But then, there had never been anyone like Molly before.
Chapter Three
A couple of days had passed since Molly last tried to write. The impetus to create was apparently lost, but the reason wasn’t unknown to her. The reason was Connor. Before she had encountered him on that fateful day in London, her words had flown from her head faster than her fingertips could keep up. She had met deadlines with ease, conjuring new plotlines and characters on an almost weekly basis. Things had been good then, simple, but of course, Molly hadn’t known it. It took the events of one dank, London street to play out, and the unfolding story between her and her captor, for her to appreciate the contrast.
When she’d been under his control, everything was different. She’d had no free will about her writing then, and she’d written on demand whenever he ordered it. Connor had even taken away her privileges to write when he was pissed with her, and in many ways that hurt more than his paddle or his damn cage. Writing had been her outlet, her oxygen, and Connor took that away and changed it; dirtying it in that way that he did. That way which had always made him so hard and Molly so wet. She sighed at the memory, blinking up into the darkness of her old bedroom. She recalled not only the times he had prohibited her from writing, but also the times he commanded it. Chained to that little chair, she had written for him on countless occasions, penning their tale as though her life depended on it. And when those words had come, they couldn’t stop. She had bled for that man, giving him more than just her body. She had given him a little piece of her soul, too, because that’s what her words represented, and with that effort, she had begun to give him something even more precious than that.
The days in the run-up to his arrest had been different, and Molly recalled them with striking clarity. Connor was less the monster then and more the man, and for the first time, he’d started to open up, taking the time to tell her how he felt. And then there was the bombshell he’d dropped just the day before he’d been caught. The truth about Lydia. This man who had denigrated Molly, and turned her whole world upside down, had admitted that he’d killed his old girlfriend, strangling her with his own bare hands no less. Molly had seen those hands, she’d watched the way they bound ropes, the ease with which they took down a group of men on the street in London, and she’d felt both their harsh slaps and their gentle caresses against her skin. She knew them, or she thought she had known them, but she never foresaw their greatest sin. He had murdered Lydia, a woman she had never even met, but one who had catered to his tastes before her, and somehow, Connor had gotten away with it.
None of it made sense to Molly, not even now that she was thousands of miles away, but worst of all was the deceit that she carried in the pit of her belly. It burned away inside of her, like a living thing scratching around to be free. And it was alive; her guilt was real. Molly had been interviewed by the police for hours about her abduction. She’d been asked hundreds of questions about Connor, about the place he’d held her and about his old lover Lydia, and in all that time, she had never revealed his secret. If she had breathed even one word of his confession to the police, she was sure they’d have had enough evidence to put him away for life, but she never did. Even now, no one else knew the admission he’d made to her that day in his bedroom, and she suspected nobody ever would.
Why had she not spoken up? Why protect the man who had held her captive? A man who was now in hiding from the law, and could very well be watching her all over again.
Molly shuddered as the questions washed over her. She knew very well what the answer was, but the truth wasn’t pretty, and it didn’t make her sorrowful reality any brighter. Molly had started to fall for the guy. She had feelings for him, and she knew how messed up that made her. Stockholm Syndrome was what Mrs. Rosen had called it when Molly had hinted at her affection for Connor, and just the term had been enough to make her change the subject. Is that what this really was, she wondered? A deep-rooted psychological attachment to the dangerous man who had caught and trapped her? She didn’t have an answer for that question, but the heaviness of the guilt about Lydia was a burden she didn’t think she could ever cast off. Rather than feel shame on the subject, Molly only felt weary, a weighty exhaustion that no amount of sleep could ever replenish. Not that she could ever sleep anymore.
She rolled onto her right side, blinking at the red numbers on the digital clock. It was 3:24 in the morning, and for the tenth consecutive night since she arrived at her parents’ home, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, Connor was there. She could smell the scent of his breath and sense his looming figure in the corner of the room, but of course, that was absurd. He wasn’t there. Fuck knows where he was now, but he sure as hell wasn’t in the swamps of Louisiana.
For the thousandth time, Molly’s mind darted back to the final time she had seen him in court. Less than half an hour later he would be broken out of the security van transporting him from court back to prison by God knew who. Had he known then that it would be his last time in the courtroom? The last time he would ever lay eyes on her? She wasn’t sure, but she wished she’d have been given a head’s up. If she had known, she’d have taken the time to really look at his face, and take in the fine form of his ass as it swaggered past her to his seat.
“Fuck!” She spat the word out into the darkness as though it was a weapon. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
It was an odd thing to say when the answer was so very obvious, but Molly couldn’t control the waves of frustration which seemed to reverberate from her. She was so down, and so tired, and so exasperated. It was like living on a treadmill, lurching from one basic routine to the next, and she hated it. She hated what she’d become. She hated what little life she had now that she had found her so-called freedom.
“Some fucking freedom,” she muttered darkly as she switched on her bedside light.
She had to get past this. She had to start writing again, and she had to get back to Pennsylvania. Back to a resemblance of a normal life. Back to Hannah, back to her author friends, anything which could offer her focus instead of the daily haunting. But as she grabbed her laptop from the counter, her mind was already in overdrive. Even if she could find her muse again, she didn’t know if it would be enough to exorcise the ghost of Connor. Molly had the feeling he would be a shadow she could never shake off.
Chapter Four
He’d been summoned to Morrison’s office. The idea that a man like Connor could be summoned anywhere made his fists clench and his jaw tighten, but there it was. For the time being at least, he existed only in this world, and The Syndicate was run by Saul Morrison.
Stalking into the elevator, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored cubicle. On the surface he looked good. Back in the obligatory expensive suit, his body looked fine, and his hair and skin had benefitted from the treatments the in-house spa had given him, but beneath the surface was another story. He pressed the button for Morrison’s office. The London division was housed in one of the swankiest tower blocks in the city, and Morrison’s nest was right at the top. As the doors slid closed, Connor blinked at his reflection. Dark green eyes stared back at him. He looked tired, despite the fact he’d been getting more sleep here than he’d got for months in prison. But no amount of sleep could compensate for the loss he felt without his little kitten.
Molly.
Once upon a time it had been Lydia who had plagued him, but it was Molly who haunted him now. Fuck, Connor thought as he recalled the night he’d seen Lydia’s ghost at the house before his whole plan went to shit. He must have been losing his fucking mind that day, and yet somehow, it hadn’t seemed to matter then. Nothing had mattered when Molly was there. Her presence had soothed him. Chaining and degrading her had centered him, and claiming her had been the greatest high of his life. Even when the chains had become less important, at the end, she was still magnificent, her presence essential somehow to his well-being. That little pet had become the focus of his entire world, and fuck, how he
missed her. That’s how it was meant to be. They were meant to be together, and every moment without Molly was painful in a way it was almost impossible for him to describe. Connor had never experienced loss like it. He’d been young when his parents had died, and he’d used women and alcohol to dull out the loss as the years passed. When he’d snubbed out Lydia’s fire, he’d barely registered any emotions at all. It meant he was completely ill-equipped to manage feelings like this. Especially in a place like The Syndicate.
The sound of the elevator drew his attention to the doors, which slid open behind him. Turning, Connor paced down the luxurious corridor. The whole place was wood-paneled, with dark scarlet carpet underfoot. On the walls hung large works of art. Connor had no doubt that they cost a fortune, but as his gaze scanned over their brush strokes, he was devoid of any sentiment. Art meant nothing to him. He just saw paint on canvas. Nothing beautiful, nothing special, and certainly nothing worth paying huge sums for.
“Mr. Reilly?”
Hilary sat at the desk outside Morrison’s office, long slender legs crossed to reveal her shapely thighs. She was just as he recalled her, and he did recall. Connor remembered the time he had fucked her right over that desk after hours. He recollected how loud she had screamed until he had shoved her silk blouse between her teeth.
“Hilary,” he purred, striding around the desk to reach for her left hand.
The blonde smiled sweetly, permitting him to graze her knuckles with his lips. “Mr. Morrison is expecting you,” she told him as she met his eye. “You can go straight in.”
Connor nodded, releasing his hold on her palm and straightening his lapels as he closed the distance to where the door to Morrison’s office stood waiting. He inhaled as he approached, raising his fist to tap lightly against the oak. Not waiting for a response, he twisted the golden handle, and pushed the door open.
“Reilly, about bloody time.”
Morrison’s voice greeted him in the normal, curt way, and Connor bit back on the cursory reply which formed on his lips.
“Morrison,” he replied, closing the door behind him before he turned to face the older man. “I heard you wanted to see me.”
“You heard right,” came the snarky reply. “Nearly three bloody weeks you’ve been here. Living under my roof, eating at my table, fucking my women, and you don’t even take the time to come and see me.”
Christ, thought Connor as he approached the oversized glass desk which dominated the room. Morrison has clearly been practicing this speech.
“I knew you’d call for me when the time was right,” he countered, “and you know how much I love your hospitality.”
Connor smirked at his last comment, glancing to Morrison’s unimpressed expression.
“Cut the crap.”
The older man’s voice sunk into a low hiss, but Connor didn’t even flinch. Morrison might be in charge, but frankly, he didn’t give a shit. Connor had given more than his fair share to The Syndicate over the years. As far as Connor was concerned, they could mop up his mess and still thank him.
“It’s cut,” he snapped back. “What’s on your mind, Saul?”
Morrison’s eyes widened at the sound of his name, the gesture sending adrenaline rushing through Connor’s body. He felt more alive now than he had for months. If Morrison wanted a fight, then he was ready for one.
“Sit down, Connor,” Morrison sighed as he gestured in the direction of the chair nearest his guest.
It was against his better judgment. Connor preferred to be on his feet, to be ready, but obviously Morrison had something he wanted to get off his chest. Connor edged toward the leather seat slowly, his gaze landing back on the man at the other side of the glass as soon as his backside hit the chair. There was silence for a moment as they both sized up the other. Connor took in the rugged face of the man in charge of this whole enterprise, the closest thing he’d ever really had for a father in his adult life, and for the first time, he realized something. Morrison wasn’t really that much older than him.
“How are you?”
The question came out of the blue, considering the near palpable tension between the two men. How am I? Connor’s mind raced at the insanity of the question. He calls me here after all this time to check on how I am?
“Superb,” he answered dryly. “Thank you for asking.”
Saul Morrison smirked at him from across the expanse of glass. His dark hair might be graying, but those blue eyes were just as playful as Connor recalled. “Same old fucking Connor,” he snorted. “Always got an answer. Until of course, you land your arse back in Her Majesty’s custody.”
Connor exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath until that moment. “So, that’s what this is about.”
“That and then some,” came the response at once. “Do you realize how much hassle it was bribing all those people to bust you out?”
Connor rolled his eyes. “It took you fucking long enough,” he sniped. “I sat rotting in that cell for months, Saul.”
The older man shook his head, but he was still smiling when he replied. “You ungrateful sod. You knew we were on it. I got plenty of messages to you.”
That much at least was true. The Syndicate had moles in every prison, and word had reached Connor about the plan. He just hadn’t expected it to take so long to enact.
“Yeah well, thank you for that,” he murmured at length.
It was about as contrite as he ever got.
Morrison drew back in his chair, the full weight of his stare on Connor as he appraised him. “You’re one of us,” he concluded. “If you’re in this club, then you’re in it for life. You know that. You bleed for us; we bleed for you.”
Connor nodded. He knew the mantra, having memorized it a long time ago. “We’ve all bled.”
“Yes,” said Morrison, and something about his tone made Connor’s eyes widen. “We have, Connor, but some of us have bled more than others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Morrison’s face was calm. “It means this isn’t the first little scrape The Syndicate has had to get you out of, is it, Connor? Wasn’t there the issue of a corpse just a few years ago? I’m pretty sure we took care of that situation, too.”
Connor faltered for a moment, the image of Lydia appearing in his mind’s eye at Morrison’s words. “It’s been a shit couple of years,” he agreed. “And I know you’ve been there for me, Saul, but remember, I gave first blood for you.”
Connor met Saul’s hard, blue stare with his own intense gaze. Both men knew what he was referring to. There should be no need to elaborate.
“Yes, you did,” nodded Morrison in a low tone. “You know I won’t forget that, brother. I always reward loyalty.”
“I know.” Connor’s retort was immediate, and he hesitated, almost uncertain how to proceed for a moment. “You’ve been good to me, Saul. I know that, and I’m grateful. You cut me loose after Jenna. You let me set up on my own.”
Morrison’s face blanched a little at the sound of Jenna’s name, and the fact was not lost on Connor.
“You deserved it,” he told Connor. “I just wasn’t expecting so many fuck-up’s after that.”
Connor swallowed down the insult. He knew he had to take it for the time being, but he didn’t like it. Still, the urge to fight Morrison was waning, and in its place was a genuine curiosity. If he hadn’t called him here to try and dress him down, then what was this about?
“Things didn’t go as I planned,” he began, considering just how honest he should be with the man who’d probably known him longer than anyone else. Apart from Dalton, of course. “Not the corpse thing. I mean, I didn’t plan that, but you know, shit happens?”
“Yeah,” agreed Morrison in a sincere tone. “It does. So, tell me, what didn’t go as planned? This abduction thing? What the fuck was that, Connor?”
Connor lifted his chin at the barrage of questions. It was the first time he’d really had to explain his thoughts on Molly, and it was per
turbing. “It was my pet project,” he replied with a small smile at his own intentional pun.
“So I heard,” exclaimed Morrison, arching his brow at Connor from the other side of the desk. “I didn’t realize how into that shit you were until I read some of the sordid court transcripts.”
“The court knew nothing about it.”
The words were out of his mouth before Connor could stop them, his heart slamming against his ribs as they slipped past his lips. He knew the response was defensive, reckless even, but he couldn’t help himself. Connor had been forced to sit through hours of irrelevant drivel in front of that judge, and at no point had the prosecuting team touched on what was important. On the connection between them, on the fact that she had consented to nearly every sexual act he had ever performed on her, or on the fact that she fucking loved each and every one of them. The court didn’t care about that. It focused on capture and chains and cages, but never once considered the chemistry.
“You tell me then,” Morrison pressed him. “Tell me how it was.”
“Why?” Connor countered. “What’s the point? She’s gone and I’m stuck here.”
Morrison laughed at his performance. “In this hell-hole, you mean?”
That made Connor smile, even though he was still smarting from the memory of Molly.
“I just want to understand,” Morrison continued. “I’ve seen you with women before. Remember, I know you, Connor. I’ve seen the way you use them like commodities, but that’s not what I’m getting from you now. Explain it to me. Who was this woman, and why was she worth the jail-time?”
Connor’s mind was reeling. Swimming with the answers to Saul’s questions, and the intense recollections of his kitten, he found he couldn’t take a breath for a few moments.
“I dunno,” he replied after a lengthy pause. “It was just something about her. I wanted her, Saul, but not just in the usual way. I had to have her, to own her. Completely.”
Entwined: (A Dark Romance Kidnap Thriller) (The Dark Necessities Trilogy Book 3) Page 2
