Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  “Mm. Minty. Zach, be a dear and flag down a server.”

  The music in this part of the club was muted as if there were a damper between them and the rest of the warehouse. Perhaps there was. A magical barrier, perhaps. Magic wasn’t overt in their world; most of it was used in small ways because there wasn’t much of it. Like a low volt battery, it didn’t go far. No fire blasts, no flying, no invisibility spells. Just things like ... sound dampers.

  And tattoos.

  The snake that had started appearing on her leg last night while Beckett was in her apartment had now wound its way around her thigh and over one hip. She didn’t know if it was done growing or not. She didn’t know if she was that unhappy about it either.

  She wouldn’t have ever gotten a tattoo had her life not intersected with Beckett. She would have married Eric without a second thought, had 2.5 babies, waved at the camera with the vacant smile common on the faces of politician’s wives, and probably been a closet drunk by the time she was fifty.

  The touch of fingers on her thigh made her stiffen. Not Eric’s fingers. His. They were warm even through the material of her jeans and she shivered as they roamed. If she reached under the table to stop him, Adelaide would notice—that one had sharp eyes.

  No, she would have to let him touch her, at least for now, if she didn’t want Eric to discover what he was up to.

  And why, she wondered, was he touching her, if he thought she was a honey trap? Moth, flame? She snorted.

  “What’s so funny? Do share.” Adelaide leaned on her clasped hands, eyes glittering.

  Shit. “I—I like this song.”

  “Oh. I hear you don’t like to dance, Eric. Is that true?” Adelaide asked.

  He had, so far, refused to look Beckett’s way. He glanced at him once to glare, then said, “I do not like this type of music or what passes for dancing in places like this. Ballroom dancing, sure. Line dancing, definitely.” He must have realized he was sounding like a prudish fool, because he said, “I don’t hate it.”

  “Do you like what passes for dancing in places like this, Marlowe?”

  “I do,” she said. She’d been a few times before her engagement, when her parents were out of the country and she needed to feel the freedom of a regular person. “This is one of my favorite songs.”

  “And Beckett here, he was just telling me how much he liked dancing. Perhaps you both should go try out the floor while Eric and I chat about money and mayors and everything in between.”

  Eric couldn’t protest, not with Adelaide here, not without screwing up what he wanted. Of course, it screwed her over too. People knew her, knew Beckett. There’d be pics of them on social media dancing together before the night was over. What would her parents think?

  Why was that always her default worry?

  “Well? Beckett, take this poor girl to the floor before she dies of boredom.”

  “Your wish, my command.” His eyes landed on hers and felt as though they were burning a hole into her soul. Eric moved, stiffly, angrily ... impotently.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured to him as she slid back out of the booth. He ignored her in favor of hissing something threatening to Beckett that she couldn’t hear.

  Her body felt as though it were on fire as she moved to the dance floor. Every inch of her was aware of Beckett following close behind her. She plunged into the dancers, pushing her way to the middle, wanting to get as far from Eric’s and Adelaide’s eyes as possible.

  She felt his hand on her arm, a gentle touch compared to Eric’s. She didn’t turn, just stopped, waited, anticipating ...

  Both hands glided up her arms and then he was pressed up against her back, her ass, one hand coming around to the front of her to guide her hips into a circle with his.

  She’d danced with a lot of men whenever she could wriggle out from under her parents’ expectations, and she’d considered taking a few of them home with her, but one thing or another always convinced her to go home alone.

  This time, whether it was the dancing, knowing Eric was watching, the tattoos on Becket, on her, the plunge he’d made into the Azazel to save her, she didn’t know, but she knew she wanted this man. She hated that she wanted him, but she did.

  They didn’t talk, just moved and he knew how to move, how to touch her. She hated him for it, hated the way he talked to her last night—though hadn’t he made sure he left her pissed, not sad? Was she crazy or had he done that on purpose?

  She was probably crazy. He made her this way. She’d never been with a man who made her so angry and horny at the same time and she wasn’t sure what to do with those feelings. It wasn’t like she could act on them. She couldn’t. Her whole world would implode. She’d lose her parents, her fiancé, her ‘curated’ friends. The money would go too. She’d have nothing. There were a lot of appealing things about escaping the life she was living now, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she was scared of being poor.

  “Stop.” He turned her, shifting her in his arms so he could see her beautiful face.

  She tipped her chin up. “Stop what?”

  “Thinking. Let it all go. Just dance with me.”

  Let it all go. As if it were that easy.

  Then he leaned in, pressing his cheek against hers, his lips next to her ear, and said, “Fall.”

  NINE

  Her eyes flew to his.

  The music changed. The thrum of the bass filled Beckett and he stepped between her legs with one of his, his hand on her back, just above her sweet ass. Her hands pressed against his chest as he leaned her over, then she wound her arms around his neck.

  Fucking with their clothes on. It was that, sure, but there was something else between them, something building as the music built, as her hips bumped his, as her thighs gripped and released his. There was magic here in the touch of their bodies, something primal and sensual and gods damned powerful. Whatever the river had done, this was part of it. It had decided they were linked and had gifted them—or cursed them—with whatever this was curling around them like smoke.

  She felt it too. Her pupils were dilated, her lips parted, her fingers curling into him as if she needed him to save her.

  Except, that wasn’t quite right.

  He wasn’t there to save her. Oh, he had, he’d dived in after her ... but hadn’t he told her the river saves the ones it wants to save? She would have survived even if he hadn’t made his heroic gesture. He was here because ... because the river wanted him to be.

  That damned, fucking river.

  The crowd felt the energy too. Their bodies moved in sync with Beckett and Marlowe, their movements echoing them unconsciously or not, and power thundered around them all. It was heady, that power, and he wondered why the hell it was there and what it wanted with them.

  The beat built, built, built and around them, the other club-goers moved with effortless grace. They were all moving toward an orgasmic release and though he knew it was dangerous, that the man glowering from the table in the VIP section was dangerous, he couldn’t have stopped himself any more than a man building to release could stop.

  The music thundered to its conclusion and the power swept them all up with it. There were a few cries from the dancers around them. Some shuddered with obvious pleasure, some arched their backs and reveled in the unexpected gift.

  Marlowe trembled in his arms and he sensed she hadn’t let herself go so completely. She’d wanted to; he could smell it on her, a delicious smell that begged him to taste, but she hadn’t allowed herself even that bit of joy.

  She understood their precarious position better than he did, had more to lose as well. Her parents would disown her, for a long while if not forever. She’d lose Eric—though he was an albatross around her neck she could afford to get rid of—and she’d lose her money.

  All for flirting with someone like him.

  What did that say about him, then, that he was putting himself in her way? And hadn’t he accused her of the same thing?


  He stepped away from her, panting, wanting her, needing her, and hating himself for all of it. Hating her a little too. His life had been fine before he’d seen her on that bridge. Her face had just been another tabloid glossy, no one of consequence to him or his world until that night.

  She could help him find out what happened to his brother. She could also get him killed. Eric wouldn’t forgive this, even if it had been the meddling bitch Adelaide who had set it up. That rich bastard would remember Nicole and add all that unreasonable, obsessive anger to this.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “What?”

  He leaned in close, smelling her again, the hot sweaty richness of her, and fought not to put a kiss on her neck. “Be careful. Your fiancé won’t forgive this.”

  She pulled back, looking around his shoulders toward the table where Eric sat, then she leaned in close to him. He wondered if she was thinking about kissing him the way he had her. “Your brother overheard something he wasn’t supposed to that night. He left with Eric, though I don’t think it was his idea.”

  Then she was gone, weaving her way through the crowd toward the man who had, in all probability, killed his brother.

  Everything inside him howled for retribution. He wanted to kill Eric for what he’d done to Nicole and now Rhys—because if his brother had driven Eric that night, then there wasn’t any way Rhys wasn’t dead.

  What had Rhys found out that had led to his death? Why had Eric decided he needed to go? Had Marlowe’s parents been in on it? How could they not? Rhys had been their employee after all. It would have been odd indeed for Eric to ask Gavin Montgomery’s driver to take him home when he’d most likely come with his own.

  Beckett had to learn what happened that night, which meant he needed Marlowe to keep digging.

  He wished he’d had more time on the dance floor with her, but it was what it was. He would leave now after saying his farewells, and he’d have his crew keep an eye on her to make sure Eric didn’t hurt her.

  Snowy would drag his ass for that, he knew, would make jokes about him thinking with his cock but it didn’t matter. He knew Eric was dangerous and he knew what happened when the guy indulged in his jealousy. People died.

  And while it was possible the river would spit her back out if Eric tossed her in, it was equally probable it would keep her, or that Eric would find another way to dispose of her. Put a bullet in her head, perhaps, or more likely, wrap his hands around her pretty little neck and squeeze the life right out of her honey-brown eyes.

  Rage made his fists clench. He had to deliberately relax his fingers before he sauntered up to the table, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s been fun, but business has come up to which I must attend.”

  “Aw,” Adelaide said, “Look who’s spoiling the fun. Did you enjoy your dance? It certainly looked like you did. Didn’t they look good out there, Eric?”

  A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw.

  Beckett clapped him on the shoulder. “She wasn’t into me, man. I guess she likes you better. I had to really get grab-handy to get her to do anything but stand there. Ah well, can’t win them all.”

  Marlowe’s expression was one of guarded thankfulness. What would she think if he told her he’d lie and tell the world he was impotent if it meant keeping her safe from Lightbourne?

  Why the hell did it matter so much to him?

  “If you’re interested in doing business, Mr. Glass, please let us know.” Adelaide held up a card that Beckett plucked from her dainty fingers.

  “I thought we had an arrangement,” Eric said tightly.

  Zach picked up his drink and sipped. “Surely you aren’t putting yourself on par with a criminal, are you Lightbourne?”

  Eric’s expression was one of cold arrogance. “Surely you aren’t dabbling in illegal activities and bragging about it to the man poised to bring all the criminal elements in New Orion down?”

  “Oh, he has teeth. Rawr.” Adelaide tittered. “Call us,” she mouthed to Beckett and he nodded, then skated before Eric said something that made him punch the bastard.

  At his bike, he called Zef and asked him to put a few guys on Marlowe. “Get someone up to her apartment and get it wired for sound and picture. If she gets Eric to talk about Rhys, I want it recorded.”

  “Right boss. What about her parents or the man himself?”

  He’d tried bugging Eric’s apartment once before, after he’d dragged himself sputtering from the Azazel. Eric had some sort of magical protection around his place. The second anyone crossed the threshold, Eric got a warning—on his phone, probably, or through some linked talisman. Beckett had found that out the hard way, though he’d managed to get away with only a bullet wound for his troubles. Luck had been with him that night too—though Eric had known someone had broken in, he hadn’t known who and certainly hadn’t suspected it might be the man he’d been sure he’d killed.

  What had Eric thought when he learned Beckett had survived? He hoped it had given him at least one night of lost sleep. “I don’t think it’s worth it right now. Just her. I don’t want to miss it if she does what she said she’d do.”

  “Right boss.” There was something sly in Zef’s voice, something knowing, and Beckett knew he and Snowy would be concocting all sorts of scenarios where he was a love-sick fool. Good thing they were valuable to his crew or he’d have to see if the Azazel liked them enough to spit them out, too. “Keep the good ones close, my boy,” his father had always said. “Allow them their games. Let them be who they are because those are the ones who will throw themselves in front of bullets for you.”

  Loyalty wasn’t bred by fear or money. Eric had never learned that. Beckett hoped that would help do him in.

  TEN

  The ride back to her apartment was tense. Eric didn’t talk until they were almost to her building and Marlowe knew he’d explode. She just hoped he wouldn’t take it out on her. He’d never hit her. Pinched her a couple times, squeezed too tight as he had at the party, but hit her?

  Not yet.

  Yet.

  Cripes. Had it come to this? Was she going to wait to see if he’d hit her before she stood up for herself?

  “Tell me about Nicole Bainbridge,” she said.

  Eric’s head snapped around. “What?”

  She didn’t answer, just waited. They were a few blocks from her apartment, thank goodness. Although she’d reapplied the makeup soon after Beckett had left, her skin itched as if the magic was wearing off. She needed to get to her apartment alone, which meant she needed to get rid of Eric.

  “Nicole was someone I dated briefly a long time ago. Who told you about her?” His lips tightened. “Glass.”

  She shrugged. “He had a lot of interesting things to say about you.”

  Eric grabbed her arm. “Don’t talk to him again.”

  “Get your hand off me now, Eric.”

  It wasn’t what he’d expected. He glared at her, waiting for her to capitulate. When she didn’t, he looked dumbstruck.

  “If you don’t let go, I’m going to ask your driver to call the police.”

  The driver glanced in the mirror—she saw the flash of his eyes—before turning back to the road. Had she imagined the slight nod? She didn’t think so.

  He dropped her arm as if she’d burned him. “What has gotten into you, Marlowe? I hope you aren’t believing that criminal’s lies. He’s a murderer. A thief. His parents ran one of the biggest crews in New Orion and now that they’re dead, he’s in charge of it all. He’s not a nice guy.”

  She rubbed her arm and made sure he saw her do it. “He’s never grabbed my arm and left bruises.”

  Mottled red color crept up his neck to his cheeks. “Don’t compare me to that scum ever.”

  “I’m just speaking the truth. Tell me about Nicole.”

  “I think we’re done for the night.” He raised his voice. “Ms. Montgomery wants to get off here.” His look of petulant triumph made her wonder how he ever won over so man
y supporters. Had his family bought them all? Was that how he was rising to the top, on a wave of his parent’s money?

  The car slowed and pulled to the curb. Two blocks from her apartment, but better this than him forcing his way upstairs.

  “Think about what you’re doing, Marlowe. Think very carefully. As my wife, you’ll be at my side while I run this city. You’ll have access to the Lightbourne fortune. If you walk away ...” He shrugged. “I doubt your parents will be happy with you throwing away your chance at marrying the soon-to-be most powerful man in New Orion. Get out.”

  She did, and without saying a word to him.

  The air was chilly—she knew that from the bundled up people around her—but it wasn’t affecting her any more than when she’d walked home after her ignominious dip in the Azazel. Whatever else it had done, the river had given her immunity to the cold. Why, she didn’t know, any more than she knew why it had painted her in color—why it was still doing so.

  It was the perfect time to walk home. People were still out and about despite the time. It was one of the best things about New Orion—it never slept. She could go out at any time and find something to do.

  Her face was tingling and she moved closer to a large department store window to gaze at her reflection. As she watched, “Damaged” slowly revealed itself as if someone were painting it onto her skin in real time. When it had finally, fully appeared, she felt as though something let go inside her, something that had been coiled up too tight and was now free.

  She pulled up her sleeves to see that the magic of the river had been busy. A rose appeared on one hand, sneaking through the makeup, a snake curled around the fingers of her other. Damned snakes. Snakes and roses. What did they mean?

  She continued on home, wondering if she should get a piercing to go along with the tattoos. Wouldn’t her mother just die if Marlowe showed up on camera with a ring in her nose?

  Why am I still worrying about what they’ll say? Why am I stuck in that endless loop of trying to please them only to fail miserably every time? Maybe Beckett was right. Maybe she was just a little girl.