comes in rasping, frantic gulps as I burst into the large living room, the grand fireplace almost naked without my mother’s portrait above it.
It’s in that moment, the half heartbeat where I mourn the loss of her picture, that Gabriel slams into me from behind. Then I’m pressed against hand-carved scrolls, marble cold against my cheek, patterns sharp against my body. Without thinking my hands go to the mantel, holding me steady while he presses from behind.
He’s breathing hard too, though it seems more like excitement than tiredness. Especially with the hard length imprinted against my ass. “You drew blood,” he murmurs, almost with wonder.
I jerk against him, but his hold is too secure this time. “Good.”
Heat. Softness. The faint edge of teeth. That’s how his mouth registers against my neck. Sensation and pleasure and pain as he works his way to the curve of my shoulder.
“No one fights me like you,” he says, his hand flat against my stomach.
My breath catches. It’s a threat, that hand. The one safe place on the front of my body. Any higher and he’ll touch my breasts. Lower and he’ll reach between my legs.
“Will you fight me?” he murmurs.
It only makes him harder, hotter. It only makes the win more satisfying for him.
There are some things a body will do on its own—like taking a deep breath at the bottom of the ocean, knowing you’ll only breathe in water but having to try anyway. “Yes.”
“Thank fuck,” he says, his voice thick.
He turns me around, his mouth fusing to mine, stealing my breath. I don’t have a chance to push him away; he’s already inside me. His mouth bites at mine, hard enough to make me jolt, sweet enough to make my nipples pebble beneath my bra.
I push up against his chest, an implacable wall as hard as the brick behind me. “Wait.”
“There’s no time,” he breathes, his lips working down my throat. “They’ll start arriving any second now.”
My eyes close in tacit denial. “No.”
“No?” He dips lower, into the hollow of my neck. “I wish I could taste your cunt. Wish I could lick you—here.”
The nudge of his hips pushes something hot and hard against me. Between my legs. We fit together perfectly. “Not here.”
“Later,” he promises.
Then his mouth is on mine again, his body pressed against me—the broad plain of his chest, the bunch of his abs, the ridge where his body demands entry. So much need coiled in him, so many ways he could relieve it, but all he does is kiss me.
Maybe that’s why I lean back and let him.
His hand drops lower, curving around my ass, supporting me as I press close, my body aching for a fullness only he can supply. The rhythm starts between my legs and spreads outward.
My body turns to light, bright and sharp. He’s the inky black sky, holding me in place.
The slam of a car door jolts me from the reverie.
I stiffen, realizing what I let him do. And I want even more. He straightens my clothes with an efficiency I can only marvel at. I still have one foot in the other world, the one with light and color and pure sweet sensation.
His eyes are a shocking mahogany now, as if he’s a stranger. He looks almost tender as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Better than I remember,” he whispers.
I trace his lips with my fingertips, wondering how he can be so cruel and so kind. Does it tear him apart inside? Or does it lock into place like a perfect jigsaw puzzle, made perfect by the way it fits together?
“Mr. Miller? Are you here?” The female voice slices between us.
He takes a step back. “That’s Ms. Thomas, here to inspect the home prior to the auction. I’ll go out first, give you time to regain your bearings.”
He’s all business now, and I mourn the loss. “Are you staying for the auction?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Because he wants to see me lose? Or because he wants me to win? The small sting of hope must be some side effect of our encounter. I feel as if I sleepwalked and woke up by the fireplace, having dreamed the entire thing. Only I’m not sure when I fell asleep—in the attic?
Or maybe I went to sleep
as a child, curled up in my bed, only waking now.
Chapter Thirteen
The last day I spent in bed after Mama died Daddy came to me, his expression dark. He studied me with a grave finality, and I felt that deep pull to please him.
The bed dipped as he sat on the side.
“Look at what she did to us, Avery. She shouldn’t have gone that night. This is happening because she left.”
My eyes are wide. He was sad when we got the call about Mama. Desperate when he begged me to eat. I’d never seen him angry like this. “It wasn’t her fault.”
His gaze lands on me, a strange intensity. “You won’t leave, will you?” When I don’t answer right away, he demands, “Will you?”
My tummy clenches. “I won’t, Daddy.”
He regards me with approval. “There’s my good girl. This is where you’re safe.”
It seemed to be true. My childhood here was marked by kind smiles and warm parties.
That makes it all the more jarring when some of the men who arrive were at the auction for my virginity. I understand that there are only so many men in Tanglewood who have huge amounts of money to spend, but I feel paranoid too. As if they want to possess me in every way possible. There’s a man with gray hair who had a beautiful woman in a glamorous dress—now the same woman has her hair in a tight bun, a suit crafted to her body.
Gabriel Miller stood at the back of the room at my auction, taunting me, challenging me, until he finally threw out the winning bid. Now he stands at the back in a different capacity, as the temporary owner of this home. Not gaining something today. Losing something.
“The opening bid will be low,” Charlotte whispers, taking me aside as the attendees tour the house. “The last thing you want to do is get in a bidding war, going up in increments. That kind of thing is going to end high. These guys are competitive. They want to win.”
“But they all have more money than me. They can win if they want to.”
“That’s why you need to go high fast. I know it’s counterintuitive, but it’s—”
“Game theory,” I say, because sociology was a major component of ancient mythology. In a sequential game, the more bids there are the more complex the decision tree. And in the case of an auction, the only direction to go is up. “The sooner I win the better chance I have of winning at all.”