by Lana Sky
I rub, cupping myself against my palm, hating the fire that flares in response. God, his attention feels like groping, greedy fingers spreading me open for his pleasure. All I can do is retaliate, grinding my touch wherever I feel his gaze travel. Lower. Lower. Deeper…
“J-Jesus Christ.” He barely sounds human—some growling creature salivating over a bone he can’t have.
My body is a dirty traitor, however. It resists the finger I try to ease inside, clamping down, craving something larger. More forceful. Destructive.
“You’re…killing…me…Snow.” He sounds like he means it, which makes my heart despair. He sounds like he’s enjoying every vicious bit of torture.
I bite my lip and forcefully ram the tip of my thumb inside. My gasp is swallowed by his growl. Vibrations ripple through the glass, but he never touches me. Not even when I give in to his plea. I rub. Twist. Curl. Fuck myself on the ridge of my own fingers. I let him watch. I let him moan, smothering the sound against what I assume is his palm.
Eventually, my body can’t take any more. Fire ignites along my spine, forcing it to curl. Rudderless, I writhe against the glass. My knees buckle. Thoughts dissipate. When I regain my senses, I’m on my knees, shaking as footsteps resonate through the floor. Gasping, I look up and find him swaying on his feet, crossing the foyer.
“Get some rest,” he croaks to me. “Your room is the first on the right, at the top of the stairs. I’ll sleep in the study tonight.”
A study that I assume is on the first floor, which gives me some ounce of distance from him. Alone, I haul myself to my feet and redress. Then I ascend the winding staircase, clinging to the banister for support. The top-level sports another breathtaking view of the cityscape, and leather chaises are positioned for viewing at the end of a wide hallway lined with several closed doors. I approach the one he directed me to and then grasp the handle.
I doubt Masha had a hand in designing this room, considering that its blue walls resemble the exact color scheme of my old room in Hollings Manor. The oak furniture is similar, and the door to the walk-in closet is open far enough to reveal my clothing hanging neatly on its racks.
I’m too overwhelmed to examine his motives for this gesture. Another taunt? I just close my eyes while locking the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor, my back pressed against the wall. I don’t strip my gown or my heels. I don’t seek out a comfortable position.
I test him, listening to his footsteps seep through the floor. And a strange thought sinks into my belly and won’t leave: He picked this room for a reason, the one positioned directly above what I assume is his study. He knew I’d hear him through the walls. I could track his movements.
At the same time…
Even while alone, I’ll never be able to ignore his presence.
Chapter 7
Blake
I spent ten years pushing her away. Every thought. Every memory. I never looked at a picture of her. I never read an article.
For so damn long, I dwelled on the image of that silly little girl who threw my love away, and I purged that specter of everything that made her human.
Her smell.
Her touch.
The thought of her just triggered rage. Hatred. And I relished it.
She was the reason I fought so fucking hard to the top. The reason for every bastard crushed in my wake. My father’s legacy was a fitting excuse, but it was her—loathing every inch of Snowy Hollings made each victory ten times sweeter.
One day, I’d swallow her entire world fucking whole.
But now…
The faintest hint of rose-scented perfume colors the air, even in here. My nostrils flare, hunting every last trace of the shit and I feel my brow furrow at the cloying aroma. It’s her mother’s smell. The old Snowy hated the scent of artificial flowers—she preferred to smell them fresh, drenched beneath a spring storm, or stolen from her family’s gardens.
The Snowy Hollings I knew, was a writer, not a socialite. A girl who preferred to spill her emotions in poetry and stories scribbled in the margins of her father’s books.
She was silly and so fucking trusting.
She was so damn forgiving.
I could ignore her on a bad day. Forget to walk her home. Casually insult her by accident with my careless fucking mouth.
She never once held any transgression against me.
To be fair, I always knew the right words to say, or gestures to make. I always knew her…
My pocket jolts, snapping me from my memory. Someone’s calling and my jaw clenches. Only a handful of people in the entire fucking world would be so bold to disturb me this time of night.
One glance at the ID and I’m on my feet, my heart pounding so hard I can feel my pulse in every goddamn fingertip. “What is it?” I demand, answering.
The voice on the other end comes in snippets. “You promised. You promised me,” a woman insists, sounding faint.
“Fuck.” Panic rouses my pulse into a frantic, pounding rhythm. “Masha? Where are you?”
“You promised…” She must be outside. Rushing traffic snarls at her words, obscuring most of them. “Everything…my fault—”
“Where are you?” I lurch toward the door, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Tell me!”
“…never let me go,” she insists, her voice broken by static. “I’m so sorry, Blake. He’ll never…me go.”
Snowy
* * *
Shouting jars me awake and I scramble to my feet, struggling to get my bearings. Faint gray light adds little definition to my surroundings. For one cruel, sickening moment, I almost forget. I’m in Hollings Manor again, waking up late. My first instinct is to scramble into my bathroom to wash my face, but the moment I cross the threshold, reality returns. This layout is twice the size of my old bathroom, with a sunken tub and gold fixtures. In fact, every detail of this room seems designed to add a charm reminiscent of a deranged princess in a dark fairytale.
Shivering, I splash water on my face and rub my color back into my cheeks. I finger my hair and consider taking a risk by washing up even with Blake still so close.
I hear him pacing down below. Marching. Shouting?
Alarm draws me to the bedroom door. With my ear pressed against it, I can’t make out what he’s saying. Just the tone of how he’s saying it: growled, frantic words bellowed in quick succession. He’s arguing with someone. Then a terrible vision pops into my head: either Ronan or Hunter storming in, ready for a second round of what happened in the restaurant.
I’m already in the hallway before I can weigh the benefits of staying in hiding. In the pale light of dawn, I easily find my way to the staircase and into the foyer. There, I find him pacing just beyond the hall, a cell phone pressed to his ear, and his usually stoic expression radiating fury.
“What do you mean she’s gone? Find her!” he snarls before rattling off a phrase that I don’t think is English. “Did he call, that son of a bitch? No…the manor? What the hell was she doing out there? No, it doesn’t matter. Don’t let her out of your sight.” A heartbeat later, the phone is flung from his grip and smashes against the wall inches from my head.
“Shit…” He deflates as if noticing me for the first time. A trembling hand does its best to rake a mess of black curls from his forehead only to make him look more disheveled. “I didn’t see you. I-I have to go.” He storms across the foyer to snatch a coat from a hook near the entrance. After shrugging it on, he cocks his head in my direction without turning around. “I’ll be back later. Have your run of the place. Your breakfast is in the dining room.”
Then he’s gone, slamming the door in his wake.
It’s like the very walls exhale the moment he’s gone, and the beauty lurking in the muted color scheme makes itself known without the threat of him here to consume my attention. God, it’s so beautiful. So dangerous. He turned my nostalgia into a weapon.
Or a cage.
Alone, I watch the world rouse from a sleepy trickle of traffi
c into a full-blown torrent of people and machines surging toward various goals. It’s a view of the world I never got from my window at Hollings Manor. Though I always dreamt of moving to the heart of the city like the stereotypical socialite.
In the end, I never left home. I had to be smoked from the ruins of it, thrown into this louder, gaudier setting. Ironically, I can’t even take the reins of my newly upended life. People are watching. Waiting. Once again, I’m at the mercy of the men in my life to make all the bad things disappear.
The catch is that they rarely do. If anything, my problems only seem to multiply.
Left with no other options, I retreat to the navy bedroom and shower in an effort to take my mind off the darker thoughts. I dress in an old cream blouse and a cobalt skirt. I brush my hair and find a case of makeup with blush to dust on my cheeks. Then I scowl at the person I find watching me from the mirror’s reflection, and I dare her to do something.
Blake claimed that this was a partnership, not a captive situation. It’s time for him to prove it.
With renewed determination, I return to the lower level and hunt the various rooms for one in particular. It doesn’t take me long to find it: a study tucked near the back of the suite. Here, he kept the decoration minimal. There’s just a desk and a chair flanked by bookshelves filled to the brim with leather tomes. The view, however, is second only to the one in the living room. The waterfront gleams in the glow of early dawn, and hints of sunlight ripple over the water. Rolling hills in the distance create a humanizing backdrop as both a warning and a comfort: Mayfield isn’t the end-all-be-all. There is a whole world waiting beyond its boundaries.
I don’t know how long I let myself stare before the sound of a door opening and closing snaps me into awareness. I turn just in time to catch a figure stepping over the threshold. He pauses, his gaze flitting in my direction as if he hadn’t expected to find me here.
He looks even worse than he did before he left. Exhaustion weighs his features down despite the wary frown his mouth contorts into. “You don’t have to go hunting for answers this time, Snow,” he says, sounding hoarse, as though he had worn out his throat from shouting. “Let’s attempt honesty, for once. Whatever you need, you can ask for it.”
“I wasn’t snooping,” I truthfully admit, running my hands over my skirt. Still, I can’t resist testing his claim. Whatever I need. While I look at him, only one burning request comes to mind. His eyes are bloodshot, and he doesn’t seem to realize how tightly he’s clutching the doorknob. Not out of anger, but for balance—he’s that damn exhausted. “Where were you?”
He flinches. Damn. I can almost hear the thought cross his mind. He didn’t stop to consider I’d ask about him.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” he says, approaching the desk. “There’s one matter of business we can get out of the way now. Your terms, in writing, as requested.” He opens a drawer and withdraws a folder that he places in front of me.
A quick glance reveals everything we discussed laid out in legal terms. Considering the events of last night, he must have had this drafted by a legal team and delivered all on short notice. The man works fast.
“We can sign to make it legally binding. Or base it on my word. The choice is yours.”
I eye that beautiful mouth, which is still sporting a bruise left by Ronan’s fist. He doesn’t even seem to notice the pain or the nice black eye shaping up on the left side of his face. Settling on an option takes mere seconds.
“Give me a pen.”
Without a word, he fishes one from his desk and hands it to me. I sign my name on the last page of the documents, and he does the same. Begrudgingly, it seems. Something he said once sticks out to me now. “Honor means nothing to a Hollings.”
Even now, he still doubts me.
“I’ll have a copy made for you,” he assures me before returning the documents to his desk. “And now… I would like you to uphold your other end of our bargain.”
“Oh?” I cock my head, wary of the answer.
“Lyle Harlow.” He withdraws a cell phone from his pocket and offers it to me. “Call him. Tell him you’ll square the debt, no matter the amount. I’ll take care of it.”
And, later, exact vengeance for every penny? I don’t dare question him out loud, but his eyes narrow as if aware of my suspicions.
“You gave me your word,” he reminds me. “You put it in writing—”
“I’ll do it.” I force myself to take the phone, but I can’t bring it to my ear just yet.
Blake sighs. “If you want me to, I’ll—”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s just… I’d like to be alone.”
He frowns. I can tell from how the corner of his mouth twitches that he wants nothing more than to refuse. But something in my expression must change his mind, because he turns to the door instead.
“You have five minutes.”
I waste the first one trying desperately to catch my breath. Lyle Harlow isn’t just a monster looming over my present, but a very real one from my past. Seeking him out before was one thing, but now? Dread forms a pitiful lump in my throat, impossible to swallow down. Not that I have a choice.
Four minutes.
My fingers shake as I punch in the number I know by heart. Surprisingly, the call is answered on the first ring.
“Who is this?” a gruff voice demands.
“I have your money,” I croak without giving my name.
A gruff bit of laughter is his response. “Little Snowy Hollings,” the man murmurs, lingering over my name. “Most people who don’t pay end up having nasty accidents.”
God, he sounds too calm. Too…smug.
“Well, I have your money now,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
“And you’re too late. Someone’s already bought your contract, little Hollings.”
The world crashes to a halt. My stomach turns, fighting with my heart for supremacy. “W-what?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Harlow croons sweetly. “We’ll be seeing each other soon, Little Hollings. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He hangs up, and I drop the phone, paralyzed as it slides beneath the desk.
“Snowy?” A fist rattles the door. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” I sink to my knees and all but throw myself under the desk, hunting for his phone. I hear the door open, but I can’t withdraw. Not with my face on fire and my fear so fucking apparent. Focus! I school my expression into a mask as my fingers finally capture the phone. Slowly, I crawl backward on my hands and knees. “Everything is fine…”
I trail off as my gaze falls on Blake’s face. His mouth is open, trapped around a question he hasn’t voiced. Heavy-lidded eyes shamelessly rake over my bare legs. My skirt rose up without my realizing it, revealing a glimpse of my lace panties.
To his credit, he recovers first, clearing his throat. A coldness washes over his face, displacing any hint of lust. “Is it done? Where should I send the money?”
“The money…” I avert my gaze and rack my brain for an explanation. There isn’t one. “He said it’s covered,” I lie in the end. “Told me to forget about it.”
I can almost hear his eyebrow shoot into his hairline.
“Lyle Harlow told you to ‘forget’ about money owed to him?” Anger lashes from him, as sharp as a whip. “I thought we were past lying.”
“We are,” I insist, rising to my feet. “And I wasn’t. So don’t you lie to me.” I size him up, surprised to find that he managed to drive some of the exhaustion from his features. He was always so stubborn, refusing to let anything get in his way. Even me. “Where were you?”
Suddenly, he’s eyeing the wall beyond my head rather than meeting my gaze directly. “It’s not important—”
“That’s not what I asked. You were looking for someone,” I say, recalling his phone conversation. Find her! “A woman. Masha?”
“There are some things that I can’t—” He breaks off and exhales sharply. When I l
ook over, he’s watching me, his face carefully blank. “I’ve spent years being alone,” he admits. “Fucking no one. Talking to no one. Being no one. Trusting no one. In one night, I learn that most of that pain was based on a lie. Just…just give me some time, but I promise you…”
He’s closer in an instant, guiding my chin into his palm. I shiver at the contact. He’s so damn warm. So real. In the rare moments he’s like this—open—it steals my breath away. It’s unfair; my heart can’t guard against him.
“I promise you, I’ll try to…be different than before,” he says, gazing deep into my eyes. “I’ll tell you everything. Anything. But I’m going to need some time.”
“And so do I.” I step away from him, making sure that no malice seeps into the action. Maybe just fear. My heart races as I remember his request from last night. Fulfilling it. What did it mean? Apparently nothing. He seems even more standoffish than before, even as he taunts me with…what? Trust? “Maybe we should spend some time apart—”
“No.” He grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “Let me take you to lunch.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I muster up what I hope passes for a playful smile while I gently pull my fingers from his. “What if Hunter shows up this time and blackens your other eye?”
Rather than laugh, he…flinches? Something distorts his blank expression, gone in an instant. Alarm?
I choke out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, it’s not like you wanted that to happen or anything…”
My joke shouldn’t have made an impact at all. No one would be so cunning—stage a beautiful dinner to give the appearance of a relationship—when his real goal all along was far more sinister.
Draw out Ronan. Cause a scene. Force me to choose between him and my brother.