Breaking Sin: A kidnap abduction story (Addicted to Sin Book 1)

by Emily Stormbrook

  As she bit back another sob she grabbed her phone and called Miles. Today she would wallow in self-pity, tomorrow she’d fire her portfolio off to anyone and everyone. She’d be focused, methodical, meticulous, and definitely not mourning. She’d start with similar roles, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She’d look into room shares, cutting her rent down, anything until she could save again. She’d turn this to her advantage, maybe even find something where she could put her degree to use.

  She could do this. She had a few months to find something. Even so, the timing was terrible. She was the sole benefactor of her father’s will, but his estate was in probate, everything was frozen. Even his tenants paid their rent into his account.

  Her father had been successful, making an outrageous wage. He’d told her when anything happened to him she could live a life of leisure if she so chose. The figure on his life insurance policy had been a number that had made her eyes blur.

  None of that helped her right now. And she’d give it all back a hundred times over, just for more time with him. Yes, she was a daddy’s girl, but that’s what happened when you lost a parent. You learnt to appreciate the people in your life.

  Before his stroke, they’d never missed their weekly meal together and had spoken every day, no matter how busy they both were. His death cut her deep, destroyed an integral part of her, and it was taking everything she had to staunch the bleeding.

  She wasn’t ready to mourn him yet, not ready to say goodbye and feel the true crushing force of his loss. She still needed time, and so she kept her grief restrained, because when she finally let it out it would be like admitting he really was gone. She was fooling herself, retreating into a place where foolish misconceptions shielded the truth. She would mourn when she was ready, and she was not ready yet, so she had to hold it together.

  She’d had a call from the life insurance company just yesterday to say they were having to delay payment while they waited for the reports from the hospital. Her father was already buried, but for some reason the paperwork still hadn’t been released.

  Personally, she thought it was just a delaying tactic. They were probably looking for some loophole, a reason not to pay out the seven-digit settlement figure. Well, they wouldn’t find one.

  She’d reported his stroke the moment it happened, sent them every prognosis, every report. He had made her. He’d provided a checklist for her of things to do if ever he was taken ill, and she had followed it to the letter. He said companies like the one he was with looked for any reason not to pay out. Yet despite this foresight, he’d not signed the one document that would have helped the most, the power of attorney.

  “Hello?” Miles’ deep voice lifted playfully as he greeted her. He had a way of answering the phone that was reserved just for her. Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Her chin dropped to her chest as she fought back a sniffle and her gaze, by some cruel fate, focused on the letter at her feet from the building manager. Her muddy shoe print stood stark against the crisp white envelope, and for a second she forgot to breathe.

  Just seeing it had her giving her belt another tug, tightening another hole to increase the pressure around her waist. For as long as she remembered deep pressure had comforted her, but at home she had more interesting ways of achieving the same result, but it wasn’t something she had time for now, right now she needed Miles.

  He was the only person who could hold back the tides of her grief, because it was almost impossible to be anything but happy to be near him. She just needed to feel his arms wrapped around her, holding her in the way only he could. Whenever she was in his arms it was like everything else just faded away. She needed that right now. “Sin, you there? You’ve butt dialled me, haven’t you?” Another pause as he waited for her to speak. She sniffed again, trying to compose herself. “Sin, are you crying? Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

  She could hear the concern in his voice increasing with each syllable, but all his concern did was cause the tears to flow faster. “I thought you Brits didn’t do emotion. Stiff upper lip and all that.” He taunted her in the way only he did, teasing a sobbing chuckle through her lips. “I’m heading over, you at home? One sniff for yes, two for no.”

  “I’m home,” she whispered through a shaky breath.

  “I’ll be there soon.” The line went dead, and she felt the phone slip through her fingers as she stared at the letter on the doormat which was causing the crushing pain to expand across her chest. She didn’t need to open it to know what was at her feet. She’d known this day was coming for years, from the moment they’d approved the conversion. But seriously, why did it have to be today of all days?

  She tore the envelope, uncurling the poison pen letter and almost making it to the kitchen island before her legs wouldn’t carry her any further. The conversion into a condo was going ahead as planned. Since she’d opted not to take them up on the opportunity to buy in this was her notice. The letters in bold print burned before her eyes, but even as she blinked she could see the angry words starting back at her.

  Please vacate by month’s end.

  She stared at the letter. The end of the month, that couldn’t be right, surely they needed to give her more notice than that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Listening to Ivy’s soft sniffles on the other end of the line brought feelings beyond just sorrow for her. His chest physical ached with the need to be near her. Miles had known this day would come. It was long overdue, months in fact, but it didn’t change the profound affect hearing her in tears had on him.

  He hadn’t seen her cry after her father’s stroke, or when she was exhausted from sleeping on the sofa in her own apartment so her father could have her bed, or at his funeral when he’d held her close, sandwiched between himself and Becca as they watched the casket being lowered into the ground.

  Even then she’d stayed strong. For the last month he’d tried to get her to talk about it, to embrace her feelings. He’d even invited Devon out for a drink with them, hoping his psychiatrist’s tongue could tease something from her. But she’d locked down her emotions completely.

  The only thing he’d seen her do was tighten her belt, on her coat, on her cardigan, or even on those buckled trousers Becca had made just for her, with belts running the length of the legs, clearly he hadn’t been the only one to notice she did this. It was a habit she’d developed at some point during her time in NYU. Whenever he saw her tug on that belt he always knew something was troubling her, but she rarely spoke about things. She was so very … British.

  Even after being here for twelve years, her sexy British accent wasn’t the only thing she’d managed to keep a hold on, she’d kept her reserved nature too. She’d still cast her eyes down when dealing with people of authority, or blushed beautifully if she was embarrassed.

  Sometimes, watching her act so coy with other people made him want to steal her away and do unspeakable things to her. His army buddies had teased her no end just to see her blush. Even though she learnt to tease them back, the rose hue of her cheeks never faded.

  Meeting her in freshman year had been thrilling. He was not one to socialise needlessly. He was a self-declared the outcast for choosing to hang out with his eccentric best friend, Becca, rather than the shallow vacuous people who floated down the hallways as if they owned them. He would take a genuine friend over someone who just saw his father’s bank balance any day of the week and twice on Sundays. That was why Ivy had been a breath of fresh air.

  She hadn’t heard of Taylor Security Services—TSS—his father’s Fortune 500 company. She didn’t know of his status, his money. To her he had just been Tails, the boy who dragged his sharp-tongued best friend to her table at dinner time just to hear her talk with that oh-so-sexy accent.

  The moment she had looked up at him with her big blue eyes, sighed, and said, ‘I had to wrap my mobile in aluminium after I dropped it in the water when a vitamin-dosed squirrel invaded my privacy, disrupted my schedule, and stole
my tomato causing quite the controversy as it escaped through the garage.’ That was it. He knew there and there and then they would be friends.

  She had looked back down at her lunch, as if expecting them to leave but instead he had dissolved into laughter, pulling up a seat beside her and responded, once his laughter had died down, by repeating it back to her properly, in American, before making some witty comment about fugitive squirrels.

  Apparently she’d been getting hassled to say random words and had decided to tick them all off in a single sentence. After that the three of them were inseparable and she had grown to like him for who he was, and in a world of statuses and palm greasing, that had meant everything.

  At some point, before he signed on for his last two tours, their relationship had altered. He no longer felt like just her best friend. He felt like a man, trying to navigate the unfamiliar and complicated world of wanting something more without ruining one of his most treasured friendships.

  While Devon would argue it happened long before he acknowledged it, Miles only realised things had changed when she’d sent him some pictures, actual printed pictures, of her after he’d said there were a lot of lonely guys in the barracks asking if his two best friends were single.

  What she had done was so out of character, but the picture of her lying with her brown hair fanned around her across the bed, dressed in a short white nurse’s uniform with matching, lace-topped stockings had stirred something other than just his protective nature.

  A copy of these photographs were still hidden on his phone, the originals locked away from prying eyes. There had been no way in hell he was going to let another man see her like that. She was for his eyes only. His. He’d nursed an erection for days visualising the sensual curve of her hips, the provocative smile, the way her pebbled nipples had just been visible under the taut white fabric that stretched around her ample breasts.

  Oh, the things he had done visualising that picture, the fantasies it had birthed. She’d captioned one of the pictures, ‘It’s just a little prick, sir.’ But the humour had done nothing to alleviate the earth-shattering effect of seeing them. In that moment it was as if his world had stopped just long enough for his heart to whisper to his brain, I told you so. Just long enough for him to realise he was in trouble.

  That was the day he’d finally admitted he was completely and helplessly in love with his best friend. The woman who’d shared a hotel room with him whenever he was on leave and shamed his army buddies by kicking their asses in whatever multi-player game they chose.

  She cradled him through nightmares, stroking her fingers through his hair, and every day showed him there was good in the world even when all he could see was evil. It seemed like such a profound realisation he could not believe the world still looked the same.

  The problem was, his mother had fallen in instant hate with Ivy, something to do with her father winning a case against one of her brunch companion’s companies for breach of contract. The woman wouldn’t even let Ivy in the house.

  Even now, twelve years later, she still held on to the grudge as if it were a life preserve. His mother had been warned, countless times, never to disrespect her in his or anyone else’s presence, so now she was just the friend they never spoke about or, that girl, if she really needed to say something.

  Given the time he and Ivy spent together, his mother’s attitude made living in the guest house almost impossible, but also gave him countless opportunities to change her mind and make her see the amazing person she’d never given a chance.

  He really wanted her to feel welcomed into the family because, if there was one thing he knew about Ivy, it was that she hated confrontation and his mother was the biggest obstacle in the way of their relationship.

  Despite the animosity, he’d lost count of the amount of times he had complained, only for Ivy to tell him that even if they didn’t agree on things, his mother should be respected and treasured because no one would ever replace her.

  He fished the key to Ivy’s apartment out of his trouser pocket, seizing it by the small, silver teapot keyring she had attached to it when she had given him and Becca their keys. His gaze lifted to the door, passing over the small sticker of the number two he had stuck to it years ago so their British friend could live at 221B like the well-known English detective. Even now, seeing it made him smile, and the small amount of clear tape holding down the curling corners of the silver sticker just proved that Ivy liked it as much as he did.

  His smile soon faltered with the tightening of his chest as he stepped inside. Sunlight streamed through the window to the left, its warm glow causing the slight reddish undertones of Ivy’s brown hair to shimmer as the light enveloped her in its embrace.

  She hadn’t heard him come in, that much was obvious from the way her head remained bowed against her knees, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs as she sat pressed against the grey panel of the island, still wearing her coat, with a letter clutched tightly in one of her hands as she hugged her knees.

  Closing the door silently, he slid off his shoes, sitting down beside her on the wooden flooring, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She was freezing cold, shivering in his embrace as she placed her face to his chest, soaking his shirt with the warmth of her tears.

  He didn’t say anything. Sometimes there were no words. Instead, he just sat with her, holding her, trying not to notice how comfortably she fit against him. He watched the world through her window change. The world moved on while they sat frozen in this moment of time.

  The sun set and lights twinkled in the apartments opposite. He could sit here with her forever, holding her in his arms, offering her comfort, because no other place had ever felt so right.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” she sniffed, the strain in her voice making him tighten his grasp even as she pulled away to wipe her eyes. He missed the warmth he had fed into her the moment she moved, leaving him feeling colder. “Sorry.”

  “Stay put. Actually,” he added, suddenly aware of his discomfort from sitting on the hard floor for so long, “move to the sofa. Tea?”

  “Not how you make it,” she teased, forcing a smile as she accepted his hand, allowing him to pull her from the floor. He held her a moment longer than was needed, a time shorter than his heart demanded.

  Tea it was.

  He circled the island into the kitchen, breathing in the citrus scent from the small diffuser on the countertop. Ivy’s apartment always smelt so nice, a combination of her delicate honey and oat shampoo and her favourite scents. Lately she had chosen citrus, which meant she was attempting to use the fragrance to lift her mood. He could tell a lot about how she was feeling based on the fragrance she surrounded herself with.

  “I think I have your technique down. It’s not rocket science.” He laughed, pushing a hand through his tousled hair as she eyed him dubiously. He grabbed her mug as he flicked the kettle on, throwing her a cheeky smile over his shoulder as proof he was doing it right.

  She had complained no end about him microwaving the water, but, to be honest, he wasn’t really sure what difference it made. Tea was tea, unless you were British it seemed, then it was some holy grail with rites, rituals, divine incarnations, and sometimes, on special occasions, a virgin sacrifice. Making a cup of tea for her was like trying to activate a rare alchemy trait in the Atelier games she played. Almost impossible, even if you knew how it should be done.

  When it was ready he gave a stiff bow, presenting his offering in a grand gesture, keeping the humour from his eyes as she bit her lip, assessing the colour critically before even daring taking a sip. He watched in adoration as she grimaced and her nose wrinkled. A mild reaction, and the fact she took another sip before placing it aside onto the small glass coffee table made it feel like a small victory. “Want to talk about it?”

  “I got fired today.” She pulled her feet up onto the soft fabric of the sofa, rubbing her hands across the velvety texture as she drew her knees towards her chest. This was bad, Ivy was a ver
y tactile person, and the way her fingers caressed every texture in search of comfort was her equivalent of screaming. The hand not clutching the letter passed through her hair, then across the fabric of her trousers as she wrapped her arms around her knees again. Watching her distress meant it took a few seconds before her words registered.

  “What?” Confusion saw his voice raising a few octaves too high. Fired. Ivy. The two words didn’t seem to mesh in any reality. He’d seen her annual reviews. They were nothing short of golden. She was the crown jewel of that place, the reason they never added extra staff to the rota because they knew she’d rise to the extra workload. For them to fire her she had to have done something unspeakable, and he knew for a fact she didn’t have it in her.

  “Apparently some investor is merging with us, and my job doesn’t exist anymore or something. They were quite vague. But my other teammates, you know, the ones who only close enough calls to hit their personal targets, they’re still sitting pretty. Apparently I’m the only one affected.” He watched her arms tighten around her knees.

  “Isn’t there anyone you can speak to?” His hand wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her back into a hug. It wasn’t to be near her again, he told himself. It was to make her release the death grip around her legs that had to be cutting off her circulation.

  He knew how much she loved that job. He still had the letters she’d handwritten—because Ivy always wrote letters by hand—in a shoebox in his wardrobe. She’d spoken of her day frequently, often regaling him with humorous tales. While it was true she was overqualified for the role, he could tell from the way she spoke about the work in the letters she’d sent him both while he was serving and still to this day, that she was content there, doing what she did. Even if he’d always thought she was better than that place.