by Lana Sky
He sighs but doesn’t offer up a cutting retort. Progress? Or maybe an ominous sign.
“I remember that you used to pester me when I couldn’t,” he admits. “You’d never… You never let anything go.”
I nod. “Not until you told me what was wrong.”
The answer would always be a multitude of different thoughts or concerns most boys his age wouldn’t bother to care about. His future. His family. The perils of the universe.
Something warns me that none of those topics are what’s bothering him now. Not even close.
“You always told me in the end,” I hear myself say almost wistfully. “Always…”
He doesn’t respond this time—but it isn’t until I hear the slow cadence of his breathing that I realize why.
He fell asleep.
I wake up alone, unsurprisingly. He had another nightmare last night, shouting at phantoms in the dark. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep, though I doubt I fooled him. Despair and dread wafted from his skin like perfume, leaving a trail I can still follow as pale daylight illuminates the otherwise monochrome room.
He’s waiting for me in the study, hunched over a breakfast tray piled high with too many foods to name. Bacon. Eggs. Bagels. I can’t help imagining a fallen warrior presenting his opponent with a lavish feast as a form of surrender. Or a challenge.
He nods to the chair strategically placed before the spread, and a dare lurks beneath his gaze as he lifts a fork and extends it to me. “Eat.”
Smart soldiers choose their battles wisely. With Hunter, I knew his deliveries of meals came only out of love and concern. Blake, however, merely wants to provoke. He needs me to refuse him now; it’s the only way he knows how to turn the tables in retaliation for what little vulnerability I coaxed from him last night.
Today, I’m too damn tired to play the game. I sit as commanded and dutifully shovel a spoonful of yogurt into my mouth. He watches, scowling at the subtle defiance. Regardless, with every subsequent bite, his frown lessens. Soon, he’s merely resigned as I polish off the serving of eggs.
“Your spoils, princess,” he says mockingly while sliding a strip of paper in my direction. A check. One for a disgusting sum. “It’s merely for show,” he admits. “Our accountants will need to do the necessary paperwork for the transfer.”
“I don’t want it.”
He looks like I’ve slapped him, and I race to clarify.
“I’d prefer you donated it. To Haven. In honor of women like Masha.”
The mention of his sister only earns me a shred of leniency. “So content you are with Harrison Lloyd’s money that you can’t accept a dime of mine. Is that it, Snow?”
“No!” I push back from the table, gritting my teeth.
Only he can do this to me. Maybe he was right; we can only feel anything when together. Hate. And Lust. And pain—all at once. It’s an unhealthy mixture, and every time we clash, I feel in danger of overdosing.
“I don’t need your money. I don’t need anyone’s money.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he warns, a cold smile shaping his mouth. “What about Daniel Ellingston’s money? When he had some, anyway? You were more than willing to sell yourself to him for it.”
It’s a low blow, and it takes everything I have in me not to jump at the bait. Something must have happened in between his nightmare and when I woke up. Before that, even. A catalyst for him trying to pick a fight over the tabloid, perhaps. Something has him jumpy, itching for a battle, and my stomach sinks at the thought of what it might be.
“Don’t forget that I sold myself to you, too,” I say softly.
He frowns and retreats to the windows. The breathtaking view only seems to earn his ire. He scowls at the skyline. “Keep some of the money—”
“Half, then,” I concede. “Donate half of it to Haven.”
“Fine.” He snatches up the check and stows it into his pocket. Then he sighs, and I see a hint of what has him so irritable. Unease. “I…I need…”
“Anything.” Damn. I didn’t mean to sound so eager. So fucking desperate. But I am. Extortion and blackmail—the only dynamic in which we seem to function. And I’ll take it over the fighting or the insults. “I mean… Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Accompany me to a ball. Tomorrow night.”
I blink. “A ball?”
“Rumors are rampant, Snow,” he says, sounding almost neutral for once. He sinks onto the chair across from me and absently snatches up my hand. His fingers stroke the back of it, grinding warmth into my skin. “They’re a bigger threat than expected. They’re pressuring me to step down from the board. And I’ll admit that I wanted to rip down everything with the Hollings name—but I spent almost half my life being groomed to run that company.”
He still wants it. I can see the desire burning in his eyes. The same one that drives Hunter to lie and scheme his way toward the top of the corporate ladder. Power.
“So you need me there.”
“No.” He hesitates, trying to find the right words. “I want you there.”
“I pick my dress?”
He shoots me an odd look. “Yes…”
“And no lying. No blackmail. No hidden extortion?” I almost expect him to say yes.
Instead, he shakes his head. “I’m asking you for a favor, Snow,” he admits.
One with supposedly no strings attached.
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” He releases me and rises to his feet. The sudden shift to his expression takes my breath away. It’s so easy for him to switch emotion on and off.
A pang runs through my chest, a painful tendril of doubt. “But I want something in return.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head. From his posture alone, I can guess what he suspects I’ll demand: something humiliating or degrading. Something to shift the scales in my favor.
“I want you…” I inhale raggedly, meeting his gaze, hiding nothing. “I want you for a day. You. No lies. No games. No secrets. I want to talk to you.”
No. I didn’t mean to say that. But any excuse I may have dies in the face of his expression. He’s guarded again, so damn wary. Like a predator eyeing a trap, he looks me over from head to toe.
“A day?”
“Are you afraid?” I wonder, letting my voice dip to a mocking octave. Perhaps joking can lessen the fear building in my veins, warning that I’ve gone too far, too fast. “The big, bad Blake Lorenz afraid of one little bargain?”
“A day,” he repeats skeptically. “I thought I just paid for the privilege.”
I flinch. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” He runs a hand through his hair, knocking the wildest curls away from his face. “Fine. A day. To do what?”
I stare at my half-eaten plate, suddenly overwhelmed. From the corner of my eye, I notice the bookshelf. It’s almost like I knew all along what I’d find there, taken from my purse, shoved to the very end of the selection of books. I stand, aware of him watching, and grab the leather volume before offering it to him.
“I want you to read to me.”
“Snow…”
“Please.”
He eyes the book like it’s something dangerous. A venomous threat waiting to strike. He takes it anyway, crossing over to the threshold of the room, and I follow him without being beckoned, trailing his slow footsteps into the living room, over to the red throne-like chair.
He sits, cocking his head to issue another silent dare. This one I don’t shy away from. I sink onto his lap, facing the view. Gradually, my body relaxes into his firmer one. His arms come around my waist as he opens the book. Then, grudgingly, he starts to read.
His voice sinks to a low, grating rasp that transports me to another time. Another place, with another man. But, for the first time, those two halves don’t battle for supremacy. They merely coexist: memory and reality.
“And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men failed to put him back together again.”
/> I shiver as he bats a strip of hair from my neck. And then he reads again.
And again.
And again, retelling the same tale until the daylight fades around us.
Chapter 14
I startle to awareness, curled in an awkward position against a firmer surface. Warm fingers part my hair into sections, and a part of me shivers in recognition. I know this feeling. This smell. More and more, my nostalgia acts like poison, and with every breath, I’m overwhelmed by memory.
We used to lie like this sometimes, huddled together like magnets. Though perhaps old Snowy would describe it more poetically: We used to exist together, like two halves of the same broken, abominable creature.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs when I start to stir.
My heart pangs, uneasy. Only God knows how long he let me sleep like this, bundled in his arms. The city glows below us, a hotbed of neon fire and ebony darkness. Damn. I rub my eyes, mourning the loss of time.
“How late is it?” I whisper.
He shrugs, his eyes unreadable in the dim illumination. “Close to midnight.”
“But still today.” Heart in my throat, I turn, craning my neck so that I can see his face as I reach for the collar of the shirt. “You’re still mine. I mean…under our agreement.”
His jaw twitches as if to issue a refusal, but in the end, he lets me slowly unhook every button and drag the sleeves down one by one, leaving his chest bare. Why?
Maybe I’m finally letting myself believe what he said: that we can only ever understand each other like this. With physical touch over words. In silence and darkness, and devoid of trust.
His past will always be a barrier to overcome. If he won’t tell me in words, then I’ll have to feel the damage for myself.
And there’s so much of it to discover.
My pulse surges as I stand, circle around to his back, and allow my fingers to knead his shoulders, sensing the tension coiled there. But my finger slips, finding a nasty patch of circular flesh, eerily smooth. “How?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Spoiled, rich bastards weren’t very popular in prison,” he says, his voice rough. “Especially perverted ones.”
I swallow hard, tears burning behind my eyes, and withdraw my hands. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He grabs my wrist, forcing the contact.
Fighting apprehension back, I spread my fingers out again, flattening my palms along his spine. “C-can you tell me what happened—”
“No.” He shakes his head, softening his tone. “I-I mean…I can’t go there, Snow. Not like this.”
Fair enough. Slowly, I trace a ragged scar, cringing at the images my own imagination conjures: him pinned down, tortured. Because of me.
“How many are there?”
He hesitates. I can feel the vibrations of his lungs as they struggle to trap the answer inside.
“Twenty…thirty,” he says finally. “I don’t really know.”
“Turn around.”
He lets me guide him so that he’s sitting with his back exposed, still facing the windows. A low sound catches in the air as I sink to my knees. It’s like he can sense what I offer without having to see it: submission. I press the silent promise into his skin, brushing my lips along the ridge of his hip. Two scars etched onto him by my foolish mistake.
“Three,” I murmur, lathing my tongue over another healed scar. “Four. Five.”
He sucks in a breath with every exploration, and I can almost taste the need in his skin, which feeds the ache building inside me. It comes from nowhere, hot like fire—and he stokes it higher with every bit his grip on the edge of the chair tightens, straining the muscles in his back.
He says nothing when I stand and circle to his front. Then I kneel again, meeting his gaze. All I find is…reverence, for once, and it chokes me. Neon colors paint his skin as I shuffle between his legs and work on the front of his pants.
“Goddamn…” He inhales sharply and groans through an exhalation. His large hands cup my scalp, trembling even before I find his cock, which is hardening beneath my touch, and coax him from the cage of fabric. “Jesus, Snow.”
I part my lips, and he bucks his hips, gripping my hair tightly in his fist. I’m stuffed to the brim with him. I’m choking on him, and it’s a devastating death. I let him use me as he needs to, writhing his way to a slow-building orgasm that catches me off guard. He grunts, flooding my mouth, and instinct nearly overrides the need to please him. My throat contracts, but at the last second, I force myself to swallow.
Every drop.
“Shit!” He shoves me back and I release him with a wet pop, gasping for air. “So good.” He smooths his fingers along my face, murmuring praises. “So fucking good.”
I rest my cheek against his thigh as his fingers sink through my hair and pet the thick curls. And I don’t know how long we remain like that.
I just wish it could fucking last.
Chapter 15
Blake
Holding her in my arms, I’m at the mercy of the cruelest weapon that Snowy Hollings has in her arsenal.
Peace. Nothing compares to this. Not the money I stand to gain from the destruction of her family’s company. Not the years of torment she caused. Not even the true extent of the twisted web I’ve spun around her.
For a few minutes of golden dawn, she’s perfect, her chest rising softly, her hair falling across her face—and the rest of the world fades away. I can pretend like this, for a second, that I’ve finally won her back.
Screw Lyle Harlow or Daniel Ellingston.
Screw the world waiting beyond these walls. Hearing her breathe, sensing the warmth from her skin, inhaling her scent shouldn’t be more than enough to smother the rest.
But it is.
And…for fuck’s sake, I want to hate her for it.
My fingers twitch, smoothing the shorn curls from her face. Her delicate bone structure plays with the faint rays of the rising sun, reflecting it off pure white skin. It paints her in a golden hue—a mocking reminder of what she is in the grand scheme.
A trophy I desired to win at all fucking costs.
But she’s so much more.
We could have been so much more.
Groaning with regret, I stand and carry her in my arms to a leather chaise. She stirs lightly as I set her down on it and back away. Upstairs her scent chases me, even into the shower.
I do my best to scrub her away, pretending that it would be so easy. Snow clings to my skin, but a few lathers of soap can wash her off. It’s futile of course—the woman is in my blood.
She’s always been there.
Always.
And the moment she sees the monster I really am, she’ll run away again.
This time for good.
Across the room, my phone vibrates on a dresser. It’s as if the universe itself decided to issue a fucking challenge. You think you can keep her?
Think again.
“Blake.” I snarl, answering the phone without looking at the ID. For a damn good reason.
No one sane would call this early.
“I warned you, you sick bastard,” a man slurs into my ear. “I warned you to stay away from her. Don’t hang up,” he warns before I even start to lower the phone, intending to do just that. “You listen to me. You think I’ll let you hurt her again? Hell no.”
“And just how do you plan on doing that?” Somehow my tone comes out level. Some fucking how. Maybe it’s instinct, warning me that this time, he isn’t bluffing.
“I’ll tell you how,” he says. “I’ll tell her the truth. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell her everything. Everything you’ve done. I’ll tell her…that it was you from the start.”
Snowy
* * *
Hot sunlight warms my naked skin. He must have placed me on the chaise in the living room without bothering to cover me.
Because rather than sleep, he spent the night watching over me. Sure enough, I sense his gaze as
I draw my legs together and peel my eyes open to a high ceiling.
“Your breakfast is on the table.” His voice comes from the upstairs landing, and like any addict, I chase it. He’s there at the top of the steps, adjusting a pair of silver cufflinks, dressed to the nines in tailored business attire: a gray suit, a white shirt, and a navy tie. “Eat,” he warns when he sees me mount the topmost step. Something unreadable crosses his expression. Uncertainty? Before I can place it for sure, he leans forward, swiping his lips along my forehead, and I’m rendered speechless. “Eat,” he insists as I marvel over what’s as close to an affectionate gesture as a man like him can give. “I need to go to the office, but I’ll return later.”
I watch him draw back, a frown tugging at my mouth. How soon the real world chooses to descend. It’s as if there’s this vicious tug of war between the moments when we come close to a semblance of intimacy and those when he feels farther away than ever before.
Resigned, I grab a robe from my room and find food waiting for me in the study. Blake hasn’t left yet, and a thought begins to itch at the back of my skull, impossible to soothe. Ronan and Hunter. Placated or not, they’ll happily ambush Blake Lorenz in public if they believe for a second he’s hurt me in any way. Sighing, I reach for the office phone and dial the hotel directly, intending to leave a message.
Instead, Ronan answers, his voice gruff. “Who is this?”
“It’s me,” I stammer.
“Snowy, thank God. Where are you?” He sounds strained, as if it’s taking all of his effort to keep from shouting. “I’ll come. Just tell me where.”
“I’m safe,” I say, avoiding the question. “I promise. But…” I glance at the clock. Blake is already late, but Ronan? Never. “Why aren’t you at the office?”
“Snowy, what are you talking about?”
“I… Didn’t you get a seat on the board?”
He laughs coldly. “You mean that shitty olive branch Lorenz offered? One seat for Hunter and me to fight over between the two of us? I let Hunter take it.”