Condemned to Love: 

by Davis, Siobhan

  “Sierra. Are you still there?”

  Dion pulls me out of my head. “I’m here. I should let you get back to the guys.”

  “I freaked you out again, huh?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “It’s okay, babe. You don’t need to explain, and I’m sorry if I’m rushing you. I don’t mean to.”

  “I know you don’t, and let’s not stress about it. We can talk when you’re back.”

  “Our flight gets in late Sunday, but I could drop by Monday night after Rowan is asleep?”

  “I’ll cook a late dinner.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You know I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me, and I want to cook for you.”

  A door bangs in the background, and a hushed conversation ensues. I sip my glass of wine while I wait for Dion to speak. “Sorry, babe. We’re heading to another bar. I gotta go.”

  “Have fun. I’ll see you Monday.”

  Like the coward I am, I hang up before he can tell me he loves me.

  I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Some vital missing piece that has screwed up my internal wiring.

  Dion is perfectly sweet and romantic, and the sex is good. He loves me, and he loves Rowan, and I know if I made more of a commitment that a proposal would be forthcoming, yet the very thought makes me break out in hives.

  I haven’t told Dion I love him because I don’t have those feelings for him. I don’t know if I ever will. I like his company, and we have fun. Our relationship is nice. Easy-breezy. Comfortable. Borderline boring. But there is a certain predictability with boring that is reassuring.

  Yet is that enough reason to continue dating him? Am I settling? Or will every guy I meet always fall short compared to Ben. And how ridiculous is it to still fixate on a man who tossed me so easily to the curb?

  Ugh. I take a big slurp of my wine, wishing Dion was enough. I feel like I’m shortchanging him and cheating myself. Now that he is pushing to take things to the next level, I’m feeling like I should probably break things off before they get messy. The last thing I need is things getting complicated with Rowan’s teacher.

  Sighing, I pad into the dark living room with my wine in one hand and my cell in the other, planning a night with some Friends reruns. I’m in desperate need of a little light relief and Joey, Chandler, and crew are the perfect remedy.

  I’m moving toward the couch, in the direction of the large freestanding lamp, when a subtle motion in the corner of the room sends my blood pressure skyrocketing. Out of the corner of my eye, I detect a shape hiding in the shadows beside the fireplace.

  Holy fuck! Someone is in the house!

  Panic powers through my veins, and my heart jumps, pumping frenetically, to the point I fear I’ll have a heart attack if I can’t slow it down. Rooted to the spot, I silently talk myself off the ledge. If someone was in here, they would have made themselves known by now, and the alarm would have sounded. I’m probably just freaking myself out for no reason. Like in the woods earlier.

  With my heart jackhammering against my rib cage, I slowly turn around, ready to confront my torrid imagination, because I have convinced myself I’m just imagining things again.

  A blur rushes past me, and I open my mouth to scream when a hand clamps down hard over my lips. My cell phone and my wine slip through my fingers, crashing to the ground. Glass smashes on the hardwood floor, and liquid splashes my bare legs. Blood rushes to my head as my heart tries to beat a path out of my chest. Warm breath fans across my cheek as I’m hauled against a solid body. I can scarcely think over the screaming in my head and the frantic pounding in my chest.

  Rowan!

  That’s the first thought skating through my mind as the intruder wraps his muscular arm around my waist, lifting my legs and pulling me back from the broken glass and spilled wine on the floor. I don’t fight, even though my instinct is to buck and writhe in his arms, to bury my teeth in his arm until he releases me. But I can’t do it. I won’t struggle because I don’t want to risk Rowan waking and barreling into the middle of this.

  I will give this man whatever he wants—my car, money, me—as long as he leaves my son alone.

  The man’s lips brush against my earlobe, and every bone in my body locks up tight. “Hello, Firefly,” he says in a sexy voice that continuously torments my dreams.

  No freaking way! It’s Ben!

  I almost collapse in relief against him until I recall the last time I saw Bennett Mazzone and I remember the truth I have denied him. Ben’s flesh and blood is asleep only a few feet away, and if he’s here now, it means he knows.

  Somehow, Ben found out I gave birth to his son, and from the way his body radiates angry waves of aggression, I know I’m about to suffer the consequences of my silence.

  “You and I need to talk,” he says, his voice dripping with barely controlled rage. It’s more of a threat than a request, and an icy chill slithers up my spine.

  Oh fuck. I am royally screwed.

  18

  BEN

  Keeping a firm hold on Sierra’s slim waist, I lift her away from the broken glass on the floor, over to the other side of the living room. I’m working hard to control my temper so I don’t accidentally kill my little Firefly. It’s not easy though. I think I’ve gone through a whole gamut of conflicting emotions in the past few hours. Shock. Grief. Pride. Happiness. Relief. Remorse. Fear. Anger. With the latter being the overriding emotion this past hour as I’ve hidden inside her house—my son’s home—listening to everything.

  “Start talking,” I growl, invoking huge self-control as I gently place her feet down on the ground. Walking to the lamp, I turn it on, casting a faint light over the proceedings. Then I back her up against the wall, clenching and unclenching my hands as I glare at the woman who hid my child from me for over five years.

  The first thing I did while Alessandro tailed Saskia from the village was to call one of my tech guys and request a full background check on Rowan and Sierra. Within an hour, I had everything I needed to know, which only added to my rage. It was too easy to find them, and it’s a fucking miracle no one has discovered them or made the connection to me before now. If Saskia wasn’t so stuck up her own ass, she would have connected the dots today. Thank fuck, she was too busy ogling me to notice.

  Looking at the photos of my son in the electronic file Phillip sent me is like looking at a photo album of myself as a kid. The resemblance is that strong. Not that there are many photos of me as a kid. There actually weren’t that many of Rowan online either. I’m assuming that’s because Sierra didn’t want me stumbling across an image of him. But it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one photo.

  “Cat got your tongue again, Firefly?” I hiss, rotating my neck from side to side to loosen the tension sitting there.

  “How did you find out?” she asks, her tone betraying no trace of the fear plainly etched upon her face.

  “That doesn’t fucking matter,” I say, through gritted teeth. “What matters is you kept my son’s existence from me. That I missed his birth. Missed the first five years of his life,” I snap, losing the tenuous control on my emotions, which is most unlike me.

  I am always in control.

  It’s how I have run my life for the past fourteen years since my father upended it so completely. I have learned to shut my emotions off. To not care. And today is testing my whole belief system and challenging my entire way of living.

  “You left me no choice,” she says, and I see red.

  Advancing on her, I wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze. My nostrils flare, and fire charges through my veins, infusing my anger with self-righteous indignation. “There are always choices, and you made the wrong one.”

  Terror dances across her green eyes as she claws at my hand.

  “How fucking dare you deny me the opportunity to know my son. How dare you let your stupid fucking pride get in the way of what is right for an innocent child.” I know I was cold and cruel to her th
e morning after the night we spent together in Vegas, but that was necessary to ensure she walked away for good. If I had known it would stop her from telling me she was pregnant, I might have handled the situation differently.

  She raises her leg, to knee me in the balls I’m guessing, but I won’t give her the opportunity or the satisfaction. I lift her up by the neck, her legs thrashing against the wall as her skin turns a pale shade of gray. “You know I grew up without a dad.” Mom had only died a few months before I met Saskia, and I remember a painful conversation over dinner one time where Joseph Lawson grilled me clinically over her death and the absence of my father. Sierra was there, lapping up every word. “Did you ever stop to think this is the very last thing I would want for my son?”

  Pain slices across my chest as I consider my child lying in bed at night wondering why his father doesn’t care enough to know him. My fingers tighten around her neck, but then I let her go before I kill her in a blind rage.

  She slumps to the ground, sucking greedy mouthfuls of air into her lungs, working hard to quiet the strangled sounds coming from her throat, as silent tears spill down her cheeks.

  I crouch over her. “I could fucking kill you right now, Sierra, for depriving me of my rights. I have already missed out on so much of his life.” I sit back on my butt, crossing my legs in front of me as I hang my head, willing my errant breathing to steady.

  I hate feeling out of control.

  It’s unsettling.

  Her quiet sobs are the only sound in the room for a couple of minutes while I grapple with my anger. I didn’t come here to kill her. From watching her with my son today, it’s clear Rowan loves and adores Sierra.

  To hurt her is to hurt him.

  That’s not part of my agenda, and I need to remember that.

  I came for answers, and to start making things right.

  When I feel calmer, I lift my head, not shocked to find her bloodshot eyes shooting daggers at me. “Who the fuck do you think you are to break into my home and threaten me?” she says, her chest heaving. Her voice is hoarse and borderline hysterical. “I was right to keep him from you. You’re a fucking monster.”

  My lips pull into a snarl, and I invoke every ounce of self-control to avoid lunging at her again. “Choose your words carefully, Firefly. You have no idea who you are dealing with. I will not be spoken to like that.”

  “And I will not be abused in my own home!” she shrieks, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to the door.

  She is trying to stay quiet so she doesn’t wake Rowan. That helps to tamp down my anger a little. Listening to her with him earlier helped too. She’s such a good mother. Kind, fun, and loving. The exact opposite of the way Saskia was with Rowan earlier. She reminded me of how my mom was at one time before she fell prey to her addictions.

  However, any goodwill she engendered disappeared the instant I overheard her talking to that asshole boyfriend. Fuck buddy. Whoever he is to her. Anger returns and I pin her with a dark glare that has caused grown men to piss their pants.

  It doesn’t have the desired effect though. It only seems to enrage her further. If looks could kill, Sierra would have just buried me ten feet under with the force of her resentful glare. She tucks her legs into her chest, glowering at me like she wishes she could riddle my body with bullets.

  Where the hell does she get off being furious with me? I’m the one who has been wronged here. If I haven’t made that point clear enough, I’m about to. “You better not have had any other man around my son. I will fucking murder any asshole who thinks he’s taking my place.”

  Her face turns as white as a ghost, and she’s not looking so self-righteous now. Her eyes pop wide with renewed terror. “No one has taken your place,” she croaks. “I’m strict about keeping the men I’m dating away from Rowan.”

  A growl rumbles from my chest, and an unwelcome surge of jealousy floods my system as I think of her with anyone else besides me. It’s irrational, and it’s not like I haven’t considered this in the years since Vegas. Sierra is stunning and free-spirited, and she can’t help but draw people to her. I knew she must be dating. When I really wanted to torture myself, I imagined she was married. So, this isn’t news. But it’s completely different now I know she has had my son this entire time. A fresh layer of murderous rage sweeps through me at the thought of any man even coming into proximity with my flesh and blood.

  “What about the asshole on the phone?” I bark.

  Her eyes narrow as anger, once again, replaces fear. “Rowan doesn’t know I’m dating Dion.”

  Dion. An asshole’s name if I ever heard one. “But Mr. Stewart knows Rowan. From what I hear, he’s his favorite pupil. I wonder why that is.” It’s ironic the douche is in New York this weekend while I am here. I could send one of my men to relay a message, but I’d much rather deliver it in person. I think I’ll organize a nice little welcoming party for Mr. Stewart on Sunday night at the airport.

  Her face pales again. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job to know everything, and it didn’t take long to dissect every aspect of your lives here.”

  She shivers, and her lower lip wobbles. “Rowan loves his teacher, and Dion is a great guy,” she whispers. “Don’t do anything to hurt him.”

  I’m surprised she has gone straight there. Then again, she was around Salerno and his men in Vegas, and she would have noticed my soldati carrying weapons. It wouldn’t take much for her to piece things together. I doubt she knows exactly who we are, but she knows enough to understand we are dangerous. That I’m dangerous.

  Good. That should make this easier.

  “That all depends on you.” I expect her to ask how, but she surprises me again.

  She clears her raspy throat. “I never planned to keep my pregnancy a secret. I wanted to tell you. I even flew to New York to see you in person.”

  If I wasn’t already sitting down, that statement would’ve flattened me on my ass. I examine her face for lies, but she is telling the truth. “When?” I grit out.

  Her tongue darts out, wetting her dry lips, and I try not to think about how good it felt to have her tongue slide up and down my cock. My dick swells behind my zipper, but I ignore it. While angry fucking her has a certain appeal, I never force myself on women, and there is no way Sierra will let me touch her after I broke into her house, scared the shit out of her, and almost choked the life from her body.

  “It was the January after Vegas, the first week of spring semester,” she explains, coughing a little. She lifts a hand to massage her throat, and a small pang of guilt accosts me.

  Wordlessly, I get up and walk to the kitchen, grabbing a couple waters from the refrigerator. She hasn’t moved when I return. She’s just sitting, staring off into space, lost in thought.

  I sit down on the floor in front of her again, handing her a bottle. Sitting cross-legged, she stretches her arm toward me. Her fingers brush against mine as she takes the bottle from me, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. She jerks her arm away, her expression a mix of lust and hate—a lethal combination that only swells my cock to the point of pain. I blatantly rake my gaze over her sexy body as she drinks, noticing she has filled out more.

  Her thin pajamas conceal little, and she may as well be naked. She’s not as slender as she was when I saw her in Vegas, but she is still slim with curves in all the right places. Her legs look endlessly long and smooth, and my fingers twitch with a craving to explore every inch of her silky skin. I lift my eyes, spotting her nipples poking through the flimsy material of her tank. Her tits are definitely bigger, but unlike her sister’s, they are clearly not fake. I imagine tearing her top from her body and sucking her neat rosy nipples into my warm mouth while she strokes my cock.

  “Do you mind?” she hisses, pinning me with a hateful look as I’m dragged from the pleasant visual in my head.

  I smirk as I uncap the lid from my bottle. “I don’t mind at all.” On purpose, I let my eyes linger
on her chest and adjust myself in my pants, making sure she sees.

  Her eyes lower to my crotch for a couple of seconds before she collects herself. Scowling, she rubs a spot between her brows. “Do you want me to explain or not?” she snaps, eyeballing me.

  I wave my hand dismissively in the air, knowing it will infuriate her. “Continue.”

  Her nostrils flare, and her eyes scrunch up, and I’d love to kiss that defiance off her beautiful face. But we are a long way from that point. I’m still mad at her, and she’s spitting blood.

  “I went to the Caltimore Holdings office, but you were leaving as I got there, so I hopped in a taxi and followed you to some seedy club in Queens, a couple blocks from the Hudson.”

  I know the place she’s talking about. I sold it and the rest of the old strip joints four years ago because they didn’t fit into my new business model. Now, I own a string of high-end casinos and clubs—some regular clubs, some sex clubs—catering to an exclusive VIP clientele who have big pockets, big desires, and an even bigger need to keep their activities on the down low. But that is only one small part of my business empire. An empire that has doubled in value in the past six years, largely due to my ambition and my meticulous execution. I run a very tight ship, and I have considered every possible angle.

  Except for a child.

  “And?” I arch a brow, urging her to continue while I drain my water in a few mouthfuls.

  She rubs a hand across her chest as potent fear returns to haunt her troubled eyes.

  I tilt my head to the side, curious now.

  She stares at me. “I saw you torture a man,” she blurts, and all the blood drains from my face. I nod for her to continue. “It was in the basement. He was Russian. Sergei. You ripped his fingers off one at a time, and then you slashed him with a knife.” Her voice lowers to a shaky whisper. “His insides were hanging out.” She gulps, pausing for a second as if she might puke. “It was the most shocking thing I have ever seen.” When she raises her eyes, they radiate with sheer terror. “I barely remember getting out of there. I was that scared.”