The Evolution of Man

by Skye Warren

  It’s a trophy.

  “Why do you have that?”

  “It took some convincing to get the buyer to part with it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You take that crow bar to me, if that’s what you need to do. It’s my skin you wanted to break open, and God, you have every right to do that. I never should have closed myself to you.”

  I can’t hold onto the anger. It slips through my fingers, leaving only the grief. I would rather be fighting the wall, becoming bloody and hurt. I’d rather anything than this terrible emptiness. “This is another game. Another conquest. Another way to make me love you and then push me away. I won’t survive it, Christopher.”

  “You’ll survive anything,” he says, a little sadly. “Even the terrible way I love you.”

  My breath catches. I want to argue with him, but part of me always knew it. “I hate you. I hate you.” The words blur together, and then I’m crying. The words change. “I love you.”

  He leads me farther into the house, and I stop in front of a fireplace almost large enough to stand in. And above it there’s the Medusa I painted from the art show all those years ago.

  “I should have made you mine then, Harper. You were mine, even then.”

  He lowers his lips to mine, and I tilt my head up to meet him. I’m done fighting this, done destroying things, done making trophies for him to collect. And I know that he won’t push me away again, not because he’ll never retreat. Because I won’t let him. I’m not only a woman. I’m a she-devil. A siren. A mythical creature, except I’m the one who’s been made of stone. And he’s the man who turns me into flesh and blood.

  The wrecking ball slams into the building, the sound deafening.

  Dust rises around us, stinging my eyes. I’m not happy about the destruction. It feels a little like death, but sometimes you need to die so you can start over again. There’s a crowd behind us—our friends, Bea and Hugo. Avery and Gabriel.

  There’s a community behind us.

  Christopher squeezes my hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, though it’s less of a sound with the rumble still falling in front of us and a hard hat obscuring my hearing. It’s the only way he let me within two miles of the construction site today. It’s more the way his lips move.

  The whole thing is coming down, along with every hope I ever had for it, every wall I ever built around myself. Leaving room for something new. I nod to him, squeezing his hand back. “Because you’re with me.” He shouldn’t be able to hear me either, but there’s no mistaking the satisfaction in his onyx eyes. It’s the same as when I wake up beside him in bed. The same as when I spread my legs above his mouth. Because he didn’t only need to save me.

  He needed me to save him, too.

  I reach up on my tiptoes, and he obliged by bending down. Gentle, gentle, even though there’s a wildness inside me, I tug at the lobe of his ear with my teeth. “Diabolical,” I murmur, though he probably only feels a whisper of breath. “You wanted this all along.”

  And when he straightens, his eyes brim with the lazy pleasure of a man who’s recently come, his body sated, his mind at ease. “Yes,” he says, the word unmistakable.

  My heart snags on something close to the surface.

  Love, I think.

  Through the cloud of destruction, you can make out vivid colors peeking through. Dust settles in slow degrees, the way a sun would set, crouching low to the ground and then gone. In its wake we have a full view of Christopher’s luxury condo building, with its walls of glass along the ground floor and concrete above. A woman stands proud and unashamed of her breasts, her wings, her wild mane of hair. Lilith is a demon and a sex goddess—the heart of female defiance.

  She was the first woman created, even before Eve, made from the same dirt as Adam. Was she cast out of the garden for disobedience? Or did she leave in search of greener pastures?

  Is she a deviant pleasure-hungry whore?

  Or is she simply a woman who wants freedom?

  They are the same story, depending on who tells the tale.

  And in my story, she finds her own garden, in the glorious foliage and flowers surrounding her. Because Freida was telling the truth. Death is a natural part of life. And like the burning of a field, this library will give rise to new birth.

  There’s more light now, with the building gone, and we’ll need those rays of sun for the garden we’re going to plan here. I can already see trees and bushes and flowers—but the painting against the wall will remain as the cornerstone. The beginning. It’s my most ambitious work to date. And it wasn’t completely a secret. It took me three weeks to paint the plants that curl up from the glass wall and hang down from giant illusory trees. It took that long with elaborate, very safe scaffolding and rope around my waist and a crew to prime the wall and seal it after.

  It’s only Lilith who came at the end, working at night, with only Christopher beside me. My arms feel like jelly after working for twelve hours straight. There’s still paint smudged across my arms and shoved under my fingernails. Christopher doesn’t look much better—there’s specks of blue in his black hair from where I gripped it in a celebratory kiss, which turned into more, twenty feet above the ground on top of our large stable scaffold. There are faint lines under his eyes from being awake all night, but he looks live-wire and alert. Maybe watching for a threat since not everyone in the city is happy about the image of female empowerment painted on the building. Not everyone wants the west side to be restored. There are true demons that lurk these streets, but Lilith will help find them.

  I saved her eyes for last, because they had to watch over the park. And they had to look out over the west side of Tanglewood. It’s her domain, all of it. There will be a modern library worthy of Smith College. There will be a soup kitchen and a shelter so that young women have choices. That will be the practical side, the necessary side—and finally, the perfect use for my trust fund. I’ve always been a fan of grand gestures. Of symbolism.

  Of proving to the world that women don’t need to be meek to be beautiful—and that’s why Lilith will remain standing throughout all of it.

  I was wrong to think that we needed a structure to house her. She isn’t afraid of the elements. Sometimes you need the darkness to shine. And sometimes you need death to come fully alive. Sunlight beams across the paint, drying her eyes. She looks on with a knowledge hard-won and peace that comes from finally finding home.

  Thank you so much for reading THE EVOLUTION OF MAN!

  I hope you loved the duet! This was a personal and painful story to write because of what happens with Harper’s mother, but I’m so glad that I can share it with you. Harper’s book was the most requested after she first appeared in THE PAWN, and now her story is complete.

  If you’re wondering what happened to Sutton, I’m going to send out a FREE bonus epilogue about him. Sign up here: www.skyewarren.com/bonus

  You can read Hugo and Bea’s story right now! Find out what happens when a seductive and jaded male escort shows up at the penthouse of an innocent heiress… One-click ESCORT now!

  “Escort is stunningly sexy and staggeringly heartfelt–gorgeously written and saturated with pure, unadulterated desire. Five Mon Dieu stars!”

  – Sierra Simone, USA Today bestselling author

  And the USA Today bestselling virgin auction book THE PAWN with Gabriel and Avery in Tanglewood is FREE on all retailers! There’s one way to save our house, one thing I have left of value—my body… Download THE PAWN now!

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of Escort…

  The city looks beautiful at night, its rough edges kissed by moonlight, bright neon lights full of hope. My Bugatti slices through the darkness, smooths over cracked downtown streets. The leather is warm on the steering wheel, the gears smooth under my control. Every muscle in my body hums with anticipation, the certainty that I’m going to get laid tonight. It’s more than sex that gets me off. It’s the journey. Discovering what makes a woman work. What
holds her back and what lets her go.

  I pull into the valet driveway and toss my keys to Alejandro, who has three kids at home and another one on the way. “Take care of her,” I tell him, slipping a twenty into his palm.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says, giving the gleaming curves an admiring look.

  She’s gorgeous, this car. The first thing I purchased for myself once I was done scrabbling for scraps. Once I learned how to use my particular talents. Her form is both sleek and curvy, the kind of body that drives a man to his knees. But it’s not the way she looks that I love best. It’s the way she moves. The engine that has a mind of her own, sometimes sweet surrender, sometimes temperamental.

  I love her best when she gives me a challenge.

  L’Etoile is a luxury hotel with 24-karat gold chandeliers and white marble floors. A slice of European aesthetic in the center of Tanglewood’s urban sprawl. It’s garish and expensive, which suits me fine. It was founded in the ’40s by a woman who claimed to be French nobility. In reality, she was the madame of a lucrative brothel.

  That suits me fine, as well.

  The front counter is carved with ornate scrolls and baby angels. A woman stands behind them. Jessica, her name tag says. I give her a winning smile, and her brown eyes widen. “Good evening to you. Is there perhaps a message left for me? Hugo Bellmont.”

  Her expression becomes soft, vulnerable. I should be very tired of this expression, especially when it comes so easily, but my male pride is a simple creature. It does not mind making women swoon, again and again.

  “I… I can check for you.” She looks around for a moment, almost dazed. As if it’s never occurred to her that people might come to the desk for messages.

  “You have my gratitude.”

  After some fumbling, her cheeks deeply pink, she locates a stack of envelopes in one of the little cubbies. There is one with black script that I can recognize as my name from here. “Here you are.”

  I think about what would be required to undress her, to take off her clothes and what remains of her defenses. Very little, but we would both enjoy the journey. Alas, she isn’t my intended partner tonight.

  Inside the envelope is a hotel key card, which leads to the penthouse.

  I’ve been to a hundred penthouses inside the city. And several outside of it. Each one is its own brand of ridiculous luxury. That’s part of the heavy price tag, the ridiculousness. Bathtubs that could fit a baby elephant. Private infinity pools. A helipad complete with exclusive helicopter usage. You don’t spring for the penthouse unless you want to be wowed.

  Somehow, I’ve never been to the penthouse in L’Etoile.

  It’s always eluded me. And haunted me.

  It isn’t the amenities that interest me. A bed made of solid gold. Draperies spun from a rare Chinese silkworm. Whatever they are I’m sure they’re lovely, but it’s the person who rents them I want to meet. My chest feels tight with anticipation. A heavy beat through my veins, because this is more than a client. This is someone who might have access to the current owner of this hotel.

  I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but hopes aren’t under my control. They rise and rise, high enough that I have to turn my thoughts away from revenge. To something much more base. Sex.

  There’s a private elevator that leads only to the penthouse and the private rooftop gardens. It requires the key card to call it down. There are three buttons on the inside wood panel: L for lobby, P for penthouse, and R for the roof. There’s also the silhouette of a bell. I suppose that’s for if, in the space between the lobby and their suite, they decide they need champagne and strawberries delivered. I could call down for some. Or I could have brought some flowers. Props, you could say. Props to charm a lady, but I don’t need them. Don’t want them. I pride myself on making them feel like they’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, because for one night, they are.

  A soft chime signals my arrival. The doors slide open.

  I was prepared for any type of penthouse decor. Something lush and antique to match the lower floors. Something modern and sleek to appeal to the upscale traveler.

  What I’m looking at isn’t a penthouse at all. Not one I’ve ever seen.

  There’s a lumpy corduroy sofa in front of a gilded brick fireplace. A pile of old books about to topple over on a side table that probably came from Ikea. Through the room I can see floor-to-ceiling windows that would have been the focal point, but they’ve been covered by drapes. That alone would not be remarkable, except for the string of star-shaped plastic lights that traipse across them. It takes me a moment to realize that my mouth is open. Shocked. I’m shocked, which is pleasant enough considering it’s a novelty. How long has it been since something surprised me? And where is the object of that surprise? There is no woman to greet me. No seductress. No glamourous woman ready for the night of her life. God, what is that strange tightening in my chest? It feels like anticipation, deep and true, and it’s been a lifetime since I felt that.

  “Hello,” I call, stepping into the suite.

  There’s a thump from the bedroom. A woman pops her head around the corner, all frizzy hair and wild eyes and plump pink lips. She wears a black dress with a startling high neck, lace on top, the kind that a matron would wear—but her skin is perfectly smooth, her eyes wide. This is a young woman. Younger than myself, her clothes an anachronism. Her expression? Pure relief. “Oh thank God.”

  She sounds so sincere that I have visions of an orgasm emergency. A deficiency so intense she had to dial a twenty-four-hour line to have it fixed. There’s something undeniably hot about the idea of a woman in dire straits and me the only one who can help.

  “Hugo Bellmont,” I tell her, providing a small bow. “At your service.”

  And then I give her the smile. Not the megawatt one that I used downstairs. I give her the slow, suggestive one that lets her know every dirty thing that I’m thinking.

  It isn’t fake. It doesn’t need to be. Not with her whispery curls that I’d love to feel in my fist. Not with the pale freckles across her nose that I’d love to track all the way down her body.

  Her eyes are an interesting pale green. I want to look in them while I go down on her.

  Every single dirty thought is in the smallest smile.

  Except she disappears back into the bedroom. “In here!”

  How unusual. I’ve never met a woman as hurried about her sexual requirements. She sounds worried, almost frantic, and I haven’t even been here sixty seconds.

  I follow her, feeling for the first time in years out of my depth. It’s a nice feeling, a pleasant simmer in my veins. My steps feel lighter across the plush carpet.

  At the threshold I barely have time to register the strange furniture. It’s large and antique. Expensive but mismatched. As if they crammed an estate sale into one room.

  The young woman is bent over a large dresser, her ass perfectly plump. I could fill my hands with her. Could press my new erection against the crease. Except it isn’t a sexy pose.

  Instead she seems to be looking behind the dresser.

  “It’s okay,” she’s saying, breathless. “Come out, sweetie. You can do it.”

  Based on the sweet tone of her voice and the cat dish I spotted on the way inside, I already know what I’m going to see when I peek over the top of the dresser. Sure enough, there’s a fluffy cat with bright yellow eyes peering up at me.

  I don’t have much experience with cats. They were one level up from rodents where I grew up, useful for catching rats and underfoot in dark alleys.

  However, my experience with pussies of a different sort translates just fine, because I can see exactly what’s happened to the poor girl. She’s backed herself all the way into a corner, made her body so small she can’t possibly come out.

  No matter how nicely her owner coaxes her, it won’t work. It can’t possibly. Something like this isn’t solved with words; it’s solved with a confident, calming touch.

  I straighten enough to pul
l off my jacket. “If you’ll allow me.”

  The woman glances back at me, her eyes going wide as she sees my forearms where I’m rolling up my sleeves. “What are you going to do?”

  “I assume you wish me to retrieve the cat.”

  “Rescue her,” she corrects. “Because you have long arms.”

  I’ve had women compliment my length before, but usually they’re referring to a different body part. Nothing about this night is usual; maybe that’s why I like it so much. “Happy to be of service.”

  “She’s very nervous. She might scratch you.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” I give her a small smile, and this time I’m rewarded by a pinkening of her cheeks. “Now if you would move aside. I require room to work.”

  She scoots herself around me, careful not to touch, sucking in her breath as she passes by me. Is she afraid of me? I don’t think so. At least not the ordinary fear a woman might have of a man. Instead she seems wary, much like the cat that watches me from behind the dresser, nervous of the world and its unknowns, terrified of everything and nothing at all.

  With both hands braced on the side of the dresser, I use all my strength to lift it. As I suspected it’s an ancient piece, made back when they used solid wood for every beam and joint. It probably weighs a thousand pounds, which is why the woman didn’t move it first. I manage to move it two inches farther from the wall, which isn’t enough for a person to walk behind, but is enough for a cat. This one would probably wander out eventually, when she wants to eat, but I don’t think my client will relax until she does.

  So I return to the far end of the dresser, near the corner, and bend to look at the cat. She stares at me, her eyes almost glowing, unfathomable. “You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” I murmur.

  No response. She doesn’t even blink.