by Skye Warren
It’s not the same thing as freedom.
My mother settled for safety, too. Maybe that can be enough.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I wake up with moonlight across my face. I’m wearing a T-shirt and panties, the sheet tangled around my legs. I thought he would send me to my room, like before, but instead he carried me to his bed. Exhausted, worn down, I fell asleep.
Gabriel lies next to me, his powerful body in rare repose. He doesn’t look young in sleep, only softer. Without the strict control he maintains while awake.
Lashes against his cheeks, incongruous fragility on a body compact with muscle. A shadow darkens his jaw. My legs move restlessly as I remember the burn of his bristle between them.
A sprinkling of wiry hair covers his chest and narrows, angling down. The sheet crosses his abs, and I use two careful fingers to move it aside. Cotton briefs mold to his body, revealing narrow hips and the shape of his cock against his thigh, large even in sleep. I still remember the taste of him, the salt and musk. Beneath the sheet his legs almost reach the base of the bed, making even the oversize frame look miniature.
“Enjoying yourself,” comes his husky voice.
My gaze snaps to his. Embarrassment wipes all the words from my brain.
He laughs, his lids low with sleep. “Don’t stop, little virgin. I think I can come from you looking at me.”
Of course I can’t bear to look at him now—can’t look at his body, can’t even meet his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”
“God, you have no idea what you do to me.” He takes my hand, guiding it over his briefs.
Hot. Hard. Throbbing. “Oh,” comes out as a squeak.
His voice roughens. “Stroke it.”
I run my fingers lightly over his length, feeling him through the fabric. A damp spot stains the tip, and I press my forefinger there, making him grunt. A small smile touches my lips. He’s right that there’s power here, power in making him shift on the bed, his body so strong, made vulnerable by my touch.
“You like this,” I say softly, shyly.
His voice leaves no doubt. “I crave it.”
My gaze trails back over his body, snagging on the nightstand.
And there’s the pawn piece, the dark trophy that I had feared. My breath catches. I look away, not wanting him to see my pain. This is the bed where he took my virginity. These are the sheets that had been stained with my blood—bleached white now.
“Hey.” He grasps my chin and turns me to face him. “Talk to me.”
“The pawn.”
He follows my gaze, understanding hitting his light brown eyes. “I won’t hurt you again. The first time—”
“It wasn’t painful like that.” I close my eyes tight. “Well, it was, but that’s not what hurt the most. It was how you pushed me away after, like that’s all I’m good for.”
His eyes go dark, more bronze now. “You think I only want you for sex?”
“You paid for me, Gabriel. That’s not something a man does if he wants a relationship.”
“I don’t want a relationship,” he says roughly. “I want to own you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Your family has dark secrets. Well, this is mine. That my father owned women—not just because it made him money. Not just so he could fuck them. He bought and sold them because that’s what he wanted to do, that was the only thing that got him off.”
My chest constricts. “And that’s what you want to do—sell me?”
“Never.” A cold laugh. “I’m too fucking possessive for that. No one else gets to touch you.”
“What if you get tired of me?”
“I tried, little virgin. I sent you away. I tried to forget you, but I get hard just looking at a chess piece. I can’t seem to let you go.” A rough sound. “A lifetime of discipline and now I’m a fucking addict.”
I bite my lip. “What if I get tired of you?”
He growls, flipping me over in a whirl of male strength. I’m face-first against the bed, his body framing mine. He nuzzles the base of my neck, a primal show of possession. “Mine,” he whispers.
I fought that word before. I resented it even as I hated it.
Now my secret muscles clench in tacit acquiescence.
His knee nudges my legs apart. He pushes my hair aside, fingers clenching in the strands. A hot press of his mouth against my back, following down my spine until I’m spread apart and wanting.
Blunt fingers force their way inside me, finding me wet. He groans in approval. “Fuck yes.”
Even his fingers feel thick in the small space, my skin struggling to adjust around him. His cock is even bigger. He twists his fingers, seeking a spot, finding it—and I arch against the bed, wordless sounds begging for release.
When he took my virginity, I faced him. It had seemed like a powerless position, the depth and speed of the thrusts completely his to command. Submission in the most base animal language. But I realize now the range of motion that I had to touch him, to wrap my legs around him, to press my breasts against his chest. Now I’m entirely motionless, his hand in my hair holding me above, his weight holding me down from behind. I can’t touch him.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need… I need…”
He gives me a little shake with a fistful of my hair. “You take what I give you.”
I groan my dissent, without even leverage to push back against him. His cock burns a slick trail across my butt as he presses a kiss to my cheek. Only a second later do I realize that kiss was a warning, maybe even an apology. The wide head of his cock nudges against my folds. Without a word he thrusts inside me, ripping past clenched muscles, forcing me open. A pained cry is muffled by the sheets. My body reacts instinctively, inching up the bed in a frantic bid to escape. It only succeeds in tightening the pull on my scalp.
A calloused hand angles my hips, and then he plunges again, thudding against a point inside me. My mouth opens on a silent scream. His entire body covers mine, chest against my back, hips covering mine, arm stretching out along mine and grasping my wrist. My hands clench and open, desperate for some mooring. There’s nothing but his body in a sea of wild sensation, every rock of his body bursting stars behind my eyelids. Orgasm crashes through me, violent and stormy, never-ending as I contract and pulse and quiver around him.
It’s too much, this relentless throb inside me, this powerful bass he makes with my body. I can’t breathe, can’t speak. This is what he meant when he said he owns me—the complete capture of my body, the takeover of my mind. I’m drowning in Gabriel Miller, the scent and sound of him. The feel of him inside me.
“So good,” he says, dark and almost angry. “So fucking good.”
I feel when he breaks, the stark sound of loss he makes, the fail of his rhythm, the way he holds me to him instead of holding me down. His body empties into me—his come, his despair. His desperate weakness for a woman he shouldn’t want.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next day when I wake up, Gabriel is gone, but there’s a phone on the bedside table. I know it’s meant for me because the pawn sits on top of it. When I turn it on, there are three numbers already saved—Harper’s cell phone, the number to Mr. Stewart in the nursing home.
The last number says Asshole.
He answers after the first ring. “Good morning.”
“Where are you?”
“Downstairs. I have a few things to take care of in my office, but I’ll be done in time for lunch.”
“Am I allowed to wander?” There’s a hint of snark in my voice, but it’s also a serious question. I don’t know what the rules are for this new tenuous truce.
“Of course,” he says. “Just don’t get lost.”
His house is ridiculous with hallways that lead in circles, with bedrooms that lead into deeper rooms. I don’t know whether he bought it this way or had it built, but it suits him. “I thought you like the chase.”
A low laugh. “Don’t tease me, little virgin. I ha
ve all afternoon to make you regret it.”
I shiver, knowing he can accomplish it. My body still aches with all the ways he took me last night, waking me over and over, sometimes moving inside me before I was awake, time folding on itself. “Do I get clothes?”
“In the dresser. Top drawer.”
Crossing the room, I find the contents of my motel room neatly stacked. I nudge aside my clothes, a few books. “The chess set is missing.”
“In the library,” he says, voice velvet with promise. “I thought we might play.”
“Said the spider to the fly.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I’m looking forward to it.”
My fingers brush against the bottom of the drawer. That’s it. “Wait. Where’s the diary?”
“We still have a week left.”
The final week he won in the auction. “What does that have to do with this?”
“You can have it back when we’re done. Unless you find it on your own.”
Red flashes across my vision. “Why do you play games?”
“Why do you assume it’s a game?”
“Because you have no reason to keep it from me.”
“So you say.”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Does it matter? In the large scheme of things I’ve gone years without reading the diary. I can go a few more days. “One week.”
And like we’re signing a treaty: “One week.”
What will happen after that? Will he send me away or ask me to stay?
Is he even capable of asking something? All he knows how to do is purchase me. Once the escrow transfers to me, I won’t be for sale anymore—I won’t need money. I won’t need Gabriel.
After hanging up, I call Harper. She tells me that she returned to New York City with Christopher, that they’re locked in some kind of battle, neither willing to give in.
She’s fuming. “He’s doing this just to piss me off.”
“I know the feeling,” I say drily. “Except…”
“Except what?” she snaps, her voice rich with warning.
“As your friend I want the best for you. I want you to be happy.”
She sighs. “This is one of those tough love situations, isn’t it?”
“I’m just saying it seems like he’s trying to do right by you. And it kind of feels…” I clear my throat. “I mean, is it possible you’re spending more just to make him angry?”
“It’s my money!”
“Right, but he was tasked with managing your money.”
“My money, not managing me. He’s ridiculous. And horrible. And did I mention ridiculous?”
“Well, sure. Yes. But you know he takes his job seriously. It was in your dad’s will. It’s not like he can question what exactly the man’s intentions were. He looked up to your dad. He wouldn’t want to fail him in his last request.”
“Stop being reasonable,” she huffs. “He’s horrible.”
“Horrible,” I agree.
“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after what Landon Moore did to you. He trashed your trust fund! You lost your house because of him! He should be behind bars. He’s the one who should be bedridden. I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I weren’t five foot nothing.”
“I appreciate that, but Landon stole from me. You don’t think Christopher’s messing with your money, do you?”
She sounds more aggrieved than ever. “No, he actually made it bigger with his investments. And don’t you dare say that’s a good thing. Chicks before dicks. We agreed.”
“I’m pretty sure I never agreed to that, much less heard you say it. But for what it’s worth, I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I wasn’t stuck being the not-quite-virginal sex slave of a rich asshole.”
The asshole and I live the next few days in a sex dream, never leaving the house, barely leaving his large four-post bed. There’s an urgency to our lovemaking, an unspoken awareness that the end is near.
In the mornings he works from his office, and I explore the house—searching for the diary. It’s a half-hearted search, fueled more by curiosity than any real desire to end this. Because the end is coming soon enough. I don’t need to hurry it along.
The gaps in my knowledge loom outside these four walls, waiting, watching. They’ll find me soon enough, but for now I’m safe in Gabriel’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the last day I’m certain I’ve looked everywhere for the diary. It still eludes me. I even checked outside the house, almost getting lost amid the tall hedges shaped into an elaborate maze. I’m actually more impressed that Justin made it through that during my last stay.
I wake when the moon is high, suddenly alert. Did I hear something? Or is it only my anxiety, wondering what tomorrow will bring? This might be my last night in this bed. I know that Gabriel cares about me, but I’m not sure he’s capable of having a regular relationship. Not sure he wants to try.
On a whim I pick up the pawn from the side table.
Slipping from the bed, I walk barefoot through the empty halls. The air still smells faintly of the fresh biscuits Mrs. B. made for dinner. I turn sideways into the library, the fireplace dark in the middle of the night. There’s a small lamp on the table with the chess set.
I put the pawn in its place.
We never did play, not with the set, but we played our own version—the instinctive waters of middlegame. Openings are strategic, mapped out and named. Analyzed with strengths and weaknesses. But middlegames contain infinite combinations, too complex to define. Both fighting for control of the board, trading with the fervent hope that we’ll come out on top.
Keeping the king in relative safety, because that’s the point of the game.
My fingertip touches each piece on the black side—king, queen. Knight.
An unusual piece because of the way it moves. Forward and sideways. The only piece able to jump other pieces. Not the most powerful on the board, but the most dangerous in closed positions.
I pick up the king, my thumb stroking over the ridges, the cross at the top.
Once I read that Napoleon Bonaparte loved chess, though he hadn’t been an extraordinary player. He had played his generals, certain the game held some kind of tactical education. He played every day of his exile, though I don’t remember who he played with. His guards? That hits a little close to home.
And I remember something else—that an escape plan was hatched to hide instructions in a chess piece and send it to him as a gift. The piece in my hand is too small to hide anything, at least anything readable to the naked eye. But the base of the set is tall. Gabriel had it custom carved for my arrival.
I set down the king and test the set, careful not to knock over the lined-up pieces. Heavy. Some sets come with hollow compartments to store the pieces, but this one feels solid.
Unless there’s something inside.
Tipping the surface, I let the pieces slide onto the rug. The king rolls onto the hardwood near the fireplace. I lift the lid of the chessboard and look inside—a leather-bound book sits in the empty space.
My mother’s diary.
I should be happy to have found it, even a day sooner than he had promised to give it back. Instead all I feel is dread. All the demons we’ve been keeping at bay—they’re free now. Free in the form of beautiful scrolling handwriting and a lifetime of secrets.
Turning the pages past wedding plans and honeymoon, past her excited and elaborate plans for the house that Daddy builds her, a single word catches my eye.
Afraid.
My hand trembles as I flip back to find the page.
Everything I wanted has come true—a beautiful house. A kind husband. Security for my family. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that I made a terrible mistake. Even in my own room I can feel someone watching me, threatening me. I’m afraid that I’m going insane.
Was my mother insane? It sounds like paranoia. Diagnoses and treatment of mental illness wasn’t like today. They had less knowledge
and far more stigma.
I remember feeling like someone watched me.
Maybe I’m going insane too.
Except someone had written WHORE over the fireplace. That’s not a figment of my imagination, an illness that needs to be treated. And someone took pictures of me.
Geoffrey insists that it’s in my head, but I’m sure it’s not. It’s like the house is alive. Breathing. Whispering. I’m never alone, even when the people have gone.
Unease moves through me. I glance at the shadows around me. I can’t see through them, but I know I’m alone. Don’t I? I remember my terror the night I saw someone outside the window. Is that how my mother felt all the time?
I thought she loved the house. And at the beginning she did.
It turned into something sinister in these pages.
The strangest thing happened tonight. I saw Jonathan at a party for the Alberts’ anniversary. We both pretended we had never met. When he asked me to dance, I said yes so we could talk. I asked him how he got an invitation. He told me he had worked with Ralph Albert, but he refused to go into details.
So the mystery man had a name. Jonathan. Not that it told me anything. I didn’t know anyone by that name, and it’s common enough that it wouldn’t help me if I did.
But Geoffrey acted strange the rest of the night. He kept asking me about my dance with Jonathan, even though we had maintained appearances. It’s almost as if he knows the truth.
He did, because he had followed my mother the night before their wedding.
Now I’m wondering if the eyes I feel inside the house have a name. Geoffrey St. James.
“Ah, you found it.”
The voice startles me, and I jump from the chair. The diary falls to the rug amid the scattered chess pieces. This is the way he found me weeks ago, at the beginning of our month. Now we’re here at the end. I know him better, but there are even more questions.
