by Eva Charles
I’m not sure how long he’s gone, but he brings apple juice back with him. I shake my head. I’m too cold to drink anything.
“Just a few sips,” he insists, bringing the straw to my mouth.
When he’s satisfied I’ve had enough to drink, he lies down beside me, enveloping my body in his warmth.
“You’re safe,” he promises. “I’ll keep watch while you sleep. Just rest. Let me take care of you.”
“We’re partners,” I mumble, already half asleep.
“We are,” he agrees, wrapping me tighter against him. “In all things.”
As I drift off, it occurs to me that there was no pain. No real pain. No belts. No beatings until I screamed. No welts that needed immediate attention so they wouldn’t scar.
I fall into a fitful sleep. Because even Gray’s careful vigilance can’t keep my inner demons at bay.
24
Delilah
There’s a big pot of oil heating on the stove, slaw in the refrigerator, and biscuits almost ready for the oven. Plus, the corn pudding I made earlier smells divine. I’m just waiting on Gray. He’s supposed to text about thirty minutes before he comes upstairs.
We’ve been out most evenings, and I thought it might be nice to make him supper for a change. Something decidedly Southern and homey that he can’t get in a five-star restaurant or in Amadi.
The more I study with Mira, the more I realize how much effort Gray has put into preparation for the mission. To prepare me for the mission.
Pass along a message. Child’s play—unless you’re a spy in a foreign country who’s under constant surveillance. Then words like treason and espionage get thrown around.
Gray and I have been making it work. Relationship building—in and out of bed. Most days the lines seem only slightly blurred, and on others, I’m convinced there’s more to what’s going on between us than just the mission.
He has the last word on anything mission-related, but with the day-to-day stuff there’s negotiation and real compromise. In the bedroom, he’s always in control of the play, whether it’s vanilla-ish or kink, and I always have the power to end it with a safe word. I’ve never once worried that he might not stop if I used it.
Although the sex is mostly kink and always intense, it’s without the kind of torment masochists and sadists normally revel in. Gray stays clear of the bruising physical pain. He prefers to raise the intensity by toying with my mind.
Once or twice, there have been moments of internal panic when I’ve been sure that I’m being groomed again. But they turned out to be just remnants of my relationship with Kyle—it had nothing to do with Gray.
The man is a beast. But not the kind of monster Kyle turned out to be.
Kyle was an abuser and a cheat. Although I don’t have any solid evidence of the last part, just innuendo and speculation from the congressional hearings. But I don’t doubt it’s true. I could investigate his past, and I have thought about it over the years. But why bother? I’ve already given my relationship with Kyle too much time and effort.
I was young and naïve when we first met, living off ramen noodles and boxed mac and cheese, but mostly I was alone. My mother had taken up with yet another man of her dreams, and they went off together the summer before I started college. She didn’t bother to tell me that she’d sold the place until two men in a pickup truck showed up one morning to clean out the trailer a week before I left for school. When I finally reached my mother, she swore up and down she had told me about the sale, and chastised me for being an airhead. I’m quite sure I would have remembered her telling me a small thing like I sold the house and you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.
The Marshalls, who lived across the street, let me stay with them until I left for college. They gave me a wonderful send-off with a hummingbird cake and a silver charm in the shape of a key. It’s to remind you that you, and nobody else, hold the key to your future.
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me, and the Marshalls had done plenty. Even then, the small charm seemed weighty.
Richie Marshall gave me a teddy bear that he’d picked out himself so I wouldn’t be too lonely at school. We’re so proud of you, Lilah, they gushed, when they hugged me at the bus station. Don’t forget us.
I never have.
The hole in my heart hasn’t gotten any smaller. Even stealing the archbishop’s last breath didn’t help close that gap. But their deaths have been avenged. Although it turned out to be small comfort.
I check the temperature on the oil, and turn it up a drop. I expect to hear from Gray any minute. He’s good about following through—if he’s says he’ll call or text, he will. Unlike Kyle.
Kyle and I met at a symposium on careers with the government. He gave the presentation on the FBI. He approached me while I was waiting in line to talk to the CIA recruiter, and teased me endlessly about choosing the CIA over the FBI. Kyle was handsome and charming, and I was a not-quite-eighteen-year-old freshman. It didn’t take much effort to convince me to have supper so he could change my mind about joining the Bureau.
He never did change my mind. My heart was long-set on being a spy. But he did convince me to go out with him again, and again. He eventually confessed he was a Dominant, and introduced me to the BDSM lifestyle.
It wasn’t until after he died, when I screwed up the courage to dip my toes into the local BDSM community, that I learned Kyle was a poser. There are a lot of them out there. Men who pretend to be Dominants to get sex, or to abuse in a socially acceptable way. Kyle was good-looking, and he had no trouble finding sex, but a willing partner to play his sadistic games was harder to come by. No family, new to the area, and broken inside, I was perfect.
At a community get-together, I met Tony, who was significantly older than me, and an experienced Dom. A real Dom. We spent at least forty-five minutes talking, and I agreed to meet him for coffee the next day.
Over a frothy beverage, he gave me an education. He asked me questions and patiently explained the exchange of power, and so many other things I didn’t know about the lifestyle. He recommended books, websites, and informative articles to read. He would have answered my questions too, but I was too overwhelmed to come up with any.
There was no sex, and there would be no sex with Tony, ever. Dominants like Tony don’t play with big messes like me. He never said that, and honestly, sex was the last thing on my mind once he started talking. Tony was a good guy, who did me a huge service without making me feel any stupider than I already felt.
I never showed my face at another community gathering, and I never saw Tony again either. But I read and researched everything he recommended, and the more I learned, the more I realized my relationship with Kyle was fucked up.
Kyle gaslighted me into believing I was a pain slut—created just for him. It didn’t happen overnight. He was patient, carefully grooming me, step by step, until in the end, I couldn’t have an orgasm even with a Hitachi held to my clit, unless he’d beaten the shit out of me first.
I should have talked to a therapist, but I spoke to no one about that part of my life. I was too ashamed of having allowed the abuse. As it turns out, being abused is a lot like being widowed at a young age. It has no place in polite conversation—it makes people too uncomfortable. That’s fine. The victim tag isn’t one I’ve ever been willing to wear anyway.
My phone buzzes, but it’s Gabby returning a text from earlier. I should set the table. I don’t need to even think about which glasses to take out. Gray likes water without ice, and he drinks red wine, never white, but prefers a beer or bourbon. We’re comfortable, not the married-twenty-years-with-four-kids kind of comfortable, but the crown prince won’t expect that level of familiarity from us.
Sometimes, I worry I’m getting too comfortable. Fancy clothes. A driver. I look around the well-appointed kitchen. They’re all empty trappings, I remind myself. Nothing more than window dressing. Things my mother would have longed for. Not me.
I set
out small dishes of baking soda and sliced lemons to absorb the odors. As I dredge the catfish, I can’t help but think about Mrs. Marshall. It’s her recipe. Her lemon and baking soda trick. “I hope I do you proud,” I whisper out loud, just in case she’s near. “I miss you. Send my love to Mr. Marshall, and give Richie a big hug for me.”
The phone vibrates again.
GRAY: 30 minutes.
I put the biscuits in the oven and add the catfish to the hot oil. It splatters, and I jump back to avoid a nasty burn. After a few minutes, I turn the sizzling fillet over. It’s brown and gorgeous when I pull it out of the oil bath and lay it on a rack in the warming tray under the stove. I repeat the entire process, until—the smell. Fuck. It’s so pungent it’s starting to overwhelm the kitchen.
Gray’s going to kill me. Oh my God.
I run around like a crazy woman, shutting all the doors in the apartment to contain the odor while I call Lally. She was the cook at the Wilder house while Gray was growing up, and now she works for Gabby and JD. She’s also a good soul and my friend. If anyone has a solution to this, it’s her.
I open the balcony door and turn the fan on full speed, while I wait for Lally to answer. I don’t even pause for her to say hello. “I ain’t got no time for pleasantries. I’m in trouble.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I fried catfish and even though I set out lemon slices and small bowls of baking soda, Gray’s apartment stinks to high heaven.”
It’s quiet for a second, before her voice booms through the phone. “You fried catfish in Gray’s apartment? The same Gray Wilder who doesn’t put on a piece of clothing that hasn’t just returned from a visit to the laundry? The same man who has floors you can eat off?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. “Are you going to bust my balls or help me? He’s on his way up. How can I make the stench go away?”
“You can’t,” she answers decisively. “It’s stubborn. Goes away in its own time. That’s why most people fry fish on the back porch or out in the yard. Even then it can stink up the house if you’re not careful. That baking soda and lemon thing is just an old wives’ tale. It doesn’t really help much.”
Oh my God. “He’s almost here! What am I going to do?”
“First, calm down. Put a lid on the pot with the oil and open all the windows. Then get some grime-cutting cleaner, and wash off any splatters on the stove and around the countertop.”
I race around the apartment, following her instructions, but there’s not enough time.
“When you’re done, take out the trash. And don’t burn yourself—oil stays hot for a long time.”
“I’ve gotta go. He’s here. Thanks.” He’s here. I can’t tell if the smell has dissipated or if I’ve just gotten used to it. I am so screwed.
“Jesus, it stinks in here,” he says, before the door clicks shut. “What the hell is going on?”
My stomach turns somersaults at the sound of his voice, but I’m fresh out of time.
Before I can come up with a decent apology, Gray’s in the doorway, eyes wide and alert as they scan the kitchen. He looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, while I smell like a grease pit and probably look like one too.
“I wanted to surprise you—”
“I’m surprised,” he says, before I finish. “Maybe in the future, you could limit the surprises to exotic-smelling body lotions and lacy lingerie. Let—”
“With supper,” I say softly. “I felt like I wasn’t earning my keep, and I wanted to do something special for you.”
He doesn’t utter a word for several long seconds, and I’m dying inside, like someone who hands over a gift they spent hours selecting, and as the present is unwrapped they grow more and more uncertain about the choice.
“So what did you make?” he asks almost nonchalantly, his initial irritation replaced by genuine curiosity.
“Catfish, slaw, corn pudding, and biscuits. Tartar sauce, too.” I spit it all out in a single breath. The menu sounds ridiculous as I look at Gray in his designer suit. It’s as though I let the little girl inside out to play, and she made mud pies and expected the grownups to eat them for supper.
His features soften while I talk. “I’m starving and it sounds delicious. I love catfish.”
I’m so focused on his facial expression, I don’t really hear the words. But some part of me understands that it’s okay, and the stress rolls off my shoulders.
“Let me get out of these clothes. I’ll only be a minute. Why don’t we eat on the balcony?” he calls over his shoulder, as he strides down the hall.
He’s gone, but I nod anyway. When I turn around, I get a fresh look at the kitchen as he just saw it. What a mess. A stinky mess. I’ll clean it later, after we’re done eating.
By the time I get my bearings and put the food out, Gray’s back in shorts and a Gamecock T-shirt. I hand him a plate. “Help yourself. The fish is keeping warm in the tray.”
“This is delicious,” he says, breaking off a piece of crispy fish and popping it in his mouth.
“You’re not mad about the way it stinks in here?”
He shrugs, taking an extra spoonful of corn pudding. “It’s not often that someone I’m not paying makes me supper.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs, placing a small kiss on my nose. “As for the smell, we can call one of those industrial restoration companies that people hire to clean up after a fire or flood to get the smoke and mildew out. If that doesn’t work, we’ll have a big bonfire, invite the neighbors, and toast some marshmallows for s’mores.”
My face-splitting grin turns into a laugh.
“Come here.” He uses his free hand to pull me into him.
I don’t complain because I like it here. I like the smell of him, the way his skin feels, and the sound his heart makes while he holds me against his chest. I like all of it. And if that makes me a weak woman, so be it. Life’s too short not to treat yourself now and again.
“The clearance came through today, on both ends,” he says, his chin resting on my head. “We leave in four days.” When I don’t answer, he pulls away. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I’m ready.” No one is ever fully prepared, but I feel good about my chances. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that this is a pretty good way to end a long day. A good start, anyway.” His thumb caresses my breast, and I feel the low pull of desire. “But after we eat, I have something to show you. Downstairs.”
My emotions twist into a wanton curl while I run my fingers through my hair. It doesn’t matter that it’s a greasy rat’s nest. He makes me feel sexy and wanted just the same.
“Dessert’s on me,” he murmurs.
The way he says it. The raw quality in his voice. The lust on his beautiful face. I know that downstairs means the club. I’m not sure how I’ll get through dinner knowing there’s dessert waiting there.
“Let’s eat,” I say, without hiding my enthusiasm. “So we can get to dessert. You know how much I like that.”
For a second, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in Gray’s eyes, but I don’t dwell on it. Instead, I take my plate out to the balcony, confident that he’s right behind me.
25
Gray
“Do we have time to clean the kitchen before dessert?” Delilah asks when we finish eating. “Lally said not to let that grease hang around for too long. Otherwise it could be days before the smell goes away.”
Days? “You called Lally?” Just imagining their conversation makes me laugh. “I bet she got a kick out of that.”
“She was laughing so hard, she might have wet herself.” Delilah throws her head back and laughs. It’s a glorious sound.
“I’d have paid good money to be sitting in the same room as Lally while you were telling her that you fried catfish in my apartment.”
She leans over and slaps my thigh hard enough to get my full attention. I grab her wrist, and pull her onto my lap, exploring her mouth with my lips and tongue u
ntil I’ve sucked all the air from her lungs.
“Why don’t you take a shower and put on something easy to take off. I’ll call housekeeping and have them come up to clean the kitchen while we’re downstairs.”
“That doesn’t seem right.” Her brow furrows, and I smooth the lines with my thumb. “It’s a huge mess.”
“They’re paid well to clean huge messes. Trust me when I tell you they’d rather clean some greasy counters than some of the other things they regularly clean up downstairs.” I slide my fingers lower, until I reach the button on her shorts. After untethering it, I pull down the zipper. “You need to wear clothing that gives me better access to your gorgeous little body—all of it. It would serve us both well.” I rub the outside of her shorts where they cover her pussy until she whimpers against my neck. “Go shower, and don’t be too long.” I slap her ass once before nudging her off my lap.
“Delilah.”
She turns, with one hand on the French door.
“Do not—I repeat, do not—take care of that little ache between your legs while you’re in the shower. You won’t like the consequence.”
To my great surprise, she doesn’t respond before she saunters inside.
Fuck. When I planned tonight, I had no idea she was making me supper. A meal that took a lot of thought and effort.
There’s a cruelty to tonight’s plan that seems particularly evil after all her trouble—her kindness. But I can’t change it now. We leave in four days, and I have no idea how shaken she’ll be after what’s in store for her. The mind is a funny thing—unpredictable as hell. She might need all that time to recover.
I’m torn. I want to stay here, well-fed and happy, pour a bourbon, watch a movie, and fuck her into oblivion between scenes. I get up and go over to the edge of the balcony. It’s a clear night and I can see all the way to the ocean. Tonight can’t be about what I want. It has to be about what Delilah needs.
