by Marata Eros
Maybe I am learning French, anyway. I give a shaky laugh, and Shepard's hand drops as he watches my expression closely.
My flesh cools with the loss of his touch.
“Let me in, Marissa.”
His words mean more than the surface question.
My hand shakes as I unlatch the chain.
But he doesn't enter my apartment. Shepard pulls me through the door and against his strong body.
SEVEN
Thorn
Thorn stands, his hands automatically pegging his hips, and scowls at the crime scene.
He's only a consultant instead of a cop now, but the precinct lets Thorn know when there's been any crime involving French anything. Couple of dead French nationals on the ground gets a phone call to Thorn right away.
Letting him know when French shit goes down gives Juliette the peace of mind she deserves. He feels like putty in her hands. Right now she's more than his wife; Juliette's his baby mama.
And what a big one she is. Not that he'd be dumb enough to say. A smile curves his mouth at the memory of her swollen belly. The uniforms keep the crowd back from the slickly executed murder before him. His eyes trail over the shrouded corpses.
No witnesses.
He rolls his gaze toward the disgruntled crowd, but there’s enough blood on the ground to draw the curious. Yup. The fucking rubberneckers are here in typical numbers.
Fat flies drone above the bodies in the unseasonably warm heat of the early autumn weather. The Pacific Northwest is known for cool summers that heat up in the fall. Weird but true.
“Yo, Thorn!”
He pivots, sees Detective Lance Tagger, and lifts his chin. “Tag.”
His former partner jogs to his side. “How's it hanging?”
Thorn grins, thinking of a thousand comebacks, but settles on, “Fine.”
“Fine,” Tag mimics, rolling his eyes. His expression bleeds to serious. “What do you make of this twofer?”
Thorn's attention swings back to the corpses. “French hit.”
Tag’s light-colored eyebrows rise. “Clearly. That's why we called you, Frenchie boy.”
Thorn doesn't flip Tag off, but the effort not to is ugly.
Tag smirks. “Know that irritates your ass.”
My lips twitch. “Yeah. Asshole.”
Tag rubs his hands together and barks out a laugh.
“So what do ya got?”
Thorn frowns. “One shot, silencer. And”—Thorn feels his face go tight—“one dude was beaten to death.”
“Hurts to do that,” Tag comments.
“Yup.” Most people think about the victim of a beating. But the beater's hands look like raw meat after a solid fight.
“Why would the perp do one guy nice and neat with a bow on top then do the sloppy-mojoppy on the big guy?”
“Sloppy-mojoppy?” Thorn snorts.
“Yeah.” Tag waves his hand toward the larger male on the ground. Six feet two—big guy—two fifty. Had a layer of fat, now decomposing—but it was over a good amount of muscle. The motive beats Thorn. “Puzzling as fuck.”
Tag chuckles, crossing his arms.
“Passion. He wasted GQ there.” Thorn hikes his chin in the direction of the elegantly appointed corpse, the French national. “Then he beats the big guy's head into the cement. Maybe the first was speed—needed to get it done. And the second pissed him off.”
Thorn shakes his head. “The two murders don't make sense. It's almost like they were committed by separate people.”
“Detective.”
Thorn and Tag turn toward the sound.
Tom Dietrich, the precinct's head of forensics, strides to their position. “Another DNA in the mix.” He holds up a golden strand of blond hair, tightly coiled, a spatter of blood bisecting its middle.
Thorn frowns, but his wheels are turning, hoping for an easy clue. Like that would ever fucking materialize. “Who?”
“Female, I'd guess.”
By a hair?
The corner of his mouth tweaks, guessing Thorn's unspoken question out of thin air. “I can tell.”
“Magic,” Tag says in a droll voice.
Tom shrugs. “I'll have more details back at the lab. Big rush on this one. After that big French kingpin got taken down last year, all French crime is on the fast track.”
Good.
Roi is gone. Thorn's French sperm donor-father has been wiped like a stain from this earth. But the French mob is alive and well.
But they're not going to be sniffing around Thorn's backyard. Thorn's got something that matters now—
Juliette. And his bun in her oven.
Something Thorn values. Thorn's got a slice of the American dream now, and he's not letting it go.
No one is ever going to threaten his family again.
Not this jagup who whacked the fancy pants that the flies are laying their maggots in.
Not the poor mofo that got his head pounded into the sidewalk.
And no other woman on Thorn's turf will be a cherry for one of those fuckers.
Never.
*
Juliette meets him at the door. Her bright green eyes are pinched with worry.
“Well?”
The weight of Thorn's piece is a pleasant metal dig underneath his arm, and he shifts his weight, settling it more comfortably as he looks at his wife of almost a year.
Thorn doesn't answer immediately but scans the front yard. The dimness of the corners gets a few seconds of additional perusal.
His large hand reaches out, covering Juliette's swollen belly.
“It's them.” His voice is quiet between them, full of meaning.
“Fuck,” she breathes. Tears fill her eyes, making them sparkle like jewels against the whites that gather red from her emotions.
His fingertips skate over the top of her stomach, and Juliette captures his hand. “Don't worry. They're not after you—or me. There's something else going on.”
“What?” Juliette’s face jerks up, and she closes the distance between them as their hands lace. “Is it Shepard?”
The question Thorn hadn't allowed himself to ask. “No.”
She tilts her head back. “You sure?”
Thorn promised himself never to lie to her. Ever. “No,” he admits in a low voice.
“Mon Dieu.”
Yes. My God is about right.
Thorn tugs his Juliette inside their small house. He paid top dollar for the place. It's the most modest house in the nicest neighborhood, a 1920s vintage.
Plastered archways bisect all the living spaces.
But Thorn doesn't let his gaze linger on architecture. He sets the security system the instant he steps inside and turns Juliette to him. “Baby”—he cups her small jaw in his much larger hand—“I need to ask you some stuff about Shepard.”
“You promised we'd never talk about him,” she says.
Thorn bows his head. “I don't want to know about your marriage.” He can't help biting out the last word.
Juliette flinches.
“I'm sorry. I just want to kill that fucker.” Thorn's hands fist.
“Shepard is not the sum of what he's done.”
Thorn's head whips to her, and Juliette's hands fall away from where they rested on his shoulders. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Juliette's lips flatten. “What it means, you big, jealous jerk, is Shepard was fucked up even worse than what he trained me to be. You ought to know something about that.”
“We're not talking about Thorn's past, Juliette.” Thorn blows out a harsh breath. “What?”
“He was raised in an orphanage. There were many men of ill repute who molded the boys to be future protégés of Roi.”
I bet.
“Shepard's parents were both killed in an auto accident when he was quite small, eight... or perhaps nine years old.”
Thorn's heart rate ticks faster. He fucking knows where this particular story is leading.
“He could not sl
eep. He could not find peace.”
“They rape him?” Thorn asks in a harsh growl.
Juliette nods. “That is the least of what Shepard has endured.”
Thorn steps back from his wife and folds his arms. “You feel sorry for him?”
Her inky brows lower. “Non.” She peers up at him through the black lace of her eyelashes, her emerald eyes shiny. “But I understand him.”
“He hurt you, Juliette.”
“No more than he hurt himself. I forgive him. Shepard set me free. He gave me liberty to marry the man I love and have his child.”
She reaches for Thorn's hand and places it back on the belly filled with their child.
“Would you know a Shepard kill if you saw it?” he asks harshly, before she melts his resolve.
“Oui,” she replies instantly, her gorgeous eyes brimming over.
Fuck. Thorn hates feeling like an asshole. Only when he is an asshole. He pulls her against his chest and holds Juliette tight. “I need you to see something, baby.”
She cries her consent, dampening his shirt with her sadness.
Thorn hates that he's reopening old wounds.
For both of them.
*
“Bending the motherfucking rules, Thorn,” Tag says for the millionth time.
“I know, bro.”
“It won't be your ass they paddle, ya dick.”
Thorn smirks, clapping Tag on the back, and he staggers forward.
Juliette smiles. “He thinks of you highly.”
Tag scowls, slicing him with narrowed eyes. “Uh-huh. A real love relationship.”
Tag flashes his badge at the morgue attendant and signs them in.
Stainless-steel, medicinally white floors and walls greet them with vacant indifference. The astringent smells of keeping the dead in stasis assault their nostrils as they walk through the morgue.
They reach the mortuary chambers. Cold squares of unrelenting steel glare back like flat eyes of accusation.
Thorn's seen a ton of dead people. Never gets stale. He smiles at his inside joke.
The expression fades as he and Juliette draw nearer to the chambers of the French dead.
The morgue attendant blows a gigantic neon-green gum bubble, sucking it back into his mouth with a snap. “Here they are. Have fun, kids.”
Tag hooks his fingers in his belt and rolls his shoulders. When the attendant is out of sight, Tag opens the first chamber.
Big Guy looks worse for wear. His contusions before his death stand out like burst crimson orchids underneath his artificially pale skin.
Thorn hears Juliette’s throat click as she swallows. “Shepard is very deliberate in his abuse. Especially of males.”
Thorn doesn't ask why his abuse of males would be different than for females.
He gets it. Profoundly. Now it's his turn to swallow back his disgust. His memories.
“Rolling knuckle punches were his favorite.”
“Sounds pretty effective,” Tag says quietly, eyeballing the mess of the guy's skin.
Thorn moves his eyes over the pattern of bruising on the big French dude. Like petals of a flower dipped in blood.
“Very,” Juliette whispers. “It will not break bones but inflicts the highest degree of injury.” She shivers.
Thorn's face whips to hers. “Did he hurt you like this?”
Juliette doesn't return his stare, swiping at her eye. “Once.”
“Why?” Thorn growls.
Tag's uneasy gaze ping-pongs between them.
Finally, that impenetrable gaze meets his. “So that Roi would not.”
Thorn holds Juliette as she cries, and his eyes meet Tag's above her head.
Fucking Shepard is flexing his mob muscle.
I don't give any fucks that he “gave” Juliette her freedom with the divorce. That supposedly he hoped that made up for her being his prize mule.
How about the innocence he fucked away from her? Or the hundred pounds of coke in her vagina that she accumulatively ran for him—or the fucking criminals she screwed into doing what Roi wanted?
Nah. Thorn could kill him and not lose sleep.
Not a minute.
“We're on it,” Tag says.
What he means is Shepard just went to high priority.
Because he's taken another lamb. Thorn doesn't have to hear from Dietrich to know that the strand of blond hair didn't belong to these two in the coolers.
A dude like Shepard feels lonely without his flock. Figured it was just a matter of time before he went back to doing what he knew best.
Leading victims to slaughter.
EIGHT
Shepard
I am a fool. I know this.
That introspective moment of clarity does not alter my course of action. Taking Marissa is symptomatic of what I'm forced to do. La famille will find me. They will still want their cherry. I am merely delaying the inevitable.
“Where are we going?”
I spare a glance at the exotic creature I've stolen. Her blond hair hides her well. I know without touching it, the strands would feel like kinked silk.
Marissa Augustine glares back at me.
I focus on the road once more. “I have made you angry.”
I turn back in time to see her scowl. “I'm just angry on principle.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face in a frustrated exhale. “Yesterday I was dragging ass because I was tired from my shift as a waitress. Then a classmate from college”—she whips the tendril of hair out of her eyes, narrowing that dark gray gaze at me—“turns out to be some mob dude. Sent to take me for the organization.”
I blink slowly—cannot argue her points. “True.”
“How did you happen to be there?” she asks.
My fingers grip the wheel tighter. “La famille has made a bid to romance me back into their fold.” My laugh is abrupt, tight.
Marissa snorts, facing forward in a huff and crossing her arms. “You were meeting them.”
I hold my breath. Let it out slowly. “Oui.”
“Why do they want me?”
The wheel squeaks under the strain of my grip, my eyes grainy from lack of rest. I-90 must be the most uneventful highway ever conceived. Traveling through Idaho, Montana, a small corner of Wyoming, and finally our destination—South Dakota—will be a three-day drive.
But well worth it. If we can avoid immediate capture.
“What is your ethnicity?” I shoot back.
She laughs in disbelief. “What does my nationality have to do with anything?” Her eyebrow arches. “I'm American.”
“Oui, but where do your people hail from?”
“My grandma was African-American,” she replies slowly. “I don't know much more than that.”
I smirk. “Ah. So what is the charming American colloquialism about woodpiles?”
“That's not even funny.” She seethes.
I laugh. If Marissa only knew how little prejudice I do possess—that any I might have harbored has been expunged from my person most thoroughly—she would not be offended.
“La famille does not choose females who are any one ethnicity. They prefer a blended woman. One who has many different attributes. Beauty is key. But there are many unique male appetites which have to be considered.”
Marissa's hand smooths over her dark golden-blond hair. It springs up underneath her fingertips. Her face turns to look at me from under her eyelashes, but it's a hard stare—contemplative. “So because I look mixed, that's a plus.”
I ignore the disdain in her tone. “Apparently, as is your mastery of foreign language.”
“Not many people would see the color in me.”
Taking my eyes off the road, I scrutinize her. The hair is the dead giveaway, though the color is wrong.
Her body is beautifully fashioned, built for athletics, and though she has the look of delicacy of bone, harder genetics are at play. Ones that speak to a darker beauty. Her full lips pout above a defined jaw. A dark ring surroun
ds her smoke-colored irises. Skin like mocha kissed by bone dust showcases her lighter hair color to a T.
My perusal is only seconds but takes in much. I return my gaze to the interstate. “It is a subtle exoticism. But it is present.” I clear my throat, and my voice is rough, even to my own ears. “Our former king was partial to all women of color, though in his case, the darker the better.”
“Prejudiced bastard,” she says in a low voice.
I do not deny the sentiment. “Yes.” But Roi was so much more. “Amongst other things.”
“Where are we going?” she asks again.
“South Dakota.”
She flops her head back against the seat rest. “What? The Midwest. Gah.”
I chuckle. “Why is the center of America a bad thing?”
“No mountains, no water. How do people—how can they stand being landlocked?”
“There are mountains and water. You would do well to think in the same terms my mother used with me. Bloom where you are planted.”
She gives me a withering look. “Uh-huh.”
“You do not have family?” My eyebrow quirks.
“Nope.” Marissa looks away. “My parents died when I was thirteen.”
I say nothing at first. The parallels are a terrible reality between us. I do not examine them too closely.
After a minute of silence, I finally confess the similarity in a quiet voice. “My parents were taken when I was eight years old.”
Her face whips to mine. Shadows are deep voids cast by the highway lamps that strobe their false illumination inside the car.
One gray eye that is darkened to black from the dim interior blinks at me. “Taken?”
“Killed. I was placed in an orphanage.”
I watch her nervous swallow and glance back at the road.
“I'm sorry,” Marissa says. A handful of seconds slide by, and she asks the question no one ever has, in a voice like a thread. “Did the men come for you?”
The car swerves when buried panic awakens inside, taking me by complete surprise as the foreign emotion threatens to overwhelm me. “What did you just ask me?”
“You know what I asked.”
I do. I don't want to answer. Instead, I ask her the same thing. “Did they come for you, Marissa Augustine?” I ask in a voice that barely manages to be heard over the purring roar of the Audi's engine.
