Beyond Temptation

by Kit Rocha

  He stared for long enough to kindle fluttering nerves in her stomach, and she prepared herself for the one word she'd gotten every previous time, always delivered in the same easy, friendly tone of dismissal. Nope.

  Ace straightened. "Better."

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she capped her pen. "But not great."

  "Technically, it's solid." He traced a finger along the edge of the paper. "A little on the nose. Make them ask the question, don't give them the answer."

  A warning lurked just under his admonition--people wanted truth, but only so much of it. "Understood. But I'm gunning for your job, Santana. I won't be designing flash forever."

  "No shit, you won't." Ace squeezed her shoulder. "You remember that if your nerd comes crawling back. Give me another couple years, and you'll be able to barter your skills for any goddamn thing you want. Ink talks in Sector Four, and you're gonna be one of the best."

  Emma had to swallow past the lump in her throat, and she covered his hand with hers. "Thanks, Ace."

  "Aww, don't go getting mushy on me." He leaned past her and ripped the page out of her sketchbook, leaving her with a fresh one. "Give me a nice bloody heart and dagger this time. One of the fighters is coming in this afternoon, and if he likes what you come up with, you can do his tattoo."

  "Yeah?"

  Ace grinned as he folded her drawing and tucked it into his pocket. "You're already better than all the stencil-tracing posers in the marketplace combined. If you weren't, you wouldn't be my apprentice."

  A challenge, and the perfect thing to distract her from thoughts of Noah. Either he'd show up again or he wouldn't, but either way, one thing could never change.

  She was an O'Kane, and her family would always have her back.

  Chapter Four

  Before he'd taken two steps into the tattoo studio, Noah knew Emma had found her home.

  The abstract knowledge had been there, but his gut must have still believed there was some future where they ran off to the mountains and lived out the imaginary life he'd bought for her all those years ago. It was the only explanation for the loss that hit him, like a truck careening out of control.

  The woman on the stage, flashing knives as she stripped--that was a stranger. So was the woman who'd climbed into his lap and goaded him into the hottest sex he'd ever had, the one who'd listened to his filthy words and sworn to protect him. A beautiful, hauntingly familiar stranger, but the Emma he'd known hadn't fit in any of those situations.

  She fit here. The studio was surprisingly large, with plenty of space around the tattoo chair situated in the center. It was book-ended by a table and a few rolling trays covered with a familiar array of instruments, but that wasn't what struck him. It was the artwork lining all four walls, a joyous jumble of pre-Flare masterpieces in gilded frames and hasty sketches taped over one another.

  And in between the artwork--shelf upon shelf of supplies. Markers. Pens. Paints. Charcoal and pencils and stacks of sketchpads and thick, creamy paper, the kind they manufactured in Sector Eight and mostly sold to Eden. You could buy a kidney cheaper than you could the contents of just one of these shelves, and there had to be two dozen.

  Emma was sketching at one of the tables set against the wall, her hair twisted up from her neck and her arms bare, a sight so familiar his heart lurched. She always changed into a tank top before settling in to draw, claiming she didn't like working in sleeves.

  Even Cib had never dreamed of being able to give her this. And as selfish as Noah was for coming back at all, he wasn't enough of a bastard to try to take her away from it.

  She didn't look up until she finished one curving line, her wrist twisting in a delicate arc. Her eyes locked with his, dark and guarded, and she laid down her pen. "Hi."

  "Hey." And just like that the familiarity was gone, because the Emma who'd complained about long-sleeved shirts getting in her way had never looked at him with eyes this wary. "Noelle said I'd find you here."

  "It's usually a safe bet." Emma rose, and her stool skittered a few feet across the floor. "I thought you'd left."

  There was no apology or excuse that justified sneaking out of her room without so much as a note, not when he hadn't been sure if he was coming back. "I didn't."

  Her lips twisted in a half-smile. "I guess."

  Not enough. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets to hide the fact he'd curled them into fists. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have cut out like that."

  "No, you shouldn't have." Emma propped her hands on her hips and faced him squarely. "I deserved better than that. Especially after--" The words cut off abruptly.

  He could blame the nightmare, but he'd have to open a box he wanted safely shut for as long as possible. So he took the hit square on the chin and made himself feel the pain. He deserved it. "It wasn't about you," he lied. "I left some shit in Three that I didn't want unguarded for long. Just in case."

  "Okay." She rocked back on her heels and nodded toward the couch along the back wall. "You want to sit?"

  It was a reprieve, if not forgiveness, but he snatched at it. "Can I see what you're working on?"

  Instead of showing him, she picked up the sketchbook and held it close to her chest. "It's nothing. I was just fucking around with a design from earlier. Ace says it still needs work."

  Ace. Plenty of the O'Kanes had files, but none as lurid as Alexander Santana's. In Eden, he was best known for a series of paintings he'd done almost a decade ago, paintings rumored to have been gifts to the rich women he'd slept with in exchange for their patronage.

  Ownership of a Santana had led to divorce and scandal more than once, which only added to their legend and increased their value among a certain set.

  Noah had seen enough pictures of the paintings in question to know the man had skill. It was one more thing he and Cib had never been able to supply--a teacher.

  Squashing jealousy, Noah tried for a smile. It stretched his mouth in unfamiliar ways, but maybe it was the kind of habit that muscle memory could restore. "C'mon, Em. Just a peek?"

  She looked like she was going to say no, but then she flipped the sketchbook around and held it out for him to see.

  She'd drawn a heart with a keyhole at its center, effortlessly shaded to make it three dimensional. Barbed wire and chains crisscrossed each other around it, so intricately sketched that he could make out the individual twists of wire and the sharp, pointed tips of the barbs. "It's a tattoo?"

  "It is." She wiggled the pad of paper. "You want this one? It suits you."

  More than she'd ever know. "It's not meant for someone else?"

  The notebook hit the desk with a soft thump, and Emma turned away. "I was kidding."

  "No, you're right." He shrugged out of his jacket and stripped his shirt over his head. "If I'm going to hang around the O'Kane compound, I should have at least one tattoo, right?"

  She sucked in a breath. For a moment, her gaze lingered on his chest, soft with memory. Then her eyes shuttered, and she folded her arms across her body, one hip cocked out in a pose that screamed challenge. "I'm not that easy. You want ink? You have to pay."

  Good for you. "All right. Cash, credits, or information?"

  "Information," she said immediately. "Answers."

  Of course. The one thing only he could give her, and the quickest path back out of her life. But he liked her like this--tough, challenging. Unafraid to demand what she wanted. "Just as long as you know I'm not easy, either. Anything that could put you in danger's gonna cost more than a tattoo."

  "Fair enough." She gestured to the antique tattoo chair. "Have a seat."

  Noah tossed his shirt over the table and sank into the chair. "How do other people pay for tattoos?"

  "Depends." Tiny plastic cups rattled on one of the trays as she laid them out, side by side. "O'Kanes get certain ones for free, obviously. More if Ace is feeling generous. Someone off the street better bring cash, clean credits, or damn good favors. He barters sometimes, too."

  "Did he do you
rs?"

  Emma grinned as she dropped to another rolling stool and pulled the tray to rest beside the tattoo chair. "Ace would have a hissy if I let anyone else do my ink. He gave me my first one a few years back--I'd heard he was the best, so I saved up and brought him one of my designs. Been in and out of this shop ever since."

  He quirked an eyebrow. "Are you adding my questions to my bill?"

  Her grin gentled into a smile. "Maybe." She pressed the design notebook face down against a thinner sheet of paper, then ran them both quickly under a light fixed to the bottom of the rolling tray. The image appeared on the thin sheet, and she held up the paper. "Where do you want it?"

  "Wherever you think is best." This was fascinating, too. Watching her so sure and confident, totally in her element. She looked the way he felt surrounded by terminal screens--in control.

  She considered him for a moment, then cleaned a spot on the left side of his chest. "Here, I think." When she pressed the light-processed paper to his wet skin and lifted it once more, it left a blue image of the design behind. "Perfect."

  Right over his own frozen heart. "Yeah."

  He watched in silence as she slipped on a pair of gloves and reached for a tube of gel. He couldn't read the label, but Fleming's pharmaceutical logo was plastered across the side, something that Noah might have brooded over if Emma wasn't about to put her hands all over him.

  The gel was cold, but it warmed against his skin as she smoothed it over the transferred design. "First question," she whispered.

  He didn't let himself tense. "Okay."

  "What did you go get this morning from Sector Three?" Her gaze flicked up to lock with his. "I'm assuming you only went to Three."

  "Yeah." Not a tough question, and one he could answer honestly. "I needed some clothes and some tech. And I wanted to set a couple traps in case I'm gone for a while. I can't afford to have anyone get into my place."

  "Will you show it to me sometime?"

  He hesitated. Most people thought he lived in some dank cave or retrofitted basement, some gloomy underground lair, scraping by and making do. The truth was far more dangerous, a family secret that could lead to Eden bombing more than one sector off the map.

  And yet.

  Emma, in his domain. A place he fit as cleanly as she did here, a place where he was in control. If he'd known for sure four years ago that the bunker was more than family legend, he would have disappeared into the tunnels beneath Three with her to start with. But it had taken him seven months to find it, and by then...

  By then, she'd almost been gone.

  "Is that a no?" She changed her gloves, plucked up a bottle of black ink, and poured a little into one of the tiny cups she'd set out.

  "No, it's..." They were alone in the studio, but he still lowered his voice. "It's a dangerous secret to know, for reasons I can't even explain without showing you. So make sure you really want to know first."

  "Mmm." Emma tilted her head and filled the rest of the ink cups, then began to put together her machine. "Second question. How'd you like the party last night?"

  "What, the orgy?" His lips tugged up, and he struggled to school his expression. "I was a little too distracted to appreciate it properly. This girl I used to know was touching herself right in front of me."

  "Oh, is that all I am to you?" she teased, and the machine cut on with a menacing buzz. "A girl you used to know?"

  Christ, the warmth in the words heated his blood. He welcomed the sting of the needles at this point, though he doubted something as mundane as pain would get his dick under control. "Is that your next question?"

  "Nope." She slid closer and laid her free hand on his shoulder. "I know better."

  Her face was close to his, her gaze intent on his chest. He could look his fill, memorize the shape of her brow and the set of her lips when she was concentrating. He could answer her question anyway, see what expression flashed through those eyes. "You were never just a girl I knew."

  Her throat worked as she swallowed, but she didn't look at him. "What was I?"

  "Exactly what I told you last night. The bright spot in my world."

  She released a long, slow breath. "Right." But she shook it off by the time the needle touched his skin, jabbing into him with a hollow ache, and her smile was back in place. "Favorite color?"

  She was retreating. Scrambling away from dangerous territory, and it should have been a relief. But he liked the challenge better, the thrill of walking the tightrope.

  Or maybe he was just another asshole guy drunk on the chase, because he dropped his voice to the lowest, most suggestive fucking whisper he could manage. "Pink."

  Emma didn't blush, and she didn't stammer out an embarrassed deflection. She met his gaze with a soft laugh and an arched eyebrow. "Yeah? I'm kind of fond of it myself."

  Christ, that was hot. "So when Noelle said the two of you were close, she was talking biblically?"

  "She gets a little adventurous now and then. I'm happy to oblige."

  Noah fell silent, lost for a moment in that visual. Maybe that was the method to Dallas O'Kane's madness, the only way to reconcile his mercenary reputation with the contented loyalty of his people--even the women.

  No, especially the women, because that was what was different here. Emma could be anything she wanted, do anything--or anyone--she wanted, and her happiness was part of the puzzle. The women here were woven in with the men, stronger and better for it.

  Mac Fleming had a wife and a string of mistresses. Dallas O'Kane had a partner.

  "Did you do them, too?"

  Noah blinked and glanced at Emma. "What?"

  "The drugs. It's my next question." She pressed her lips together as she dipped her needle into the ink again. "Were you into the same shit my brother was all fucked up on?"

  A swift kick in the balls couldn't have brought him down faster. "No. I did some--the nonaddictive stuff that keeps you alert and focused. But I never got into the recreational drugs, and I wouldn't have gone near the shit Fleming cooks up to hook people. I didn't know Cib had, not until it was too damn late."

  "Okay."

  Her face was an impassive mask, and the persistent prick of the needles felt like a punishment now, a well-earned one. "I should have kept a closer eye on him. For all I know, it was my fault."

  The corner of her mouth curved up in a mirthless smile as she shook her head. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you could have stopped him?"

  "Wouldn't you?"

  "You're assuming I didn't try," she answered flatly. "That I didn't beg him to give it up before it all went too far."

  Belatedly, Noah realized what he'd said and gripped the chair to keep from jerking upright. "I didn't mean-- Fuck, Emma. You were barely more than a kid. And I'm the reason he got into that world to begin with. It was my fault."

  "Cut it out." Her tone was still flat, but firm this time. Steely. "I'm not into the blame shit. It's past, it's over. Cib made his choices. It's just..." She shrugged. "I guess by the time he regretted them, he couldn't find his way back."

  "Blame Fleming," Noah told her roughly. "Nothing he sells has to be addictive. He made that choice, and that's why I want to bring him down."

  "Works for me." She shut off the machine and started unscrewing the metal tip that held the needle. "You need to take a break before I start in again?"

  He'd barely felt the pain. Even now it was more sore than anything else, like gently abraded skin. He'd gotten far worse scraping his arm on concrete. "Nah, it's fine."

  "No more questions," she offered. "You're paid up."

  It had been too easy, and nothing about life in the sectors was ever easy. Emma focused on her work, handling the machine and its complicated parts with long familiarity, leaving Noah crawling back over the answers he'd given her.

  No, the words he'd given her. He knew better than most that words were merely the outer layer, the most basic syntax of communication. Only Emma knew what truths she'd read into what he said and how he sai
d it, and he supposed that whatever she'd gotten had satisfied her.

  Whether that was good or bad... Fuck, he was already a mile past knowing, because he'd had a darker reason for cutting out without a warning, a reason so selfish and self-absorbed he could barely admit it to himself. The answer to a question he had no right to even ask.

  Now he knew Emma could forgive him.

  Chapter Five

  Dallas's girlfriend made Noah nervous.

  Alexa Parrino--Lex, to the people in Sector Four--might not appreciate being referred to as someone's girlfriend, but Noah didn't think she'd begrudge him the nerves. A woman with her training could put a man at ease if she wanted to.

  And Lex clearly didn't want to.

  She stared at him from across the desk, tapping her pen on its smooth surface. "Did you have a nice trip home, Lennox?"

  "I got in and out in one piece."

  "So I see." She gave him an appraising look, then shrugged. "You're not a prisoner here. You can do whatever you want. But we can't guarantee your safety off this compound, and especially not outside this sector."

  Noah raised an eyebrow. "I figured you'd be more concerned with the danger that might follow me back."

  "See, and I figured you'd be smart enough to handle all the worrying on that count. For Emma's sake, if nothing else."

  He'd walked right into that trap, and judging by the knowing glint in Lex's gaze, his nervousness had been justified. The words hadn't even been a question--she'd stated the truth like she knew it.

  She probably did. "Trix talked to you."

  "I talked to Trix," she corrected. "There's a difference."

  "Is there?"

  "Yeah, because I asked. She didn't volunteer. Though I guess that only matters if you care who's keeping your secrets." Lex braced her elbows on the desk. "But then, you seem like a man who prizes his secrets."

  His heart slammed against his rib cage, a painful jolt that had him gripping the arms of the chair. "I don't know what she told you, but some truths--" He forced himself to take a slow, calming breath. "Emma has a dead brother who loved her. I'm not taking that away."