She called for Soloman. And then he was there. Standing at the end of the bed. Watching her fight with her kidnapper. Why wasn’t he helping her? He just stood there watching, his dark eyes as cold as they had ever been. Then he disappeared. Turned and walked through the open door. Except it wasn't open.
Crack.
Riley froze in shock as Shank’s hand connected hard with the side of her face, rocking her sideways on the bed. The dress tore where his knee had been holding it down. She curled onto her side and cupped her palm against her hot cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to vomit as pain saturated the numbness that had been spreading through her body before. Her stomach heaved in protest and she worried that she might throw up once more.
Shank leaned over her, took a fistful of her loose hair and wrenched her head back violently. She gasped and tried to bring her arms up to grasp at his cruel hold, but her hands dropped to the bed. Her exertions had drained the last vestiges of energy from her. He shook her by the head and leaned against her back to hiss angrily in her ear.
“Don’t you dare say his name in our wedding bed.”
Her eyes flared open wide. Had she said Soloman’s name out loud? She hadn’t realized. Tears trickled once more and her chest heaved in reaction. Though Shank had been horribly brutal in his treatment of her, he hadn't been deliberately violent until now. What had she unleashed? Should she apologize?
She closed her eyes, wishing the oblivion would float back to her. She could feel the drug in her system, but adrenaline was also coursing through her bloodstream forcing her to awareness. Shank shoved her torn dress out of the way and ran his hand up her bare thigh toward her panty-less pussy. She flinched back and closed her knees, only to curve her spine further against the sweaty hardness of his chest.
She whimpered and opened her eyes. A gun lay on the night table next to the bed. If she leaned forward on her hands and knees, it would be within reach. Was it real? Or was it a drug induced hallucination, like the Soloman that had left her in Shank’s greedy hands. She could feel Shank’s hand glide up and down her bare leg. He murmured lover-like Spanish phrases in her ears in an attempt to sooth and seduce her. Vomit rushed up her throat and she had to force it back. She squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them again.
The gun was still there. Shimmering in a pool of fuzzy light. It might still be a figment of her imagination, but it gave her some hope. Eyes flickering down to the hand squeezing her thighs, she forced her exhausted brain to put in an effort. Shank groaned behind her and rocked his hips, thrusting his erection into her fluffy, dress-clad ass. Grimacing in disgust, she moaned back and pushed her ass into the cradle of his thighs.
He stiffened in surprise for a moment. Unwilling to let him overthink her enthusiasm, she continued to moan as much as her torn, parched throat would allow and wiggled her butt against him. She willed herself not to throw up as she felt his penis rise up again the back of her dress. He reached around her and clamped an eager arm against her stomach, dragging her further into the disgusting heat of his body and a few precious inches away from the gun.
“Knew you fucking wanted me as bad as I wanted you, Riles, my sweet, sweet angel,” he moaned in her ear, his breath hot against her throat.
“Yes, Sh-Shank, I’ve wanted you for years…” she forced herself to say through stiff, swollen lips. The effort of speaking and moving her body against him was quickly draining her meagre strength.
“Call me Manuel,” he growled against her.
“M-Manuel,” she whispered.
He groaned and let loose a litany of Spanish that was too fast for her to follow. She’d taken Spanish in high school and lived close enough to the border to understand a fair amount of his language, but not when he spoke like this. She continued to wiggle her ass against him and run her fingers over his arms. Gradually, she started rocking forward and backward, pushing her ass into his erection until he was groaning and thrusting against her.
Finally, he did exactly what she hoped he would, he gripped her around the waist and pushed her forward on her hands and knees. She was so wobbly from ill treatment and lack of food that she immediately collapsed into the bed on her front. With an enormous force of will, she shoved herself back up, arching her back in the process and thrusting her ass out. She knew she had his full attention from the sharp exhale behind her.
He went up onto his knees and looped an arm under her waist, holding her up. He pulled her back against him, slamming her ass into his crotch with a grunt of satisfaction. He ran a hand up her thigh, searching under her dress. She bit her lip to keep herself from screaming a denial at him. He flipped her dress up and onto her back, baring her to him.
“So fucking perfect. My angel,” he moaned.
She felt him fumbling with his pants and knew she only had seconds while he was distracted. She reached out as far as she could. Her fingers grazed the handle of the gun. She tilted forward just a little more, the arm holding her weight up shook with the effort. The room spun in circles around her. Her palm closed around the handle and she yanked it toward her at the same time as her body collapsed into the mattress.
“Riley, what is it?” Shank asked from behind her.
She moaned, as sexily as she could manage under the circumstances and tilted her head to look at him longingly from beneath her dark lashes. She licked her lips. “I’m just so w-weak, Manuel," she whispered. “I… need my big… strong man to help me.”
“Of course, anything for you,” he said instantly, crawling over her body, covering her from behind. She shuddered as she felt his bare, excited dick touch her thigh. He clutched her shoulders and hugged her against him, kissing her angel tattoo.
Terrified that he would see the gun, she kept her arm bent over the side of the bed at an awkward angle. “I w-want to... face you for the first… time… please,” she whispered, feeling the energy drain from her and hoping she had just enough to do what was necessary.
“Yes, we have to make it perfect!” he said in her ear.
Rearing back, he clasped her in his arms and rolled her over. Riley felt the dress slip to her waist, baring her completely. She felt exposed, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She brought the gun up as she rolled onto her back and pressed it under his chin.
He froze and his eyes went wide with shock. He leaned back, crouching over her hips. Slowly, he raised his hands until they were level with his shoulders. A speculative gleam entered his eyes as they flickered over her prone body, taking in her shaking arms, sweeping down until they landed on her bared pussy. His gaze returned to her face and she saw the same psycho Shank in his eyes that she’d known for years but never really saw. He intended to fuck his wife whether she shot him or not. Tears filled her eyes as realization hit. She would either have to let him have his way or shoot him.
He leaned over her, placing a firm hand near her shoulder. He used his knee to kick her legs further apart and reached down between them. His face was grim. He understood now that his angel didn't want him at all. That she’d played him. And if she didn't shoot him he was going to make her pay. Then he would do whatever it took to force her to love him.
“P-please don’t,” Riley begged as he touched her pussy. He would hurt her bad. She wasn’t even remotely wet. He ignored her. She closed her eyes and turned her face away. He guided his cock to her entrance.
She shot him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Something’s fucked,” Soloman growled, tensing, ready to jump out as soon as the car got near enough to the motel entrance.
They were just pulling into the entrance of the motel. The door to the room his information guy had indicated belonged to Manuel was open. The Charger was out front along with another car parked behind it, blocking the vehicle in. Fuck. Something was going down in that hotel room. He needed to get Riley the fuck out of there.
Roman stopped the Mustang behind both vehicles. Before Soloman could open the door, Roman’s hand fell on his arm
, stopping him. Soloman raised an eyebrow in surprise and anger. Roman never voluntarily touched anyone. He used his bulk and deadly intensity to intimidate. He only touched when absolutely necessary. He turned dark eyes toward his boss and friend. They spoke without words.
Be smart. Don’t get her killed.
Soloman took a deep breath, reached around his back and pulled his gun. He’d discarded his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his white dress shirt hours ago. He nodded sharply. He could be calm if it meant getting Riley out alive. Then he would go fucking ballistic on her kidnapper in a way even he didn't think he was capable of. He wanted to see that fucker suffer.
Roman pulled his hand back and reached for his door, pulling his own weapon at the same time. They left their doors ajar so as not to draw attention from whoever was inside. They didn’t hear anything until they approached close to the open hotel room, then they heard low-voiced murmurs and masculine moans of pain.
“Let me do the girl man, she ain’t worth it. She fucking shot you!”
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” someone snapped and then groaned in obvious distress. “She didn’t know what she was doing. Look at her! She’s my angel, she needs me.”
There was a thump followed by a grunt of pain.
“I am looking at her, moron. She’s fucking dying anyway man. I’d be putting her out of her misery.”
The rage that suffused Soloman was unlike anything he’d felt up to this point. He saw Roman twitch next to him. He shook his head. He needed a moment to control the black that was leaking through his brain and staining his soul. They were discussing the murder of his woman, his fucking woman, like it was as simple as breathing. They were dead men as soon as they’d entered the same room as her, but now they’d ensured the death would be slow and fucking painful as he and Roman could make it.
After about a minute he managed to pull himself under control. He’d tuned out the idiotic conversation happening in the room. He glanced at Roman. Once more they spoke without words. This was why Roman was his right hand. He knew what his boss wanted. The two men in the room. Alive. Bloody retribution for Riley’s pain.
They entered the room swiftly after a glance around to ensure the men were sufficiently distracted. Whoever had left the door open had made an extremely stupid mistake. Probably thought he was giving them a quick exit. Instead, he’d given Soloman and Roman an easy in. Shank was laid out on the bed with a stomach wound while another man was leaning over him doing a shit job of patching him up.
“Fuck!” Shank snarled, reaching for a gun at his side.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Roman snarled, stalking toward the bed, his own weapon steady on the gangbanger, ready to take him out if he even thought about twitching toward the weapon.
The other man immediately stepped back from the bed, his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey man, I'm not really involved. Just passing through.”
“You wanted to kill her,” Soloman said, the chill in his voice uncompromising. His eyes scanned the room. Panic began to crack the ice around his heart when he didn’t immediately see her. Where the fuck was she? He’d heard the fuckers talking about her.
Then his eyes fell on a pile of dirty white lace tossed in the corner of the room. Was it his imagination or did it just twitch? He took a hesitant step toward it, unwilling to believe his gorgeous girl could possibly be the human that was collapsed against the wall of the dirty hotel room. He didn’t even hear the bellow of rage rip through him until the other men in the room flinched and looked at each other. The pile of lace whimpered and brought a frail hand up to touch her ear.
“Riley,” he whispered and strode to the corner, now certain it could be no other.
She was so lost in her own world she didn’t respond to him. He crouched in front of her and gently took her by the shoulders, lifting her into a sitting position. She jerked violently away from him with a hoarse cry, flying backward into the corner of the wall. She brought a shaking hand up. There was a gun clutched in her slim fingers. She looked so terrified that, even though he knew he could easily disarm her, he couldn't bring himself to take that piece of comfort away from her.
“Riley, my gorgeous girl, it’s me, Soloman,” he said quietly, for her ears alone.
He took in her pale, bruised features. The terrified, frantic and searching eyes. Faint, blue marks were beginning to litter her poor body along her arms, legs, neck and face. Her dress was covered in blood and hiked up nearly to her waist. Fuck, he hoped to god the blood wasn’t hers. He could see that she wore no underwear. Every muscle in his body thrummed with tension. He wanted to put his fists in the man that had done this and not stop until he was a bloody, unrecognizable mess. But for now, his first priority had to be to care for this beautiful, damaged woman.
She shook her head, blinking rapidly, a single tear leaking from her bloodshot eye. Her eyes frantically searched the room before landing back on him. She stared at him uncomprehendingly. Her tongue darted out to moisten her cracked bottom lip.
“S-Soloman’s not here… he left me…” she whispered hoarsely, the gun wavering in his face. He could tell she was trying her best to keep holding it up, but exhaustion was claiming her. Every time her beautiful cloudy eyes blinked, they became slower to open. She was having incredible difficulty focusing on him. The other men in the room may as well not even exist to her.
“No, baby,” he said carefully, drawing her attention back to him. She jumped a little and blinked at him. “I came for you. I promised. Do you remember? I promised I would always come for you.”
Her breathing hitched and her brow crinkled in concentration as she tried to remember. Finally, she nodded. “B-but… you walked away…” her whispery voice cracked and the gun jerked in her grip. He didn’t move. He could hear Roman dealing with the men behind him. Roughly. They didn't matter to him. Riley was his here and now, his whole life.
“I will never walk away from you, gorgeous,” he assured her, his deep voice washing over her. He could see her tense shoulders gradually relax. “Not in this lifetime or the next. You will always belong to me, Riley Bancroft. Listen to me, baby, I will always come for you. No matter what.”
She stared at him, completely focused on his face, as though seeing him for the first time since he’d entered the room. She lifted her free hand from the bloody confines of the dress and touched his face. “Soloman,” she sobbed, “you came for me.”
She dropped the gun between them and swayed. He reached for her, hauling her against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his back. He was immediately struck by how weak she felt in his arms. He cradled her in his lap, holding her head against his shoulder so he could see her face. She gazed up at him from eyes that grew heavier by the second. She lifted her hand, but couldn't quite make it. He captured her fingers in a strong grip and lifted it to his face.
“I… I love you,” she whispered.
Her eyes closed and her head sank to his chest.
“Riley,” he said her name like a command and shook her a little. Her head fell back but she didn't respond. Her face was as pale and still as death. Her lips had gone blue. For the first time that he could recall he felt tears gathering in his eyes.
“Riley,” he muttered and dropped his head to her breast, waiting breathlessly to feel movement in her chest. Her hand was still clutched in his own tattooed hand, held tight against his cheek as he waited for any sign that the woman he couldn’t live without was still alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Agony.
Fire.
Unquenchable thirst.
Is this what his angel had felt when he’d locked her in this very same trunk? Slowly creeping death as his lungs burned up from heat and lack of oxygen. Maybe he deserved this horrific end. He had no idea this is what he’d condemned her to. He thought he was keeping her quiet.
He’d lost count of how many times they’d pulled him from the slow baking death. The beatings in between. Violent, bloody,
crushing. They made sure to break his bones, hurt him as much as they could without actually killing him. He laughed through the pain. He was fucking psychotic Shank. He could withstand anything and survive. He’d taken a bullet to the guts from the love of his life and survived. He would smile in the face of this slow burning death from her satanic lover.
The lid of his own trunk lifted and the demonic visage of Soloman Hart looked down at him for what he immediately recognized was the last time. It wasn’t a look of rage or even one of satisfaction on the mafia king’s face that finally forced a quake of fear to slither through Shank’s bloodied and battered body. It was the flat, dead look of acceptance for what must be. He slammed the lid shut and walked away, leaving the gangbanger to dream of his angel until death do they part.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Riley, wake up.”
Riley frowned. She really wished people would stop saying that to her. So far nothing good had come of those words. Despite her displeasure at having her sleep rudely interrupted, she managed to crack an eyelid to inspect the person who dared interlope on her good dreams. She should have known. It was her mother.
“Cilia,” she whispered.
Whoa! Was that horrific croak really her voice? Riley’s eyes popped open in surprise, an action she instantly regretted when harsh fluorescent light flooded her vision. She winced, closed her eyes and brought a hand up to cover her offended eyes. Then she winced again when she realized her arm was attached to an IV. Carefully, she cracked her eyes back open and stared at the intravenous line leading from her arm to a bag held high over her head. She frowned for a second. Then her memory came back.
“Fuck,” she croaked, panic settling on her chest. She clutched the blankets on the bed and glanced frantically around her. She must be in a hospital.
Cilia sat on the bed and looked down at Riley, sadness saturating her bright blue eyes. Riley hadn't seen that expression since Alan Bancroft had died. Riley’s bottom lip wobbled and tears welled up.
Driven by Desire Page 19
