by Emma Chase
I move towards him—smiling.
“How are you? You look . . .” Terrible. Wonderful. Beautiful. “. . . well.”
“You too.” His eyes devour me, up and down. “You look lovely.”
He says it like he means it—even though I’m in the middle of a fifteen-hour shift with my hair twisted up into a messy bun, wearing shapeless dark blue scrubs.
But it doesn’t feel awkward between us—I could melt into him like no time has passed at all.
The stilted sensation comes from not being able to do that. From having to hold myself back—maybe we both are.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought one of my guards to the emergency room.”
“What are his symptoms?”
“Bleeding. The boys were messing around. He got stabbed.”
I think a bodyguard’s definition of “messing around” is different from the rest of world’s.
“They say he’ll be fine.”
“Oh good.” I nod. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” His throat ripples as he swallows. And I remember kissing his throat—the taste of his skin on my lips and tongue. I stare at his mouth, his face—there’s nowhere else I want to look ever again.
Tommy starts. “I wanted to—”
But then Riley is there, like a wedge, angling himself between us.
“Dr. Sealing is waiting for us, Abby. We have to scrub in.”
“Yes, I know,” I snap. “I’ll be right along.”
Riley glances at Tommy a moment. Then he walks away and I catch Tommy’s glaring gaze following his retreating form.
His eyes darken back on me—possessive and questioning.
I shake my head. “He and I aren’t . . . there’s nothing—”
“Right.” Tommy nods sharply. “Well . . . you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it.” His voice goes low and rough. “It was good to see you, Abby.”
Then he turns, walking away towards the lift.
Leaving.
Panic claws at my throat and lodges there.
“Tommy!”
He turns back as I rush up to him. I lift my hand to touch him, but stop at the last moment. Because if I touch him . . . I’m very sure I’ll fall apart right here in the hall.
“I was abrupt the last time we saw each other. I’ve regretted that so much.” I lick at my lips, buying time, searching for the right words. There’s a wet, salty taste in the back of my mouth and a burning in my eyes.
“I hope life is kind to you. I wish that for you . . . every single day.”
His jaw goes tight, and he glances down at his shoes, nodding.
“All right.”
I give him a small smile, but if feels sad on my lips.
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too, lass.”
And then the lift door opens and he steps inside—and he’s gone all over again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tommy
SEEKING ABBY OUT AT THE hospital was not one of my better ideas. Now I’m like a once-sober junkie who fell off the wagon for a night—and my blood has been screaming for another fix for the past week.
It wouldn’t be so difficult if she didn’t still want me. But she does—I’m certain of it. The way she looked at me, the way she breathed, how her voice trembled—Christ, I could smell the desire coming off her as sweet as the scent of apples on her skin.
I could push her—I’m sure of that too. I could go to her place, just walk in and lock the door behind me. I could kiss her, take her mouth—take any part of her I want—and she would let me.
Or I could bring her to my place—keep her there—tie her to the bed, make her talk, make her tell me what’s happening in that twisted-up little mind of hers.
I could make her love it so easily. Have her begging for it—for me.
Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.
But I don’t want her that way. It’s not that I mind chasing Abby—I still like the chase. But I’ve been pushing her, backing her up, breaking her down since the day we met. It’s not just about us screwing anymore—it’s different now. More.
So I have to know it comes from her. That she wants me, needs me, that she feels what I feel all on her own. Not because I’ve talked her into it, or teased her or fucked her into it—but because she’s right here in this with me.
That’s the only way it’ll ever work between us, the only way it will last.
I shove thoughts of Abby out of my mind, because I need to focus on the here and now. I’m working with Gordon, guarding an international shipping magnate and his wife who’ve come to Wessco to attend a world economics forum. Tonight they’re at a posh banquet hall for the party that caps off the three-day summit. All the bigwigs are here—energy moguls, media billionaires, royalty.
From my position against the wall, I spot Duchess Olivia all dolled up and gorgeous in a shimmery gown beside her tuxedo-clad husband, Prince Nicholas. I was on Nicholas Pembrook’s personal detail for a few years before he went to New York and met Olivia Hammond . . . and the whole world changed. I stayed on with them as they dated and were married, and had two little ones—twins, Langdon and Lilliana—only leaving his employ when Logan resigned to be with Ellie and we started our own shop.
Olivia catches my eye and smiles, giving me a wave. I lift my chin and throw her a wink in reply.
Then I return my attention back to my bald-headed mark as he drinks champagne and chortles with the other nobs.
And as I once explained to Abby, I don’t listen to the clutter of conversation that surrounds me. What they’re saying neither interests me nor matters. I scan the area around my client, eyeing the entrances, the bustling waiters and other guests—searching for anything that my gut says is off.
But then, through the verbal din, I hear something. Two words.
They capture my attention and snap my head around.
“Alistair Lipton . . .”
And I think of Abby in that tub—her skin ashen and her voice small. I see that awful, flat expression on her face and the haunting that was in her beautiful eyes.
I try to shake it off, to let it go—because it’s not mine to deal with.
She’s not mine.
And that lasts for all of two seconds.
Then—fuck it.
And I’m speaking into the microphone at my wrist that’s connected to the piece in Gordon’s ear.
“My man’s on your six—keep an eye on him. I need to take care of something.”
“You what?” Gordon’s confused voice surges back, because this is a break in protocol. It goes against all our training—and I can’t make myself give a single shit.
“Tommy, what—”
I pull the piece from my ear and slip it in my pocket as I move to the group of five tuxes where the name was uttered. I push my way through to the center, getting right up in his space, nose to nose—I don’t know how I know it’s him, I just do.
“Alistair Lipton?”
“Yes?” is what comes back—indifferent and disdainful.
He’s got the kind of face that’s easy to hate, and even easier to break. Translucent skin and thin bone structure, wide-set eyes—like prey—classic but oddly arranged features that hint at a bloodline of inbreeding.
“Do I know you?”
Every muscle in my body is coiled rock-hard and tight, ready to spring. But I’m not in a rage, not out of control.
There’s a cold calm that settles over you before you annihilate a man.
Almost a centered sort of peace that comes from knowing exactly what you’re about to do and the innate awareness that it needs to be done.
“No. We have a friend in common. Abigail Haddock.”
And it’s all there on his face—plain as fuck. No one else sees it, but I do. The flash of recognition—the flinch of cornered fear and cowardly guilt—not over the act itself but at the worry of being found out.
&nbs
p; He remembers. He knows what he did. He’s known it all this time—and he knew it then. And now he knows I know it too.
And that’s good.
I want him to understand what it’s about. And if it’s the last moments of understanding this worthless fuck gets to have on this earth, I want him to know . . . that it’s for her.
I swing my arm quick, landing the brick of my fist in the center of his face—feeling the brittle crunch and the wet give beneath my knuckles. He goes down and I go down after him—and time loses meaning.
It all blends together in a symphony of swinging and pounding and punching, splitting skin and shattered teeth, shouts and screams, and pulverizing vengeance.
Rough, faceless hands tear me off him too soon and drag me outside, throwing me on the wet pavement. They twist my arms back and clamp cuffs around my wrists—and I’m hauled into the back cage of a police car.
As I sit there catching my breath, my ability to think normally again returns. At least normal for me.
My first thought is—Lo’s gonna be royally pissed. What I did was stupid, and irresponsible, and possibly ruining.
My second thought is—completely fucking worth it.
* * *
I’ve never actually seen the inside of a jail cell. That’s not to say I haven’t done things to deserve getting locked up in one . . . I’ve just never gotten caught.
It’s not so bad.
There’s heat, decent lighting, working plumbing—that’s better than a few of the houses around my neighborhood. The wooden bench I’m sitting on is hard, but my arse has sat on worse.
And the company’s colorful, to help pass the time. There’s Alvin who’s in for boosting a car, Forrest who apparently tried to strangle his tool of a brother-in-law, Mickey who got busted for possession, a bloke who calls himself Jinx who reeks of trash and is too drunk to stand, and a poor old gent named Horris whose only offense seems to be talking out loud to several people who aren’t there.
They’ll release me on my own recognizance in the morning. I’m sure as shit not going to call my mum to bail me out—my present company is much more pleasant. And Ellie’s in the home stretch of her pregnancy, so I don’t want to bother Logan at this time of night.
When Jinx staggers a bit too close my way, I warn him, “If you vomit on me, mate, I’m going to have to snap your neck.”
And he lurches in the other direction.
Then I settle in, tilting my head back against the wall and counting the water stains on the ceiling.
That’s when an officer appears on the outside of the bars.
“Sullivan—you’re out.”
Maybe Gordon and the lads chipped in to spring me.
But when I follow the cop out to the processing desk, it’s Prince Nicholas and Olivia who are there waiting for me. I look between them—in their fancy eveningwear—standing out in the downtown police station like a sixth toe on a left foot.
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what are we doing here?” Olivia asks—that hint of New York still clinging to her words. “Did you think we were going to just leave you in here?” She dips her head, her blue eyes dark with worry. “Are you okay? What happened tonight, Tommy . . . that’s not like you.”
It was always a privilege to guard them—it would’ve been an honor to take a bullet for them. Not because they’re royalty—but because they’re good. It’s fills them both to the brim, through and through.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
As the clerk hands me my belongings, Nicholas shakes the police captain’s hand. “I appreciate your assistance.”
He gives a shallow bow to them both. “Happy to be of service, Your Highnesses.”
The driver—one of Winston’s palace boys—leads us out the back to the waiting limousine.
Once we’re inside and moving, I ask Prince Nicholas, “How much do I owe you for the bond?”
He shakes his head. “No bond. The charges have been dropped.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“With a phone call. To Alistair Lipton’s father, Sir Aloysius. The man’s a full-on prick, but that’s how these things work. I promised him a favor, to be determined later, in exchange for his son not pressing charges. So . . . what you owe me is an explanation as to why I had to make a deal with the devil. Why’d you attack Lipton?”
My jaw locks up tight. “I can’t say.”
Nicholas’s gray-green eyes pin me hard.
“That’s not good enough, Tommy.”
I rub the back of my neck, giving him what I can without betraying Abby.
“He hurt someone I care about.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that—it’s not my story to tell.” My voice goes low and solemn. “But I swear to you, he deserved it. I swear to God.”
The Prince knows me well enough to understand I don’t swear to God lightly. And if I do, it’s not just something I say—it’s something I mean, body and soul.
He holds my eyes for a moment, and then he nods.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Olivia hands me a cloth napkin filled with ice from the bar for my hand. “It looked like you were locked in there with some pretty rough characters.”
I snort—she was always a cute one. Prince Nicholas thinks so too, chuckling sweetly at his wife.
“He is the rough character, love. They were locked in there with him.”
Olivia rolls her eyes at us both.
And then we’re pulling up to the curb in front of my building.
Nicholas pauses a moment, recognition rising in his eyes as they’re trained on something outside the window behind me. Then he lifts his chin.
“Tommy . . . you have a visitor.”
I turn my head, and she’s there. Standing outside on the pavement, pale and perfect, her hair a halo of burning gold beneath the streetlamp.
I quietly thank Nicholas and Olivia again and step out from the car, closing the door behind me and giving a nod to the driver before he pulls away.
Then my eyes are on Abby and her alone.
The wet mist clings to her wool coat, glittering like a dusting of diamonds. She gazes at me long and a little desperately—like she’s trying to absorb the image of me—keep it for later.
“What are you doing here, Abby?”
“News travels fast. News about Alistair Lipton getting beaten to a bloody pulp travels at warp speed.”
I nod.
“You did that for me?” she asks softly. “You hurt him . . . for me?”
My throat aches with the weight of words, with all the things I feel for her.
“I wanted to kill him for you.”
Her breath shudders as she inhales and her green eyes shimmer with wetness.
“But why? We’re not together, if we ever were. We’re finished now.”
I shake my head, drifting closer.
“See, that’s the thing—we don’t feel finished. Not to me.” I splay my hand on my chest, over my heart. “Not in here.”
Slowly Abby smiles even while a tear spills over, slipping down her cheek. She picks up my hand, stroking her thumb gently across the bruised knuckles like she wants to smooth the hurt away.
Then she dips her head and kisses me there, whisper-soft and infinitely tender.
“We don’t feel finished to me either.”
And that’s when I know. That’s when I’m sure.
Me and Abby . . . we’re never going to be finished.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Abby
INSIDE TOMMY’S BEDROOM, HE KISSES me slow, cradling my face and stroking my cheek.
How did I ever go so long without this? Without him.
Our clothes are unbuttoned and skimmed away gently. And it all feels new—a wondrous discovery of warm skin and soft touches—and yet beautifully remembered. I relish the sharp intake of his breath that I know will come when I run my tongue across his throat and slide
my hand down his abdomen.
A long moan seeps from my lips when he moves behind me, pressing his chest to my back and coasting his lips across my shoulder, scraping and nipping at the sensitive skin.
We fall to the bed, molded together, all kissing and whispering and sliding caresses. Every nerve ending is awake and alive and pleading.
Yes, there.
Please, like that.
Don’t stop, never stop.
And the need weaves around us both—the craving for closer and deeper and more. To take and keep, ruin and wreck, forever and always.
My back arches from the bed when he glides his thick fullness inside me. It’s been so long, but there’s no pain—only the snug, pressing surge and the thrill of being filled and connected to him in every way.
My breasts tingle where they rub Tommy’s chest as he moves above me, over me, steadily stroking the swollen pleasure points within me. I lift my hips, rotating in that matching rhythm; I grasp at his back, holding him tenderly, and press my lips into his hair.
“I missed you,” I whisper, my voice reedy. “I missed you so much.”
Tommy straightens his arms, drawing my eyes to his, keeping the smooth pace of his pushing and retreating hips. And his face is filled with such affection—so much tender, sweet adoration—my vision goes blurry with tears.
Because no one has ever looked at me like that before. No one has ever made me feel all the things he makes me feel. My heart pounds and my breath races with the joy of it. Of being cherished and wanted—and I know he sees those same emotions reflected in my eyes.
The swells of Tommy’s arms tighten with exertion and his thrusts turn more demanding. I run my palms down his biceps—because they’re beautiful—he is beautiful like this. Lost in the moment, in the thunder of this passion.
I scrape his waist with my nails, making him groan, and the pure masculine sound makes my muscles contract, squeezing around him.
And I feel it building inside me, heavy and full and blindingly good.
“So good,” I pant, “so close . . .”
But I don’t have to tell him; he already knows. He feels it too.