Reveal

by Bromberg, K.

  A smile plays at the corners of his lips as his eyes devour every inch of me. My stomach churns.

  And then he lunges.

  I cry out as he grabs the front of my dress and yanks it down. My immediate reaction is to punch out, but he has my wrists in his hands, my attempt more than pathetic, my fear stronger and more potent than anything I’ve ever felt before.

  “No wire here, sweet Vaughn.” My breath hitches, and my head jerks from side to side as he leans in and licks a line up my cheek.

  Bile revolts in my stomach and threatens to rise.

  “They know I’m here. I’m supposed to meet with them afterward. I’m—”

  “To discuss me?” He laughs. “You naive cunt. Do you really think they’re going to let a whore like you off the hook after they get what they want from me? Do you really think they’re not going to take credit for whatever it is you told them? Throw you into the fire to get all the glory?”

  His words strike fear in me, much the same as how Noah and Abel made me feel, but so very different because of what he wants to do to me.

  “I don’t care who gets the credit so long as you get what you deserve.”

  I yelp when his hand smacks against my cheek. The sting on my cheekbone is real and painful, and it takes a minute for me to steady myself.

  “Why couldn’t you just play as perfectly into my plan as Ryker did, huh?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Do you know how easy it was for Bianca to sell him on representing her? To pretend that she hates me and wanted a divorce? Us both vying for him to take us on as clients? He washed that money perfectly clean for us. What better place to hide the money we received than to give it as a retainer for a bogus case? And to top it all off, your little boyfriend helped to investigate me for her.” His laugh sounds off.

  “I don’t . . .” My mind spins with the notion that they used Ryker. How we played perfectly into their hands without ever knowing it.

  “His investigating me was our little measure to see if anyone else was noticing our scheme. Ryker has one of the best investigators out there, so if he couldn’t sniff out the bribe, then no one could. Besides, it allowed him to gain a few billable hours for his trouble, so when he returned the remainder of our retainer, it didn’t look like a perfect two mil.”

  I just stare at him, lips lax and thoughts racing as I try to fathom what they did. And I’m sure the haze of fear being here, in this situation, doesn’t help to expedite my thought process.

  He grins. “It’s pretty brilliant, if I do say so myself.”

  “So that was the game?” I ask, dumfounded by their disposal of people. “Use him to hide your bribe?”

  “Mmm. What we didn’t plan on is you and the call log.” He runs a hand up the side of my torso, and I fight to remain calm.

  “You piss off enough people, betray them, someone’s bound to return the favor,” I say, finding my resolve.

  “Exactly.” His chuckle sends fear ricocheting through me. “I’m returning the favor to you right now.”

  With my hands still cuffed in one of his and his forearm pressed against my shoulders, pinning me to the wall, he slides a hand between my thighs.

  My entire body tenses.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

  This is real.

  So real.

  The tears come. The random babbling as his fingers dig into me through the fabric of my clothes. I scream for help. For him to stop. But every movement, every show of fight, has him growing harder against my leg.

  I can smell my own terror in the room almost as certainly as I can smell his arousal, and both make me dizzy and nauseous.

  “Will Ryker still want you when I’m through with you?” His voice is a growl in my ear. “He’s not really into used things—that’s why Bianca and I had so much fun using him. Nothing like showing the best attorney in all of New York that he’s far from fucking invincible. First with the representation and now with what I’m going to do to you.”

  I grit my teeth and fist my hands as I try with every ounce of my being to push him off me.

  “Will you cry when I fuck you?” He lifts a brow. “I think you will. All tough on the outside but not an ounce of strength when shit gets real.” He presses a kiss to my lips as I buck my head back and forth. “Will you fight me? Will you lock your legs around my waist and try to prevent me from ruining you?” He yanks my skirt off me, the expensive fabric giving way without an ounce of fight. “I love the sound of a hand hitting flesh . . . it turns me on. So go ahead and hurt. I’ll get off on it.”

  This time he shoves his tongue inside my mouth, and I make a conscious decision to let him. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but chomping down as hard as I can on it is probably the most satisfying.

  He cries out and lets go of me as a reflex to the pain I’ve caused him.

  I make my move. The door is too far away, and I’d have to go through him to get there, so I run to the nightstand, my sights set on the lamp.

  He tackles me from behind with his entire body. My screams fill the room as I kick and claw and fight while his maniacal laughter echoes around us.

  And then, as if I’m in a dream, Carter is off me.

  There’s a roar in my ears I can’t comprehend from where I’m lying facedown against the carpet, one heel on, one heel off, the cool air of the room sliding over my bare skin.

  Everything seems to go in snapshots of time.

  Everything feels so very fuzzy. So very slow.

  The textured carpet against my cheek.

  The tenor of Ryker’s voice. At least I think it’s Ryker’s voice, because it sounds like him, but with a rage I’ve never heard before.

  My body being sore. So very sore. My fingernails broken. My knuckles raw.

  The sight of my wig lying partially under the bed. The black hair so dark against the light carpet.

  The heat on my cheeks from where my tears have streaked down them.

  And then I know it’s Ryker.

  His voice saying my name.

  His hands cradling me as he picks me up ever so gently and sets me on the bed.

  His arms wrapping around me and holding on like he’s so very afraid to let me go.

  “I’m here. You’re okay. He’s never going to hurt you again.” These words are on repeat on his lips. The repetition of them is almost as soothing to me as the feel of his arms.

  There is more commotion in the room or hallway or somewhere close enough I don’t see but can hear. The click of handcuffs. The groans of pain. The Miranda warning being recited.

  “Please tell me you’re okay?” The break in Ryker’s voice all but snaps the hold I have on my own sanity. But he doesn’t lean back, he doesn’t look me over, almost as if he’s wary of discovering truths he’s afraid to acknowledge. That he didn’t get here in time.

  “I’m okay,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from screaming. “I’m okay.” I repeat it again, almost as much for my sake as it is for him. “I’m okay.”

  His fingers tense, and then there’s a hitch in his breath as he pulls back his own emotions. As he fights the same fear I have. As he realizes this is all over now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Ryker

  “Can I take her home now?”

  The detective looks my way and holds up his finger for me to wait one more second.

  I don’t want to wait one more second. I want to get her the fuck out of this hotel room with its yanked-down curtains and knocked-over vase and broken lamp. All reminders of what that bastard tried to do to her. All reminders of how hard she fought.

  And that has nothing on the rage I feel when I see the huge red welt on her cheek or the pieces of her clothing ripped apart on the floor.

  I’m antsy and can’t sit still and can’t stand, and all I want is my arms around her so I can physically touch her and feel that she is here and whole and a little shaken but untouched in every other way.

  With h
is digital camera in hand that documented every bump and bruise that mars her, he moves my way. “You guys can head out, but I have to stay while they process the scene. The FBI agents in charge are also headed in right now.”

  “FBI?” I startle at the word. “What does the FBI want with this?” I rack my brain and can only make assumptions.

  “I had the same question when Ms. Sanders asked me to contact them.” He shakes his head. “I got off the phone with them a few moments ago, and it seems the senator was under investigation for some things. Ms. Sanders here was the one who gave them the information to bring him down.” His smile is tight, his expression stoic, as my mind races out of control. “You didn’t hear that from me, but it might help to explain things a bit more.”

  I stare at him as if I’m really listening. As the past few weeks and Vaughn’s sudden changes in demeanor run through my mind. Is this what was going on the whole time? Was she a pawn in this game of theirs?

  Then it hits me: the call log.

  Is that what this is all about?

  So many questions but none that I can ask him, so I just nod as if what he said makes sense when it abso-fucking-lutely doesn’t.

  I look over to where the officer is finishing up with Vaughn. The white bathrobe swamping her frame and making her seem so innocent is in contrast to the red welt on her cheek.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask, hating that they want me away from her while they interview and question and document what that bastard did to her.

  “She’s a tough cookie, I’ll give her that. He’s got a good hundred pounds on her, and she held him off. If it weren’t for you, though . . .” He shakes his head and glances back at her.

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Neither do I. You’re free to go now, Vaughn,” he says and then moves over to the scene investigators.

  I watch her move toward me. Her gait seems a little ginger, and her soft smile is one of reassurance that I’ll tell her I don’t need, but hell if it doesn’t make me feel a little bit better seeing it.

  “You okay?”

  “I think I’ve been asked that a hundred times in the past hour.” She smiles a bit wider. “I’ve been better.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and gently pull her against me. A million questions run through my mind, but I know now is not the time or place. “The detective said the FBI is on their way.”

  She tenses momentarily and nods. “Mmm-hmm. There’s so much I need to tell you.”

  I bet there is.

  And it kills me to know that whatever the hell was going on, she was going through it alone. That she couldn’t tell me. That I couldn’t help her. That I wasn’t the one protecting her from it all.

  But I shove it down.

  “Let’s get you home,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

  “I need—I need a few minutes to myself, please.”

  There are people from the crime scene milling in the hallway, but I turn to look at her. My hands are on her face, my eyes level with hers. She still looks scared, still lost, still traumatized, and I hate that I don’t know what the fuck to do to help her right now.

  “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you. Do you want me to drive you home? Do you want my driver to take you home so you can have some time to yourself on the way there, and I’ll follow alone? Do you want me to ride beside you and just hold on and not let go?”

  The third has my vote, because her being out of touching range isn’t an option for me . . . but this isn’t about me right now. This is about giving her whatever she needs so she can manage her emotions.

  This is about her having some kind of control in this situation when I’m sure she feels like she has none.

  “Will you stay with me?” she asks, her voice trembling and my goddamn heart breaking.

  “You’re not going to get rid of me that easy,” I murmur and press a kiss to her forehead.

  “I still need to be alone. To process. To . . . to just—I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Whatever you need, Vaughn.”

  “Can you have Al take me home while you grab your things? I just . . . I just need a shower and to be in my place . . . and I want to know you have what you need to stay a few days with me.”

  I fight back the tears that threaten when I don’t fucking cry. Vaughn’s vulnerability is such a foreign thing on her that I hate seeing it.

  I hate that this fucker did that to her.

  I hate that I let him.

  “Of course,” I finally say when I collect my cool enough to be able to speak. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Vaughn

  Al doesn’t drive very far before everything hits me.

  Six blocks maybe before the tears come.

  All of them.

  The scared-shitless ones.

  The self-pity ones.

  The I-was-almost-raped ones.

  The ones for the concern on Ryker’s face when he looks at me.

  I’m lying across the rear seat of the town car, my palms on the leather, my face on the backs of my hands as my shoulders heave and my soul hurts.

  And I cry for what almost happened and what could have happened.

  I cry for things I never had and things I never knew I wanted but now have.

  I don’t know how long I sob, but I don’t care.

  Al closes the divider at some point to allow me my privacy. To allow me to grieve.

  Both needed for me to realize that I have so very much to live for.

  And when I’m done, when the tear tracks are stiff on my cheeks and my breath hitches every few seconds and my cheekbone aches like a bitch . . . Al pulls into my driveway with perfect timing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Ryker

  “Anything else, Mr. Lockhart?” Bella looks at me hesitantly as she sets the files I asked for on the edge of my desk.

  My shirt’s ripped, and there’s blood on my knuckles. I’m sure I look like a fucking wreck.

  “No. Thank you.” I start to sort through the rest of the shit I need to bring, and when I look back up, she’s still standing there with her notepad clutched to her chest and huge eyes like Dorothy facing down the wizard. “Yes?”

  “Is she okay? Is Ms. Sanders okay?”

  My hands still for the first time since I stormed in here barking orders. Her question is the same one I’ve asked myself on repeat. “She’ll be okay, yes. It might take a while, but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she is.”

  “Good. I’m glad. I like her.” Her smile is cautious, as she never opines on anything about my personal life. “Would you like me to order some flowers or food via Instacart or anything to be delivered to her house so she doesn’t have to leave?”

  My head spins with the suggestions. “Can you ask me that later, Bella? Right now I’m having a hard time focusing on anything other than getting to her.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. They’re good ideas . . . I just can’t . . . thank you.”

  “Maybe you should—” She points to the box under the credenza. “Maybe you should bring her those things back. A reminder of good memories . . . or not.”

  “Thanks for your help, Bella. That’s all.” I don’t look up. Can’t. Too much shit in my head. Too much emotion on my face. Too much vulnerability for the guy who’s always an asshole.

  I move to the box once she leaves, but as I stare at it, all I keep seeing is Vaughn battered and bruised. All I remember is barging into that damn room and seeing him on top of her. All I hear is the desperation and fear in her screams for help.

  The rage is so strong I have to refocus on my tasks every few seconds or I get lost in it.

  I open the lid and laugh. Stupid mementos I sent her. Kitschy shit that reminds me of before, when from here on out I only want to think of after.

  No more Carter. No more fuckups. No more thinking relationships don’t
work when I have her. No more wondering if I love her when I clearly fucking know.

  The fury grows stronger.

  A type of fury I can’t describe and that punching drywall will nowhere near help. My body vibrates from it in such a way that my heart pounds and my pulse roars in my ears. Without thought and with a need to release the emotion, I kick the box as hard as I can.

  Shit goes flying.

  Stuffed animals and dried flowers and cards land fucking everywhere. All the stuff I never took the time to unpack from the box and go through item by item.

  What the hell? What is all this crap?

  I look around at the contents strewn around my office like Valentine’s Day threw up. I sent her a few of these items, but the rest? What the fuck is this stuff?

  Lucy must have accidentally shoved stuff in here. That’s the logical explanation. She saw my name on the box and figured she’d send me something to make me happy . . . just like the necklace she let me borrow.

  She’ll want this all back.

  But it’s when I look down at one of the cards at my feet that my heart drops for what feels like the second time in three hours.

  We’re good together. You’ll see soon enough why I can’t live without you.

  What the fuck is this? I pick up as many cards as I can. A few are from me and were attached to flowers I sent . . . but the others? The others make my stomach churn.

  These are not from me.

  The dates on the top corners of the cards are from during the time frame we’ve been together, but not a single one of these is from me.

  I rifle through them, each one alarming me more than the last.

  These weren’t sent by someone who was in love with Vaughn.

  More like someone who was obsessed with her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Vaughn

  It feels like ages since I’ve been home when it’s only been hours. And what a difference those few hours have made in my life.

  With a sigh, I drop my purse with its broken strap and my cell phone on the kitchen counter. I yelp when I see the figure move into the doorway of my office.

  “Joey? What are you doing here?” My hand is over my thumping heart, my fingers holding closed the neckline of the hotel’s robe.