Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Soldier?” She crosses her arms, a bit annoyed of my ignorance. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  No, not really. “Sorry, I’m—” Fucking you. Hard. “Tired. Can you repeat the question?”

  Dasha rolls her pretty eyes. “The bachelor auction. Will wants to you be one of the bachelors.”

  I laugh. Loud. Harsh. “He wants what?”

  She tosses her curls over one shoulder and casts me a nasty look. “It’s for a good cause.”

  Wait a second. Deveraux plans a charity auction, invites Miami’s hottest and richest bachelors, advertises it all across the country, and now he wants me to be one of the bachelors? “Hate to break it to you, little girl, but I don’t drive a Ferrari, and my bank account writes mostly red numbers. I’m pretty sure that’s not worth a buck for rich chicks.”

  Dasha wiggles her nose. “Oh, please.”

  “What?”

  She moves closer. “Those women don’t care about money or cars.” She cocks a brow. “Trust me, they have enough of both.”

  “What do they care about?” I retort.

  Dasha ogles my chest. “This.” Her index finger traces the line of the drop that just slithered down my skin. “They only care about this.”

  Electricity jolts through my veins, right into my eager cock.

  I stumble backward.

  She grins.

  “C’mon.” She closes the gap between us. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun?” I slam my arms over my chest. “Being sold off like a piece of meat, that’s your idea of fun?”

  She’s amused. She tiptoes to my ear. “You never know whose mouth that piece of meat lands in, do you?” She pauses, lowering down on her heels. “You might enjoy being eaten alive.”

  She can eat me all day long. “I doubt that,” I mutter, pissed I can’t get the images of her tits wrapped in black lace out of my head.

  Dasha is done playing nice. “Fine, don’t do it.” She heads to the door. “Tell those poor kids your ego is too big to have a glass of wine with a chick.”

  Bitch.

  “Go on and tell them how little you care about them going to school, filling their empty stomachs, or having a roof over their heads.”

  What the actual fuck? I’m not the bad guy here.

  “Whatever.” She pulls her shoulders to her ears. “You can always sit around and wait for a second chance. You seem to be really good at it.”

  Full-blown bitch, that’s what she is. She also happens to be right. If a glass of wine with some rich chick can help one kid out of a hundred, it’d be worth it.

  “What the fuck is one supposed to wear when he’s sold off?”

  Dasha looks back at me, a big fat smile on her lips. “I’ll have Angela bring you something.”

  I hate this job.

  I fucking hate Dasha, too.

  And I absolutely loathe the way I want her.

  “You.”

  Shadow

  You like blonde pussies. You love to spend your daddy’s money. You adore your customized Lamborghini Centario with the yellow tiger on the hood. Your favorite meal is filet mignon. You hang out at Sin with your friends. You don’t understand “no,” especially when it’s offered to you by a woman with a short skirt. You pretend to be tough and rough, but we both know you’ve never had to fight a day in your life.

  Did you have a blonde pussy last night?

  Did you spend Daddy’s money on booze and boobs at Sin?

  Have you taken your Lambo on a ride?

  For your sake, I hope you have. You won’t get another chance. Because I’m coming for you, my friend. I’ll end your pathetic existence right in front of Daddy’s eyes.

  So, see you later, alligator.

  You’re supposed to say, “In a little while, crocodile.”

  “Because I have a promise to keep.”

  Markus

  “Oh, my—” Angela’s jaw hits the floor. Her blue eyes dart from my black button-down to my black pants and back to my narrow-cut black jacket.

  I slip in my—surprise, surprise—equally black shoes. Even the Men in Black wear white shirts. Not me. Not when Dasha has a say in it. She picked the all-black attire. At least, that’s what Angela said when she barged into my room like privacy is an alien word in this house, tossing the stuff at my feet.

  “That bad, huh?” For the record, I’m just messing with her. There’s no mistaking the fuck-me expression sculpted on her fake Botox face.

  Angela saunters toward me. She bites her lower lip so hard, I expect to see crimson anytime soon. “You,” she runs her fake pink nails down the silk tie, “are going to make the big bucks tonight.”

  I would rather be shipped off to the Middle East for another tour. But who cares? Not Angela. Not Deveraux. The least of all Dasha.

  Angela—mistress of the mansion—leans in closer, inhaling me deeply. “Next time,” she whispers, voice sultry and low. “Don’t just watch.” Her needy fingers feel up my biceps. “Join in.”

  I’m fully—as in my treacherous motherfucker of a dick senses pleasure—aware of what she’s talking about. The cave. Deveraux. Her busty friend.

  In short, the threesome.

  “Nah.” I step back, not playing her little game. “I’m not into sharing.”

  She licks her lips. “But it’s caring, Boulder.”

  I have the weirdest feeling Dasha would disagree.

  “I mean it.” Our eyes lock. “You can fuck me and my friend any day. Just say the word.”

  “Thanks.” I flash her an arrogant smile. “But no, thanks.”

  She spins on her shaky heels. “A word of advice?”

  No.

  “She’s never going to let you in her panties.” She spits the words out like venom.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Angela faces me, grinning like a bitch. “Oh, I think you do. Everyone sees the way you eye-fuck her, Boulder.” She shrugs. “I get it. I’d fuck her, too. But the boss would kill me.” The evil bitch laughs. “He’ll kill you too, you know.”

  Fear isn’t in my vocabulary. I was trained to run toward gunfire, into a blazing hell of flames, and toward death. But what Angela just threw at me reminds me he’d kill Dasha, too. And that realization makes it hard to breathe.

  A knock on the door.

  Deveraux doesn’t bother to wait for an invitation. As I said, privacy isn’t really a thing around the Deveraux Mansion. “Look at you, Boulder. Hot as fuck.”

  “And he knows it,” Angela grumbles, pushing past Deveraux.

  The First Son raises his brows at me. “What’s with her?”

  “She’s not big on hearing a ‘no,’ is she?” Hey, why lie? Angela did come on to me, not the other way around. There’s also something about that chick that makes me oblivious to the reality that I might have just put her in a bad spot.

  Deveraux slams his hand on my shoulder, laughing. “No.” He shakes his head. “She really isn’t.”

  I grab my phone from the nightstand and shove it in my jacket. “All right, let’s do this before I change my mind.”

  “Trust me.” Deveraux flashes me a wicked grin. “You’d regret it.”

  I sigh. “And why’s that?”

  “Because I have a promise to keep.”

  I don’t recall any promises made by the cunning devil everyone believes to be the lamb. “What promise?”

  “You saved my life.”

  I did no such thing. Shadow wasn’t after him that day. Or else he’d be auctioning off bachelors in hell tonight.

  “I promised you a gift,” he goes on.

  I don’t want anything from Deveraux. “I—”

  “You’re going to love it.” He shoves me out of the room. “Fucking. Love. It.”

  Why don’t I believe him?

  “Even the devil can bleed. Just wait and see.”

  Shadow

  I see you.

  Purple button-down tucked into your black Armani pants to show off
the silver Gucci emblem on your belt. Unwashed hair, styled like James Dean—a poor imitation, I’d like to add. And a smirk I want to cut right out of that ugly face of yours.

  I hear you.

  “Timothy,” you roar. “How’s your daughter?” You fucked her, didn’t you? I can tell by the way you lick your lips and adjust your pants.

  Timothy doesn’t like you, my friend. “She’s at Harvard,” he mutters, teeth gritted.

  “Would the gentleman care for a drink?” The waitress holds the champagne glasses under your nose. She’s your type, isn’t she? Blonde, young, cute, angelic face, and a body to die for.

  You throw your disgusting hand around her shoulder, pulling her against you. Not giving a rat’s ass that she almost spills the drinks. “How about you bring me a real drink, baby?”

  She tries to sidestep you. “Of course, what would you like?”

  “Vodka.” You invade her privacy again. Grabbing her butt. “And your number.”

  Timothy hates you, pal. You should see the way he looks at you. Like you’re a monster, the spawn of the fucking devil. Little does he know, you are. The spawn of the devil, I mean. But even the devil can bleed. Just wait and see.

  The waitress is out of your reach. Timothy has moved on. Me? I’m still your shadow.

  You’re so close to your maker. Those heavy, deep breaths? They’ll be your last ones. Cherish them.

  Oh, and did you fuck that blonde whore you took home last night from Sin? I hope you did. She was the last pussy you invaded.

  C’mon, even hell has standards. And you, buddy, you don’t meet them.

  You’ve got a few more minutes, maybe another hour. Then it’s time to say, Bye, bye, Gleb. Have fun in the pit.

  “Why did I say yes?”

  Markus

  What the fuck was I thinking? This—women of all ages, spending more money in an hour than some earn in a lifetime—isn’t my cup of tea. And I’m sure as hell not theirs.

  So why? Why did I say yes?

  Because Dasha knew how to push my buttons. A little guilt here, a few googly eyes there, and I was a sucker. Pathetic.

  Everyone sees the way you eye-fuck her. Maybe Angela was right. Maybe that’s why Deveraux sent her. He knew I’m crazy about his girlfriend and figured why not use it against me?

  “Boulder.” Deveraux elbows me. “You good, my man?”

  I straighten my jacket and nod. “What now?” asked the lamb before it was sent to the slaughter bank.

  “Go to the stage.” He runs a hand down his tie. “We’ll start shortly.”

  Dudes stand in line. Some I recognize from billboards. They’re models, I believe. Some are complete strangers. And one—

  “Boulder.” A bulky hand hits my back. “You joining us for the fun tonight?”

  “Hey.” My gaze darts from his purple button-down to his fifty’s hairstyle. “Good to see you again.” That’s a flat-out lie. Gleb—Dimitri’s son—is an obnoxious asshole. Thinks he owns the fucking world. Easy when you pay with Daddy’s credit card.

  He flashes me his coffee-stained teeth. “I hope you won’t be disappointed if,” he tilts his chin at the ladies, fanning themselves, “they go bankrupt for me.”

  My lips twitch upward. “Likewise.” I might not be rich, but compared to Gleb I’m George Clooney and Brad Pit all rolled into one. That has to count for something, right?

  Deveraux climbs the stage.

  The crowd goes nuts—clapping, cheering, screaming.

  Deveraux silences them with a raised hand. “I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. Miami’s homeless youth certainly appreciates your time and money.” The crowd applauds. “Now, let’s not waste any more time.” He faces the first dude in line. “Give it up for tonight’s first bachelor, Miami’s favorite radio jockey, Jerryyyy Menning.”

  Jerry heads up to Deveraux. He’s in his early thirties, about six feet tall, rocks a sun-kissed tan, and has an edgy but handsome face.

  Judging by the drooling of the ladies, he’ll make quite a few bucks.

  Deveraux starts the bidding at ten thousand. In a matter of minutes, he’s climbed up to sixty thousand.

  “Show off,” Gleb grumbles when Jerry presents his biceps, adding another thirty thousand to the pot.

  “Where’s your dad?” Gleb could use a little distraction.

  “On his way.” He shrugs. “Had some business to attend to.”

  What kind of business? I almost ask, but Deveraux bangs his wooden hammer onto the podium. “Sold for one hundred and twenty thousand to the lady in pink.”

  Remember what I said about fear? I reconsider. That woman with the pink dress, hauling poor Jerry down the stage and away from prying eyes? Scary as hell. The thought of being auctioned off to her kind? Petrifying.

  “Raven hair, eyes like the desert, body and face of a sculpted Greek God.”

  Shadow

  Bitis arietans aka puff adders. Responsible for the most snakebite fatalities throughout Africa. They aren’t as evil as they sound though. Yes, they can kill about five grown men with their poisonous fangs. And yes, they do strike if provoked. But they’re also shy and rely on their camouflage for protection. They don’t slither around, waiting for a victim. They’re driven by their survival instinct. Unlike—

  Me.

  I am sitting around, waiting for my victim to come off the stage with the chick who just spent ninety grand on him. The reason I’ll inject him with the puff adder’s venom has nothing to do with survival either. I’ll strike because it brings me pleasure, because it satisfies my need to make him and his daddy pay.

  Look at him. Trying to be all charming, assessing his buyer’s ass like calculating the chances she’ll let his dick in. So fucking pitiful, it sorta hurts.

  Luckily, I will end his suffering soon.

  “And now.” Deveraux pauses. “We have a very special bachelor. Not only did he serve his country, he’s also the closest thing to James Bond you’ll ever get. Get your check books ready, ladies.” He looks to the line of bachelors. “Here’s the one and only…” He pauses. “Markus Boulder.”

  My gaze darts to the stage. Boulder—he cleans up nicely—saunters up the stairs. His face is hard, his eyes narrowed. In that very moment, he reminds me of the puff adder—shy, camouflaging his unease under a blanket of coolness.

  I spot several willing bidders—different looks and ages, equally raging hormones.

  Don’t get me wrong. I can see why they’d spend hubby’s hard-earned money. Raven hair, eyes like the desert, body and face of a sculpted Greek God. Markus Boulder is the epitome of god-gave-him-all-and-more. But I’m not here to adore his dimple. I’m here to administer death.

  And my victim is just a step away.

  Heavenly.

  “Sold to the gorgeous creature in green.”

  Markus

  Thanks to Deveraux, I’ll never, ever step foot in a zoo again. Those poor animals, I know exactly how they feel—on display and fucking vulnerable.

  “Bidding starts at ten thousand, ladies.”

  That’s a fucking joke. No one in her right mind would pay that much money for damaged goods.

  “Ten,” Gold Dress shouts.

  Deveraux flashes me a see-I-knew-this-was-a-great-idea smile. “Do I hear—”

  “Twenty,” Black Dress barks, frantically waving her hand.

  Gold Dress frowns. “Thirty.”

  “You’re a catch,” Deveraux whispers while the ladies outbid each other relentlessly.

  A Jennifer Aniston lookalike weighs in. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  Wait, what? Did she just say—

  “One twenty,” Gold Dress goes on.

  Black Dress shakes her head. She’s out.

  “One fifty,” the Jennifer lookalike half-screams.

  What the hell is wrong with those chicks? One hundred and fifty thousand dollars? For…Me? That’s madness.

  Deveraux nudges me. “It’ll get better.”

  Bett
er than what, exactly?

  “One sixty,” Gold Dress grumbles, shoulders drooping.

  Jennifer is already celebrating her win. “One eighty.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” a sexy-as-fuck voice purrs.

  Is that—

  The crowd parts as Dasha moves up to the stage, her emerald dress dancing around her ankles. She smiles at me, all innocent and sweet. But I’m not oblivious to the mischievous spark in her hazel eyes.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Deveraux repeats, as if it’s not his girlfriend bidding his money on me. “Do we hear more?”

  Gold Dress and Jennifer murder Dasha with their eyes. She found their limit, and they don’t like it.

  “Sold to the gorgeous creature in green,” Deveraux announces.

  What the actual fuck? Did she really—

  Dasha laces her fingers through mine, dragging me down the stage and inside the house. I’d ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing, but I’m a little busy wrapping my head around what just happened.

  “Tick tock…”

  Shadow

  It didn’t even hurt, did it?

  Soon, it will.

  Enjoy that fuck, Gleb. Spread her legs real wide.

  You’ve got half an hour, max.

  Tick tock, tick tock…

  “You paid for me, little girl. You deserve everything.”

  Markus

  “Dasha, what the—”

  “Shh.” One finger on her lips, she pulls me inside my bedroom. “I didn’t pay two hundred and fifty grand for you to talk.”

  Seriously, what the hell?

  In a matter of seconds, I’m on my back on the goddamn bed.

  Dasha hovers over me, working the zipper of my pants. I swear I want to stop her, to ask her what in the name of God she’s doing—with me, in her boyfriend’s house.

  She pulls my pants down, my boxers following suit.