by JA Wren
“Maybe they need sharpening,” she mumbled as she tossed them back into the drawer and reached for a steak knife.
“I told you,” Mr. One-Nighter said. “Only one way to get this off and it’s definitely not with a blade.”
The steak knife did even less, so she abandoned it on the counter before she sliced her wrist open, then surveyed her options. He said a blade wouldn’t do it, so maybe a flame?
She lit a nearby candle, then held the extra length of string between their bound wrists to the fire. It flickered like a sparkler and a surge of hope thrummed through her. The glowing intensified, but when she pulled on the string, it was perfectly intact.
No black scorch marks.
Nothing.
Her phone alarm screeched again. She didn’t have time for this.
“Clothes,” she announced, because even if he had to tag along she was not missing that meeting. She spun towards her closet, but the damn binding prevented her from going more than a couple of steps, their arms stretched between them. “A little help?”
He smirked, that almost-dimple making another appearance. In a swift move, he slipped one arm behind her back—careful with their bound wrists—and the other under her knees, easily lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to her room.
Not the kind of help she was asking for, but she wasn’t about to complain. Not when it felt so good to be pressed up against him, close enough to get a hint of his amazing scent.
Like sunshine baking on fresh linen.
Warm cotton.
And just a hint of something darker.
Leather and—
The sheet dislodged and she awkwardly tried to shield herself with one arm, not that it did much good. Or that it was really necessary. He’d obviously had multiple chances to see every inch of her by now. Still. Modesty and all.
He set her down on the edge of her bed and knelt on the floor in front of her. “My name’s Asher, by the way.”
“Asher,” she repeated on impulse. A sense of déjà vu whispered through her mind, reaching at the far edges for something lost or forgotten. Pulling at it like a brush through thick oil paint.
Images flashed before her eyes. Like the flicker of a dying star. There one second and then gone. Another time. Another world. Yet it was so similar to their current setting. Mr. One-Nighter—Asher—on his knees. Their bed. A burst of pure joy exploding in her chest, like she was full to bursting with happiness and might erupt at any minute.
She shook her head, dislodging the images, but the overwhelming pressure lingered. She rubbed at her sternum to dislodge it, but it remained.
Asher frowned as he gathered clothes she hadn’t noticed from the floor around them. She tried not to stare as he stood and slipped into black boxer briefs before considering the white tee.
With a low grunt, he tore at one sleeve of the tank, then shimmied into it, legs-first because it was the only way possible with their hands bound. The tee covered the washboard six-pack she had not been ogling.
Really. That would’ve been inappropriate.
Fine. She was totally staring. But who wouldn’t?
Any other situation, Rayna might have found the shimmy-action of a six-foot-something muscular man funny. But she was too busy appreciating the tensing of his abs just above the deep V between his hips. The thick veins traveling down with delicious promises.
And the trail of dark hair leading from his navel into his boxers.
Next came dark-wash jeans that hung low on his hips, then he sat on the floor to put on socks and a pair of black boots.
All while her arm followed like a shadow.
When he was dressed, one torn sleeve dangling off his shoulder and across his chest, he met her gaze. “Your turn, love.”
Again with the endearment.
Not exactly unpleasant, but weird given they’d only known each other for a few hours. Was he going to turn into a love-sick puppy? Obsessed with the first woman he’d ever had sex with?
Before she could freak out over the possibilities, he urged her to her closet where she rummaged for underwear. Dressing with one hand attached to a hot stranger was about the most awkward thing she’d ever done.
Thank God she had a strapless bra that went with the glittering cocktail dress Kally had convinced her to buy a year ago, but no way could she risk wearing the matching dress. The thing cost far too much and was not at all appropriate for a special-invitation interview.
Which reminded her she needed to move her butt and get to that meeting. She groaned, staring at the options while the seconds ticked by, Asher growing impatient—if the incessant tapping of his boot was any indication.
“Here,” he finally said, reaching for a short white sundress. He tore at the thin spaghetti straps, ignoring her squeak, and quickly ushered her into it—feet-first like he had with his tee—then tied knots at her shoulders to keep it in place. “Shoes.”
A little dazed, but grateful to be clothed, she slipped into a pair of black over-the-knee socks so she didn’t freeze, followed by her trusty wine-red ankle boots that matched her hair.
Last, she added a dangly necklace with a raw crystal pendant Kally had given her for her sixteenth birthday four years ago.
God, she hoped it was classy enough for the mystery meeting.
She was running out of time, which meant the fastest teeth-brushing in history, a quick comb through her wild, waist-length hair, and zero chance of make-up.
All with Asher watching her every movement with extreme intensity.
Like she was a damn goddess or something.
Sure, a girl liked to feel special, but this might be taking things a little too far.
Asher grabbed a leather jacket from the floor and draped it over their bound wrists with a smile. Rayna rolled her eyes as she tied a black cardigan around her hips in case they finally removed the string.
As they passed the kitchen, she grabbed a granola bar, not nearly enough to sustain her, but better than nothing. Not like she had time to whip up an omelet or pancakes. She inhaled the thing in three bites, then grabbed two more and offered one to Asher, while biting into her second.
She eyed the coffee machine, wishing she could brew a quick cup and seriously contemplating swallowing a scoop of grounds. Settling for a handful of chocolate covered coffee beans, the last of her stash, she popped them in her mouth and crunched away, relishing the sugar and caffeine hit.
They were headed for the door when she jerked back around. “Wait. I need my invitation.”
“Invitation?
She rummaged in her mail, produced the black envelope with silver embossed script, and held it up. He snatched it from her and opened it before she could take it back. “Hey, that’s private. You know, it’s a federal offense to read someone else’s mail.”
He scanned the card, but she didn’t need to see it to know what it said. She’d read it at least twenty times in the last week, convincing herself it was real. That she hadn’t imagined what they were offering. Not every day a girl got an invitation like that.
Okay, so she’d never heard of this place—Labyrinth Academy—but no way was she turning down an opportunity to find out why these weird incidents kept happening to her. Or the possibility of a college degree.
“Nyx,” he mumbled. “Should have guessed.”
“What? Do you know this person?”
His beautiful face tightened. “Come on, I’ll make sure you get there in time.” Not giving her a chance to respond, Asher led her through the apartment building, ignoring her creepy-ass neighbor and the yappity dog, down the stairs and out the front door. A pleased sound vibrated from him as they hit the pavement. “Well, at least she didn’t leave us stranded.”
“She?” Rayna asked, frowning while she fidgeted with his jacket over their hands.
“Later.”
He took off at a speed that made it hard for her to keep up with his massive steps compared to her much shorter ones. This was why Kally had a rule abou
t not dating guys more than a few inches taller than her. Easier to do when you were close to insanely tall yourself.
Rayna barely made it to five-two. In heels.
Asher stopped at a black motorcycle, but she was already backing away from the monstrous machine.
“No way.” She held up her hand and shook her head. “Nope. Hard pass. Not happening.”
He gave her a patient look. “We don’t have time.” He pegged her with soft, pleading eyes. “Trust me?”
Four
Rayna had lost her mind.
It was the only plausible reason she allowed him to help her straddle the huge motorcycle. Her bare thighs strained as she settled into position behind him and tried to tuck her dress into place so she didn’t flash everyone on the street.
God, what was she thinking?
Asher leaned forward, taking her bound hand with him. “Grab onto me and hold on as tight as you can.”
“This is so not safe,” she moaned even as she slid her free arm around his waist, gripping his shirt like her life depended on it.
Shit.
It did depend on it.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” His body heated, muscles coiled tight, somehow making her feel safe. Helmetless. Seated on a deathtrap. With a stranger. “And I’ll never let anything hurt you ever again.”
She had no clue what he was talking about, but she dug her nails into his skin where her arm was forced to stretch across his as the bike roared to life. It vibrated through her legs and up into her body.
Asher’s words stirred something inside her she couldn’t name. But she didn’t have time to examine it as he took off. She squeezed her eyes shut and held onto him even tighter.
She was going to fall.
Tossed from the speeding bike and dragged across the road as he continued to speed along, thanks to their bound wrists.
They really needed to get free of the damn glowy string.
Asher gunned the engine, breezing through the bustling streets of Manhattan with skill she appreciated. Even as she tried not to think too hard about what she was doing. She gripped him tighter, nails gouging into his forearm when he flew around a corner.
Too fast.
But instead of slowing, he seemed to push the bike up another level. She squeezed him closer, until his heart thrummed against the arm she had wrapped around him. Until there wasn’t a breath of space between their bodies.
She closed her eyes and focused solely on him. On the warmth radiating through him and into her. Letting it ground her so she didn’t think about the wind whipping her hair in every direction.
When he finally came to a stop and parked the bike, Rayna was shaking so hard she could barely keep herself upright on the metal beast. Asher reached out, but she sidestepped him, climbing off the bike with a curse when she couldn’t go further than a couple steps.
“You okay?” he asked, voice gone all low and husky.
“Yeah, sure. I just rode on the back of a Harley without a helmet, going God-knows-what an hour. Holy shit I’ve lost my damn mind.”
“It’s a Ducati.”
She glared, then turned to take in their surroundings. “Where are we?” She’d lived in Manhattan most of her life, had seen a great deal of the city, but nothing looked familiar.
“The location on your invitation,” he said. “Red Hook Grain Terminal.”
Well, that explained the rundown factory covered in graffiti and rust marks everywhere. But it also looked like the sort of place where unsuspecting people got butchered and thrown in the river. “Maybe we should leave.”
“You’re safe with me, promise.”
Her nerves instantly settled even if her mind told her she shouldn’t be soothed by him. For all she knew, he was a serial killer taking her to his dumpsite. And yet she didn’t resist as they stepped up to a huge wooden door that looked like it had come from medieval times. Or the set of a gothic movie.
Totally out of place with the metal structure surrounding it.
An oasis in the middle of the desert.
Asher gestured to the intricately carved door with an outstretched hand. “After you.”
She rolled her eyes at him but banged her clenched fist against the door, the resounding thumps echoing through her chest as they bounced off the steel walls.
The door creaked as it slowly opened, revealing the biggest man she’d ever seen. At least twice Asher’s height and build. The giant looked between them before leveling his dark gaze on Asher. He said nothing, just lifted his thick, bushy brows so they wrinkled his forehead and a good portion of his balding head.
Asher pulled the black envelope from his back pocket and handed it to the big guy. “We have an invitation.”
Rayna snatched it before the giant at the door took it. “Technically, I have an invitation. He’s just—kind of stuck to me.” She wiggled the envelope, then held it out to the doorman, which drew his attention to the thread tying her to Asher.
“Hm,” he grunted, too-big fingers struggling to work the envelope open, but he finally pulled the card free.
Free. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Giant-man squinted at the silver script and his grumbly expression was replaced by the sweetest smile. “Nyx. It has been a long time since she sent us a candidate.”
Candidate? What exactly was Rayna getting into here? She was just desperate enough not to question things. Too much. Or at least not aloud.
Asher cleared his throat. When the big guy looked over at him, he shook his head. “Easy with the details, buddy. Rayna’s a little—fuzzy.”
Was he referring to her drunken night? Or—
“Ah, yes. That’s not uncommon. We see all sorts with varying knowledge of what or who they are.” The giant replaced the card in the envelope and handed it back to Rayna.
The moment she took it, the paper caught alight and she yelped, dropping it. Before it even hit the pavement, the card burned up in a quick puff and disappeared. “What—?”
“Come along,” the giant said, like it was normal for envelopes to spontaneously self-combust. “We shall begin your trial. Usually, only one is permitted inside at a time, but we’ll make a concession for your unique—predicament.”
“My what-now?”
“There will be time for questions later.” He waved his hand through the air, far more graceful than she would’ve expected with his huge frame. “As you were sent by Nyx, I suspect this will be a mere formality, but I’m afraid it is a necessary step, and you will not be granted entry without completing all three of the trials. Only then will your questions be answered. Of that, I assure you.”
She still had no clue what these trials entailed, but with the promise of answers, she followed when he stepped back from the doorway. A yawning pit of darkness opened ahead of them and a little voice in the back of her head warned this might be a trap, that she shouldn’t be walking into a strange building.
With two strangers.
And yet in she went. She needed to know what was going on with her, and right now, this was the only way she knew how to get an explanation. Even if that meant participating in whatever trials they had planned.
The door slammed shut behind them and the blackness became all-consuming, not even a speck of light, no hint that anything existed beyond her pounding heartbeat echoing in her throat. Rayna swallowed hard, tingles breaking out on the back of her neck.
But then a hand gripped hers, warmth engulfing her palm like a soothing balm. “Asher?”
“Here.”
She shouldn’t be comforted by that, but she was. “And our host?” she asked, wondering where giant guy had gone.
No answer.
Asher stepped closer, saying softly near her ear, “I think his job’s done and we’re on our own.”
“How can his job be done? We’re standing here in utter darkness with no idea where to go or what to do. I was promised answers and now all I have are more questions.”
Strangely, the darkness didn�
��t cause her fear or anxiety. She felt almost at home surrounded by inky blackness.
A scratchy click reverberated off invisible walls, right before a small flicker of light emerged. She turned, squinting at the harsh flame until she swore Asher held an old-school torch you’d see in an adventure movie.
“Where’d you get that?” she asked.
“Found it.” The two words were clipped, like he’d blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Look.”
“Nice deflection,” she mumbled even as she turned.
Up ahead, a glowing white orb grew brighter and brighter while two mirrored crescent shapes fanned out on either side of it, like a set of three moon phases in the middle of the night sky.
Same as the insignia on the envelope and invitation.
A moth to a flame, Rayna stepped closer, Asher glued to her side until they stood before a dimly lit stone table—altar?
Red candles ignited everywhere, seemingly by themselves. Wax dripped down each of them in long, thick trails and pooled at their bases or dribbled off the table top like fresh blood. Their ambient yellow-glow joined the white moons, warming the cool atmosphere.
Three cloaked figures approached the table, appearing from out of nowhere. Probably standing in the shadows like a real creeper on the streets of New York. The world never lacked for disturbed assholes, but she hoped these wouldn’t try to grab her valuables, attack her, and run off.
She almost snorted at her wandering thoughts.
Focus. You need answers. Pretend the weird trio doesn’t look like the Grim Reaper cloned himself.
If she saw a scythe anywhere, she was beating her ass out of there. Answers be damned.
“Welcome to the Crimson Rites,” a raspy, sort of feminine voice croaked, presumably the figure standing in the middle. “This will be your preliminary test before you may proceed to the trials.”
One gnarly, overly white hand stretched out from the black cloak in the center—Full-Moon, she nicknamed the unknown figure, since she stood beneath the white orb. When Rayna didn’t budge, a tired sigh and a ghostly puff of steam billowed from under the hood. “Hand.”