by Selina Marie
I stand there, watching her body as the rhythm of her breathing finally evens out, and the tremors of her body have stopped altogether. Thoughts of what will happen now are spinning hastily inside of my head and I toy with the idea that maybe I can keep her. I can protect her and keep her safe and maybe she will want me to. She can’t want to go back to that life, to that piece of shit at her house. Maybe I can save her like I couldn’t save my mother. She would be proud; maybe she’d forgive me for the person I am and for the things I do.
That’s when something clicks. Something I wish never slot into place in the puzzle inside of my mind. I pull out my phone from my back pocket and check the address of where I was meant to go tonight. Robert Redman’s address followed by a photo of his house.
Fuck! No. No. No.
I clutch my phone so tight I feel the case crack. The house that I ran into after hearing her screams, after my body moved before my head could catch up and Robert fucking—scumbag, druggie and snitch—Redman’s house are one in the same. Which means one thing. The girl living under his rotting roof, the one currently naked and wrapped up in my shirt and in my fucking bed, the girl I’m sure would be dead if I hadn’t found her, is Emilia Blake, the girl I hated, hate. Emilia and her sister Alexis are responsible for a missing piece of the cold, black heart that resides in my chest. But why does the hate I associate with her name dissipate when I look at the girl who embodies it?
I shake my head, trying to clear it of this new revelation. No matter how I try to hate the woman before me, my body doesn’t listen, my breathing grows shallow and fast, my pulse quick. Something is fluttering around in my stomach and my dick is still painfully hard for her. I crack my knuckles, half-way close to punching myself in the nuts because there’s no way I should be reacting to her like this. It’s too fucked up, I’m too fucked up. I can’t be thinking like this. I have a role to play and a job to do, and if I want to find out what I need to know, then I can’t afford to be having feelings that can rival a horny fifteen-year-old fucking teenager. I can’t afford any kind of connection with Emilia Blake, especially emotionally. “Never give up on the innocent.” Mom’s voice replays in my head again and I scoff. Emilia Blake is not an innocent and I will make sure I ruin her.
I pace around my bedroom, thinking how I can make this work to my advantage but stop short when I hear movement, her legs brushing against the sheets as she starts to come to. I send a quick text message to Sergio, my driver and also the best hacker I know, to find out her number and send it to me asap. I rub my eyes, which are stinging now and realize I haven’t slept at all. The sun is rising—I can see the light through the blinds—and my phone says it is five-fifty in the morning.
I know I have to let her go, for her own safety. I'm not sure if that is for her protection from the hatred that spreads through my body like wildfire when I think of her and her sister. Or if it is protection from my cock which will happily show her all the ways I’d like to fuck her up, literally, and hard.
The martyr in me feels sick at the thought of letting her leave, because I suspect the only place she will go will be back to the hellhole, with him. But I have already decided that she'll be back here whether she likes it or not, and soon. Sergio will watch her for me as soon as she steps foot off my property, not because I care about her, but because I owe it to my mother, the martyr in my mind reasons. It also serves me to keep tabs on her. If I keep a close eye on her I can uncover every little deceptive thing about her, and make her fall so much more satisfying when she hits the jagged rocks waiting for her at the bottom of her lies.
As my eyes gaze back over to her, my mind—which is all over the fucking place—drifts back to Robert. I wonder if he's conscious yet. I hope he is just coming to now; I hope he can’t see through the stream of blood running down his face. I hope the pain is intense, and I wish I’d hit him harder so I would’ve finished the job. But that would be way too easy. I like to play with my prey before ripping it to shreds. He is her guardian, and it is fucking laughable referring to that piece of shit as anyone’s guardian. What I don’t get is why she's still there. She’s twenty years old, she’s an adult. Just get a job and move away from the motherfucker. Maybe the sick bitch secretly likes it.
I had gone easy on him, especially considering what I walked in on. Unfortunately for me that meant I couldn’t dish out his karma right then, she was my only focus.
I clench my fists tight as I see it playing out in my head again. The rage is almost blinding, but strangely, even now knowing who she is, the thought of her being hurt or worse is agonizing. Why?
I shake the thought away, consciously blocking any connection or feelings I'm having toward her, because once again I am letting my emotions for the girl she could’ve been—before I had figured it out—get the better of me. I take a deep breath—some clarity, logic and resolve returning on the exhale. I do not have any feelings toward her. I can’t have. The only sensation that sears throughout my body, straight through muscle down to the bone, is pure, unadulterated loathing. I need her for a reason. I’ll keep her close, safe and sound, then I will obliterate her with her own lies. She is nothing.
My exterior is ice cold, and as far as she is concerned, I am a fucking glacier. I have a purpose and unfortunately for this sleeping beauty, she will undoubtably be the collateral damage.
I don’t realize my mind has drifted until she clears her throat next to me in the passenger seat, clearly trying to bring me back to the moment. I’d driven on autopilot which could’ve ended very badly for both of us, and I have no doubt I crossed quite a few red lights on the way here.
Here.
Why the fuck did I drive to Penderal Bay, not the town—obviously I drove to the town, it’s where I live—but why did I drive to the beach?
I stop the car when I realize I drove into the parking lot which looks straight onto the sand and sea. My eyes cut over to Emilia sitting in the seat next to me; her close proximity makes my pulse erratic and my blood boil, and the battle of rage and lust is overwhelming, but I can deal with it. I figure I could hate fuck her. It’s not like my dick has any attachment to the women I’m inside of anyway, and she wouldn’t be an exception. Emilia isn’t as stiff or rigid as she when she got in the car, unlike my cock is, now that images of me fucking her play around in my imagination. She looks tired, her shoulders slouch forward a little as her eyes are fixated on the waves crashing on the shoreline—the sea spray whipping up into the air and being carried by the wind. I am pissed off that she looks relaxed. She shouldn’t be remotely comfortable with me—especially with me—but she is none the wiser. It seems she’s unaware of who I am, and she is definitely unaware of what I am capable of.
When I abruptly throw my door open I notice her flinch a little. Maybe it’s not me who she feels at ease around, maybe like me, it’s the ocean. That irks me even more though. What the fuck, I’m not going to… Fuck.
Of course, I know why now. She lives a life not many dream of, and I can relate. From the outside, my life looks like a goddamn fairy-tale but despite what everyone might think they know, under the veil of perfection lives power hungry, ruthless and reckless evil. I crack my knuckles thinking of how her stepfather would look on the receiving end of them—again—and turn my attention back to Emilia when she speaks just before I can escape out of the truck. Her body language has shifted again. She doesn’t look calm anymore, her shoulders tense and bunch up toward her neck.
“What are we doing here? You said you would take me to your house to get my locket.” She looks like she wants to boil me like a lobster they cook down the street in the local seafood restaurant, but I am starting to see through her mask. I’ve seen her soft and vulnerable, and the idiot inside me wants to save her, protect her, to own that girl, the soft and helpless one. The sassy, rude and feisty Emilia just makes me want to fuck her mouth so she can choke on me and her own fire.
I can’t actually give her an answer because I don’t even know why I drove here,
I just did. Maybe somewhere deep, deep inside I want to have this connection with her—the girl who softened me like butter in a pan the moment I laid her down in the back of my truck—but my fucking ego pipes up again reminding me of the truth, that both sides of her are one in the same. My real motive with her and her sister is one thing, and that means there isn’t any room for me to be the man my mother would’ve wanted me to be. He was long gone.
I don’t answer her. I enjoy pushing her buttons and the way her voice reaches octaves only dogs can hear when she gets frustrated. I move the rest of my body from the truck and slam the door shut, giving her nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emilia
What the hell is he doing?
As much as I love it here, I don’t love it at all when it’s him sitting next to me or leaning on the hood of his truck like he is now. Moving my head and tilting it to the side a little I see his angular jawline; it ticks a couple of times before I see traces of a slow smirk. He’s smug as fuck, intentionally pissing me off and enjoying every second of it.
I shove the door open a little too forcefully, and he doesn’t seem phased at all which just annoys me more. I just want to get to his house, get in and get out. I hastily move my body out of the car taking a step toward him, crossing my arms over my chest, jutting my hip out impatiently. When I raise my eyebrows at him in question, he turns his head looking into my eyes.
My breath catches under his intensity and I can feel my body reacting again, stomach tensing, heat spreading throughout my body from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head—like the heat from his gaze which is laced equal parts with disgust and desire. I break eye contact, not sure of what to make of the way I respond to him. I will not lose control of myself. I never lose control and I’m not planning on doing it any time soon.
The deep, low chuckle, almost sounding like a scoff, and the irritation in his exhale does something to me. I figure if I go along with whatever he is doing for now, I can get what I need faster. I move around to the hood of the car and lean my ass against the matte black bumper, as I’m not exactly tall enough to comfortably sit on the hood of his car, being 5’4”. That and the fact his Hummer is huge. I look out ahead of us and watch the waves rolling in, despite my body aching to check out another view to my right, but I keep my eyes focused on the soft blues and greens merging together like a slow dance. Ebbing and flowing, pushing, pulling, but never resisting. One movement flowing into the next so effortlessly, it’s mesmerizing.
I feel the heat from his body and glare as I move my eyes up to his.
I am unguarded and uncomfortably out of my element but not because of him. Because in the moment when I’m watching the waves, I feel all my emotions and vulnerability that I try to shove down to the depths of myself and pray they won’t ever resurface. I should know better though.
The ocean influences me, my mind, body and soul to open and feel a connection that is otherworldly. It always has. Even when Lexi and I would spend whatever time we could on the beach, I would always get lost to the sea, despite my sister babbling on about whatever guy took her fancy or which of her so-called friends was being a bitch that day (It was usually her, but I would never tell her that). I would always zone out and find my solace in the ripples and rolls of the waves.
She grew even more distant toward me the summer before she disappeared—the coldness in her treatment of me turning to ice. Then she was gone.
Fire ignites my body once again when I meet his gaze and I see all traces of humor are gone from his eyes. The disgust that swam in them moments ago has diffused a little, and there is almost understanding in them. That couldn’t possibly be the case, a man like him doesn’t have the faintest idea of what my life is like let alone understand any of it, or me.
You know when you don’t need any words because the moment is enough? That is this moment. I feel as if the chains around my body holding the real Emilia Blake captive have been cut free, but I am exposed and that scares me. My guard is down without my permission and it isn’t safe.
I blink away the moisture that glazes over my eyes and the guard is back up. I can’t make eye contact with him again because as cliché as it is and as much as I hate to admit it, my eyes really are the windows to my soul. I’ve never been able to hide my feelings, and you better believe I try. I try damn hard to keep the blinkers closed, but there is something about him, and as much as I try to fight it, there is something I can’t explain that lures me closer; and it doesn’t just scare me, it terrifies me.
I move to grab my phone from my pocket to check the time and see almost an hour has passed.
Nothing but our breathing and the crashing of waves fills the air echoing around us and we still haven’t moved. The heat of his body radiates warmth into mine, which I am secretly pretty thankful for as it is getting cold and nearly dark, the sun vanishing on the horizon.
I shift my body, finally breaking the comfortable silence by speaking to him.
“Look, this has been really nice and all but I really need to get back home soon. I have college in the morning and I don’t want to be—” I stop speaking when his head snaps toward mine like something has sparked his interest, eyes glistening, hard and a little intrigued.
“Let’s go. I’ve got shit to do too,” he snaps, pulling out his phone and typing out a text, I assume. And just like that, the asshole is back and I’m seriously considering if he has some kind of personality disorder because his mood swings seem to be on a whole other level.
He stands abruptly, moving to the driver’s seat and slamming the door closed behind him. He then has the fucking nerve to toot the horn, scaring the ever-living shit out of me. I swear I jump a solid two feet from the car.
At least he has a sense of humor, one that almost results in giving me a full-blown heart attack and nearly ending me on the spot, but there is something inside of him besides pure assholery, if that is even a word.
I know he has a conscience and a heart somewhere deep down inside of that body carved by the Greek gods, especially after what he did for me. But I find that hard to remember when he is nothing but ice.
I am stubborn, guarded and have an attitude—I know I do—and I’m also not blind to his appeal and the attraction my body has toward him. But I have to be cold and unattached. It is what has kept me sane all this time, and I find it hard to believe that when someone does something that is deemed an act of goodness and decency, that they aren’t getting something out of it for themselves.
In my reality there is always an ulterior motive, which is why I am emotionally closed off for the most part, and it will take more than a man that drips sex appeal, flawlessness and mystery to strip through the layers of barbed wire I have wrapped myself in for so long.
I shoot daggers at him as I make my way back into the truck, my heart rate still erratic. I throw my ass down on his seat pulling the seatbelt across my body hastily when he turns the ignition and the music up drowning out any words I may have had to say. Fortunately for him, the lyrics coming from the song are a lot less explicit than the ones about to explode out of my mouth.
Once again, we sit without speaking, but the energy coming from our bodies speaks louder than words do anyway.
I still didn’t even know his name, and if you look at it from an outsider or a sane person’s point of view, this whole situation is fucked up. Nonetheless, here I am, sitting in a car with the stranger who saved my life twenty-four hours ago, on route to his house for the second time. Although this time I will be conscious when we arrive.
The sound of stone crunching under the tires causes me to snap back to reality, jolting me out of my thoughts when the music cuts out abruptly. His house (it is a mansion, but the word feels uncomfortable on my tongue for some reason) looks even more powerful and daunting than it did before, the glass reflecting the black of the night sky. It is a strange feeling of relief—being here again—mixed with uncertainty, and I know instantly that feeling is connected to the man s
itting beside me.
All I can hear is the thump of my heartbeat in my ears as my nerves start bouncing around in my stomach. The variety of emotions pulsing through my body confuses me, but I need to stay focused on the reason I am here. Stay focused, Emilia. Don’t lose sight of why you are here.
He gets out of the car, slamming the door shut and not bothering to wait for me before opening his front door which is already unlocked.
I am relieved to have a moment to myself to breathe and get my shit together. I am willingly entering his domain—again—and cannot afford my pussy to take over.
After a few deep breaths, my head leaning back on the headrest, I close my eyes and break out of my stupor. After a few moments I open the door and jump down onto the pebbles crunching under my boots, I follow him inside trying to maintain a steady pulse as I close the door behind me. I take in the foyer for a second time, a great open space that can literally fit my entire house twice over. Rich prick. I shouldn’t judge—especially since my best friend is just as rich as I suspect he is, but I don’t particularly like this man, so there’s that.
Most of the time, I try my best to not let one of my many egos lead. But judgemental personalities rear their heads sometimes—times like this—when one man needs a freaking mansion this massive, it seems so conceited and way too over the top, as if it is something to flaunt in my face.
But then again, I guess because I live in a shoebox by comparison, I’m bound to get a little jealous. It doesn’t feel like jealousy though. For some reason I feel like I’ve been robbed of something, which is stupid and doesn’t make any sense.
Why do some people have so much and others, like me, have so little?
Light catches my eye and I move my gaze down to the marble floor again, glistening under the lights of the chandelier. I hear a sound coming from a room off to the left, not sure if it’s him or someone else, maybe it’s a maid?
