I know she is right, but letting go is tough. “I met Kaci a couple times, but I never really knew her. Is Cas anything…”
“No,” she interrupts, her mouth full of yumminess. “Kaci was nothing like Cassidy. Kace was my best friend.”
“You call her Kace, too…” I mumble before sticking the spoon in my mouth.
“Only because he does,” she mentions, casually. I hate that he has a history with this pretty little thing sitting across from me.
“Are you really a sub?”
“I have had my moments,” she says with a nod. “But I can switch if need be.”
“Is there any way I can stay the night in here?”
“I had never planned on anything else,” she says, emptying her jar. “You are his, and it is my sole job to protect you. Honestly, I don’t give two fucks about either of those girls. They are nothing more than a distraction, keeping me from doing my job.”
“I sincerely appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me, Iris,” Jaid replies, setting her jar down and licking her lips. “Because if you hurt Sal, I will fucking slit your throat, cut you into pieces, and no one will be any the wiser.”
“Good to know,” I say, unwavering. “Just remember some kittens have lethal claws.”
SAL
Two days later, I pull into the Banks Arts & Co. garage on my motorcycle. It’s been a long forty-eight hours, and I cannot wait to see my girl.
In my leather jacket, I bound quickly up the staircase to the fourth floor. I hear music and laughter, and a smile soars across my face, but as I walk inside, everything fades to a dismal gray.
In full fetish gear, Jaid prances about in Kaci’s black cat suit, swinging a whip against Iris, suspended high on the cross. Ainsley is half-dressed sitting next to Cas, who is cutting lines on the table glass.
Slamming the door, I roar, “What the fuck is going on?!?!”
“Salvatore!” Cas shouts from the sofa. “Nice of you to finally show up!”
“I am doing the best I can do, here,” Jaid whispers to me. “Things got out of hand when Iris decided to party with Cas. I suggested a session, but they completely ignored me until I went and found this outfit. Your dolls are out of control. And it isn’t my job to keep it together.”
Rage fuels into my system.
Cas’ influence on Iris poses the real threat.
“Take Ainsley back to Anna’s,” I ask Jaid, trying to understand how four girls could turn my loft into such an amazing disaster in such a short time. But I know—it isn’t four girls—it’s one very bad girl. “And drop Cas off wherever. I don’t fucking care anymore.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely,” I assert, gripping her shoulder. “How much did Iris do?”
“I stopped her before she got in the coke,” Jaid says, “If that is what you’re asking, but I am fairly certain Cas got in the pills.”
“Prissy Pants,” I say, knocking her off her game and grabbing her hand, “Thank you. I’ll be home soon to put you back together.”
She smiles, obligingly. “Raniero, you have bigger problems than me right now,” she whispers, comforting me. “Take care of you girl. I am sorry if I failed you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Hey, Nero, you gonna take a crack at that ass?” Cas yells, stumbling across the room to me and picking up the whip. “… Or can I do it for ya?”
Quickly, I rip the whip from her hands as I threaten, “You so much as lay one hand on her and I swear I will have no mercy.”
I do not want to get into a battle with Cas, but apparently, the choice is out of my hands as she lays into me with all of her weight. Solid, stable, and sober, I do not budge.
Wresting with Cas, I wrap my arm around her slight torso and blink up to Jaid. “Get me a zip tie, top drawer on the left.”
Fighting against my strength, Cas hisses, “Fuck, you are a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” I declare, tightening her wrists in front of her body. “Get her back to rehab. Call Mierne.”
“Yes, I will,” Jaid assures.
“Make sure they know she is coming in not on suicide watch, but as a drug addict,” I inform as Cas continues to struggle against me. “When this wears off, she is going to turn into a demon bitch from hell.”
“I hate you!” she snaps, spitting and biting. “I fucking hate you!”
“Calm your shit down!” I jerk, forcing her body back up right. “Go change, Jaid. You can take the Challenger.”
A half-hour later, I flop in the chair, looking at the mess and dangling helpless against the brick wall—Iris. Suspended with ropes at the rafters and small platforms under her feet, she is up about fifteen feet. Someone put a blindfold over her eyes and knowing her like I do, that is probably best.
I contemplate bringing her down, but I am so pissed that I think she might actually be safer where she is. Stripping off my shirt, I turn on Machine Gun Kelly and take to cleaning up the pigsty of the party.
After I throw the trash away—empty beer, liquor bottles, and assorted other things, I notice the pink cord, tucking under the mask. She has her damn headphones. I leave her alone for now.
Despite the humidity, I crack the windows because the whole place smells like a fucking frat house. I do the dishes, wipe the counters, vacuum, and mop. I light candles and incense and try and forget the mess.
I change my sheets, clean the bathroom, and take a long ass shower as I figure out what to do with the virgin sacrifice up on the wall.
Seeing Jaid in Kaci’s former cat suit, I am reminded of the player I used to be. The one Kaci wanted me to be. I head into the closet and grab the gear I haven’t put on in years—black leather pants, belt, and fingerless gloves.
In front of the bathroom mirror, I try to determine if I can actually do this as the memories flicker in my mind. I gel up my hair and douse on a heady, earthen scent as I mumble, “Look at you, Master Nero, you are everything Kace ever dreamed about.”
I switch the music to a playlist of sexy club mixes and dim the lights. Blinking up at her curves in the air, I pray to the heavens this works or we are going to end up in the damn emergency room.
With a quick kiss to my crucifix, I make the sign of the cross and look up, seeking Hope’s guidance. I may be pissed for some of the shit she pulled, but I wouldn’t be here without her presence in my life.
Taking a deep breath, I grab the remote and hit the quick release, waiting for my girl in her pink boy shorts and sports bra. The pulleys in the rafters move as she soars to the ground slowly with the gracefulness of a butterfly.
As she flutters down, she panics as I hold my resolve that she is searching for me. But I know she won’t want to find my monster much longer.
I yank the pink headphones out of her ears, take her phone, and chunk the blindfold. I lure with a nice, broad smile and pop the switchblade, severing both undergarments with skill and precision.
I hit the remote again and cinch the tethers, so she stands on her feet with her hands in the air. Unscrewing her nipple piercings, I drop them in a nearby glass ashtray.
In front of her, I lower to my knees and pull the two pairs of jeweler’s pliers from my belt. Without a sound, I spend the next thirty minutes painstakingly removing the corset hoops and clitoral hood piercing.
My reasons are simple.
Cas put them in at an initiation that never should have happened. And there will be nothing remaining on my girl from that person.
No tarnish. No taint. No ties.
I unlatch the cuffs on her legs and roll up to release the ones on her wrists. I hoist her up and carry her to the bathtub. I don’t know what all Iris took, but she isn’t all here—that much is clear. I carefully wash her with lavender soap and shampoo and condition her hair. I wrap her in a towel as she wobbles and I steady the unstable.
I want to kill Cassidy for this.
I won’t.
But I want to.
&n
bsp; After I dress her in a white tank top and boxer shorts, I comb through her hair and brush her teeth. I lay her on the bed and grab an IV set up kit out of the nightstand. I am meticulous and calculating, having done this so many times before.
Finding a decent vein, I pop the needle in and tape it before connecting a bag of electrolytes that I hang on the bed post.
With her still being inebriated on something, I waste no time in getting my scanner. I find one small microchip in her arm and one in her left thigh near her scar.
Why she has two—who knows?
My best hypothetical is one is from Gennaro and other courtesy of Chance, but as I continue waving the device over the rest of her body, I locate another chip in her foot.
Fuck.
That one is gonna hurt.
I take a breath and head to the living room. Pacing about, I contemplate what I am about to do as I burn through two smokes and empty a glass of whiskey. “You gotta do it,” I mumble, “Bee stings. Stop freaking out that. It’s Iris.”
Heading back into the room, I grab the alcohol pads, a sterile pair of gloves, a surgical blade, tweezers, gauze, and suture kit. I am optimistic that stitches won’t be necessary, but I need to be prepared.
I move the floor lamp closer and aim it towards her arm first. I go wash my hands and splash water on my face as I stare into the mirror. I know I am acting a bit—sociopathic. The thing with microchips is the access can be sold off to the highest bidder, so it really doesn’t matter who put them in. They may not have access anymore.
I am a fucking spy, and I only have one chip in my body. Jack Kerris put it in my inner thigh by my jewels during training. I am stupefied by the fact my girl has three as I cast a glance over to her depleted body. I grab a syringe of muscle relaxer in case she comes to.
“Breathe, Raniero.”
Cutting into her arm, I make quick work of removing the tiny implant. It’s a professional insertion, just under the skin. I cover it with a Band-Aid and move to the next one. The one in her thigh proves too deep and the blood runs to the surgical pad I put beneath her leg. I finally locate it as I realize she’s going to need a couple stitches for this one. It’s not too deep, but I feel better after sewing it up.
After bandaging her thigh, I gaze at her foot. I seriously do not want to do this, but I also know I don’t really have a choice in the matter.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, I run the scanner over her foot again to get an exact location. It’s nestled on the top, in the middle, and near her ankle. The position could not be any worse. Inserting the blade, I watch the blood puddle rapidly as I poke and prod for the alien being.
I won’t destroy any of them, but I will hand them over to Georgia Wills, hacker extraordinaire for Sibyl. She will find out who the microchips originally belonged to, and from there I can run the specifics of the investigation.
The bitch finally reveals herself and I pull it free as a gush of blood saturates another pad. I give her four closely woven sutures because ankle cuts like to bust open. I clean the whole mess up and prepare to stand vigil over her the rest of the night. As a safety precaution, I scan her entire body once more. She is clean.
Spreading her thighs, I pull out the pre-loaded syringe with a microchip. I open my laptop, sign into the system, and punch in her 24-digit code. I allow access only to me and give the chip the name L. Raniero. No one will ever know.
With one push of the syringe, she is online and her coordinates ping, matching mine. “Sweet…”
Contrary to the belief of some, I do not abuse the system. I use the system. I make it work in favor of one—me. Call it genetics. Call it asshole. Whichever is fine as long as I do not lose this girl.
In the shadows, I wait in the chair with my hoodie on. I am so unbelievably angry at her stupidity. She doesn’t get to check out and do seriously dumb shit anymore. She doesn’t get to because I am here now—in her life and ready to lay it all out on the line. I won’t apologize for my fury or for the things I have done. I have done everything and anything to have this girl since 2009.
From the moment, the Janitor dropped her file on my desk, I focused my energy on keeping her safe. I haven’t always been good to her though and I am man enough to admit that. I am ready now to be better, stronger, and braver. I am solid and stable enough to take on whatever she throws. But I will not tolerate her partying with Cas. I will not stand for her spreading her legs one more time for that bitch. Their friendship is over.
She is done.
Tossing and turning, she starts to come to several hours later. “Where… Sal?”
Refusing to get up, I growl, “I am here. I am forever here. I am always watching over you.”
“I think I may puke,” she whimpers, sitting up and tossing the contents of her stomach onto the bed. She sobs uncontrollably. With the desperate cries, I adjust my hardening cock and rise up on my bare feet.
“You need to rest,” I inform, carefully removing the soiled blanket. “Close your eyes. I’ll give you something for the nausea. What all did you do, Iris, do you remember?”
“I did some pot and drank a lot, I think I popped some pills,” she says, waving her arm around with the IV. “Who put this in?”
“I did,” I grumble, knowing the night ahead will be long. From the nightstand, I grab a hefty cocktail and plunge it into the line.
Her eyelids bat as she mumbles, “What are you giving me?”
“Something to make you feel better.”
Peeping in the nightstand, she asks, “Why do you have all this stuff?”
“After taking care of Kaci, I learned a lot of basics when I went back to Sibyl,” I inform, doubting she will ever remember this. “I spent the first three years after she died between Sugargrove, New Orleans, and upstate New York. The loft is a designated surgical safe house for medical use if need be.”
“What does that mean?” she asks as I sit on the bed and hold her hand.
“That means if one of our agents gets shot or injured in the field, they can come here until we can mobilize them to another location,” I state honestly. “We cannot always go to the hospital. Sometimes we are the bad guys.”
Her grip loosens as the meds take hold. “Have you ever been hurt?”
“We can talk when you wake up.”
Hurt doesn’t even graze the harm I have been through.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three Hells in a Holy House
IRIS
WAKING UP, I TOUCH the Band-Aid on my arm where the IV was. I am a little groggy, but I feel better. I stare at the clock—5:30 PM. “Holy crap, I slept the whole day…”
On the pillow, I find an unsealed envelope marked Iris. Sitting up, I glance around the room. I am alone. And he is gone. I pull out the note, written in his perfect, small print.
“Angel, when you are ready to pay for your sins, get up and take a shower. Make yourself pretty and dress in the items on the chair. Bottles of water are in the mini fridge. Do not open that door until you are ready to dance with the Devil.”
Swinging my legs off the bed, I ease up slow onto my feet. I touch my thigh, noticing the bandage, and spot the other one on my ankle. They hurt like paper cuts.
Getting ready, I realize how much trouble I am in. I did some very bad things. Tonight is about reconciliation and forgiveness. I wash and quickly notice all of my piercings are gone.
Bastard.
To get back at him for taking all of my beloved jewelry, I shave the kitten bare. It’s soft and I want to touch it—but I know better.
After I dry and curl my hair and put on some makeup—I assume it’s Jaid’s—I go to dress in the outfit he has left in boxes.
Fuck.
Sal just got serious.
Cracking the first one open, the deep black harness leaves little to the imagination with multiple wide straps, lifting my boobs and displaying the puss and ass. The outfit is more like a frame for his entertainment than actual function, but aside from the underwire, it is
amazingly soft like velvet.
After several tries—my foot kept going through the wrong damn hole—I manage to pull the sexy piece up. There are no hooks or sliders which leads me to wonder if he had the piece custom made for me.
The next box perplexes me as two round collar type things have more than enough buckles to make up for the lack of them in the sensual harness. Picking them both up, I try and wedge them over my head and whisper, “Why would I wear two collars?”
I spot the note in the box—Thighs, love.
“Oh! Okay.”
They are about two-inches thick each and embellished beautifully with perfect stitching and rivets and buckles. My toes curl as I excitedly slide them on, but I soon decide getting them even is a whole nother obstacle. Standing in front of the full-length closet mirror, I waste twenty minutes trying to perfect the impossible.
Two more boxes await. The first one is a gorgeous lace robe, which drifts along the floor. And the last box contains a pair of black boots that match the thigh cuffs. I slide my feet into the dangerous spikes and precariously teeter to the dresser where I notice another box.
“My diamond cuffs from Ella!” I mumble, snatching them up and noticing the gorgeous diamond and ruby teardrop earrings. My eyes open wide as I dangle them in front of my face. “These are not costume, Sal.”
Glancing in the mirror, I know the one thing I need to accentuate the whole look—my hair up. Slowly, I weave my way to the bathroom. I hate fucking heels. Sal knows this as I remember his saying, “It’s not about whether you can walk in them or not. It’s about how fucking sexy they are when you crawl to me or when I toss them on my shoulders. Just get to me, I will take care of the rest.”
I browse through the bathroom drawers, searching for a clip of some kind, anything really to get the mess of hair up. The length is sexy, but I know this Master. He goes for romance and a few stray wisps dangling on my nipples will surely garner his attention.
In the second drawer, I find another note—If you seek a hair adornments, open me. Inside of the long box, two beautiful-handcrafted Swarovski crystal dandelions attach to the hair stick pins. Several chains of crystals dangle from the dandelions.
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 41
