by Warren, Skye
I’m wearing a thin white shift that I don’t recognize. Nor do I remember changing last night. That means Elijah must have changed me while I was naked. A blush heats my cheeks. The only reason he would do that is so I would be more comfortable. It would be easy to push him away if he were an asshole all the time. These small moments of kindness make it harder.
Pink and white marble is cool on the soles of my feet. I cross the large chamber to a set of balcony doors and open them. An expanse of sea bleeds into the sky. The view steals my breath. It’s so beautiful and wide. Endless.
Only when I look directly down do I see the cliff and its colorful assortment of houses. We must be high on the Amalfi coast. What are we doing here?
London still won’t tell me how she disabled the security system when we escaped. Which means she had help. Probably dangerous help. I’m not sure we’ll get that kind of help again. This place doesn’t need locks. It has an entire mountain to keep me contained.
A teak dresser has an assortment of clothes. A woman’s clothes. I would suspect someone lived in this room, but all these clothes appear new. Some still have the tags. They’re all fine quality, with the creases that come from sitting on a store shelf.
They’re all perfectly matched to my size, and they’re all… pretty.
I select a white tank top with eyelet lace trim and coral-colored shorts.
Next door I find a similar room with my sister sound asleep in the large bed. She’s wearing a similar nightgown to mine, and I have the dark thought that Elijah may have changed her, too.
I tuck the blankets higher on her body against the sea’s breeze.
Then I search through the large hallways and rooms until I hear male voices.
“You’ll take a team,” one man’s saying, this voice less familiar.
“I do this alone,” says someone I immediately recognize as Elijah. The timbre of his voice searches my body for deep-seated memories. Oh yes, I remember him saying, I’m going to punish you. My ass still aches from where he spanked me.
The argument abruptly ceases, and I know I’ve been detected.
I’m still standing three feet from the room, far out of sight of the doorway. My feet were silent on the hard marble floor, but those ex-military instincts have been honed well.
I enter the room and face the man who did unspeakable things to me last night. And his brother. There’s a third man in the room I don’t recognize, but the green eyes give him away. He’s the third brother, Joshua North.
Lord. What am I supposed to do facing this much muscle?
“Hi,” I say with an awkward little wave. Great job, Holly.
Liam gives me a curt nod.
Joshua North says, “Ma’am,” in a low voice.
Elijah tosses down the tablet he’d been holding and crosses the room to me. “What are you doing out of bed?” he says in a soft voice tinged with worry.
“I’m here to help. We’re setting up a meeting with Ian Taggart, right?”
“You think you’re coming with me.”
I glance over his shoulder. Liam is the tallest brother. He’s also the leanest. He studies something on his phone as if he can’t hear us, even though we’re a few yards away. Josh is the most overtly handsome of the three brothers, with a devil-may-care attitude I can feel from his stance. He’s also pretending he can’t hear us.
And then there’s Elijah. He has the largest bulk of muscle.
Even in a plain black T-shirt, the lines of his chest and arms are clear. The fabric falls loosely around his abs, but I know from experience the hard ridges that can be found underneath. His body tapers at his hips, but even his thighs have muscles that strain against his worn jeans.
When I met him a year ago in a French prison, he’d been deprived of light, food, and water. He had been strong, even then, but it did not compare to his size now.
He’s a warrior, standing between me and my family’s safety.
I lift my chin. “I know I’m coming with you.”
A light touch on my elbow guides me out of the room. Then we’re standing in the hallway, his green eyes locked on mine, his shadow covering me like a warm, safe blanket. It’s alluring, the promise of his strength. All that power used to protect my sister.
If I were a wise woman, I’d figure out a way to seduce him so he bent to my will. I only know how to beat my head against the wall of his will, breaking myself more than him.
His lips hover inches away from mine, and I’m startled by the realization that for all we did together last night, we did not kiss. “Fine,” he murmurs.
I stare at his lips. They look firm, but they’ll feel soft. Warm. They’ll feel like coming home. The invitation entices me enough that it takes me a second to understand his meaning. “What?”
“Fine. You can come.”
“I don’t understand. Is this a trick?”
That earns me a soft chuckle. “You don’t believe me.”
“Is this a thing where you tell me we’re going tomorrow, but then you secretly slip a sleeping draught in my wine and sneak out tonight for the meeting?”
“No, but that’s a great idea.”
“The imagination that helps me write books? A blessing. And a curse.”
He grins. “I knew you’d come with me, sweetheart. I knew it last night in the SUV when I was spanking that pretty heart-shaped ass. For one simple reason. You know what it is?”
“Because you trust me and know that I can handle this?”
“Because I’m not letting you out of my sight. I trust my brothers, but you slipped my hold once before. I’m keeping you near me so I can make sure you don’t bolt.”
Tension sweeps over my skin. “And if I did try to bolt?”
An inch, and then his lips nudge mine. It’s such a soft kiss, a gentle kiss. Completely at odds with the words that come out of his mouth. “I’d catch you.”
Surety radiates from his voice. He would catch me.
The same way he caught me this time.
Why does that bring me so much comfort?
Why don’t I want a normal relationship? Regular people go out on dates together. Maybe they buy a potted plant to see if they can keep it alive. Next, a puppy.
That’s the kind of partnership I should want.
Instead, I crave this man’s unholy possession of me.
He has no rights to my body, but he’s taking them. Even now he’s holding my hips, pressing me close to his, where I can feel his erection. It’s almost as if he can’t keep his hands off me, and the realization gives me a primal sort of power.
“Get a room,” comes the singsong voice of my sister.
I jerk back, guilty, as if I was caught making out as a teenager, but that only rams me into the wall. There’s nowhere to go from Elijah’s firm hold, and he lets me go with reluctance.
London stands there in a pink handkerchief dress with her hair in a messy knot. There are a thousand tutorials online about lighting and photography for influencers like her, about touchups and Photoshop. But the truth is she always looks like she stepped off the pages of some glossy magazine, the perfect picture of beautiful in a casual way.
She puts a hand on her hip. “Seriously, there are like a thousand rooms in this place.”
“Are you hungry?” I ask, feeling anxious already.
That earns me an eye roll. When she speaks, it’s to Elijah. “She’s always trying to feed me, as if I might be hungry for food instead of hurting for another hit of coke.”
“Okay, definitely time for breakfast,” I say brightly.
“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” Elijah says, his gold-green eyes bright with curiosity. It’s clear he’s planning to listen to whatever London has to say, and the thing is, she’s a talker. I cringe internally thinking about the embarrassing secrets she could spill—my strange fixation on Bill Nye the Science Guy in elementary school or my disaster of a prom night.
I’m expecting something utilitarian to match the room upstairs where
the men had been meeting. Something with a table and chairs and the basic appliances.
What I find is a gorgeous Italian kitchen with hand-painted pottery and an older woman covered in flour. She calls to us in rapid Italian, gesturing with her slender arms.
I’ve picked up plenty while living here, but this is too fast for me to follow.
Without skipping a beat, Elijah answers her in Italian. He gestures to a rustic blue table. “She says to sit down. The bread’s fresh out of the oven.”
As we sit she starts bringing the food, and it’s an entire feast. Fresh bread with a thick crust with soft butter. A platter with sliced meats, cheeses, and grapes. A bowl of panzanella with fresh herbs. Glasses of sweet lemonade are poured for each of us.
“It started in third grade,” London says as she piles a thick slab of bread with olives, capers, and slices of salmon. “When I broke my leg.”
“London,” I say.
“Holland.” She uses my full name when I’m being overbearing.
She points her butter knife at Elijah and continues. “So, in third grade. Holl and I were riding our bikes home from school. She was two years older, and better than me at everything.”
“That’s not true,” I say, but of course she ignores me.
“She was biking along, speeding up down this incline, and I wanted to keep up with her. I shouted at her to wait, but she didn’t. I think that’s why she feels so guilty.”
“Guilt is a normal response to the situation.” I knew London was slower than me. I knew she was less sturdy on a bike, but I’d gone faster instead of slower.
“Keep going,” Elijah says, fixated on what London’s saying.
“So I fell off the bike. Broke my wrist and my leg. Our parents freaked out. Everything was tense in the house. And that would have been bad enough, but then—”
“You don’t need to do this,” I say, but I’m the one who needs her to stop. It’s her confession, but it hurts me to hear. It hurts me to hear how she’s still suffering.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Elijah
Holly is shrinking. That’s the only word for what’s happening to her. She’s still sitting there in front of a plate of food that she hasn’t touched, but she takes up less and less space with every word out of London’s mouth. Part of me wants to shout for London to stop, but I think I need to hear what’s going to happen next.
“But then,” London continues around a mouthful of olives and bread. “I started taking these pain meds. It hurt really bad, so they gave me the good stuff, which was probably a mistake. Because I took everything that they prescribed, and then I started raiding our parents’ medicine cabinet. I didn’t even care if it was for pain anymore. Xanax or citalopram. Anything that could change the way I felt, I took it.”
“Stop,” Holly says, but her sister doesn’t stop.
“I started using my allowance to buy shit from our friends’ parents’ medicine cabinets. And then I used Holly’s allowance. I think that’s probably how she found out.”
“This is old news. So old,” Holly says. “I don’t know why it matters anymore.”
“You know why it matters. That’s when you started covering for me. Eventually my parents found out and they got me therapy, and I got off the drugs. But it never really went away, that yearning. It comes back again and again, like a shadow that I can’t shake.”
A tear runs down Holly’s cheek. “Yes. Okay. Yes. It’s my fault.”
London glares at her. “And that’s the problem. It was never your fault. Not that I fell down, not that I got addicted. And definitely not that I developed a cocaine habit.”
Holly’s face crumples. “Yes, it is.”
It looks like London wants to argue, so I murmur, “Enough.”
London gives me a significant glance, as if she expects me to fix this. I have no idea how, but I’m grateful that she shared it with me, so I give her a firm nod. It’s helpful to understand why Holly is so bent on protecting her sister at any cost. She blames herself.
London stomps her way upstairs.
The housekeeper Emina hums from the garden outside.
We’re alone in the small kitchen, and I apply myself to an omelet to give Holly some time to compose herself. After a few minutes she starts to tear a small croissant into a hundred pieces. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “This house,” she says.
“This house.”
“I saw the locks. The security system.”
“We’re safe if that’s what you’re asking.” It’s not what she’s asking.
She glances toward where Emina walked out, without having to enter any secret codes. “I can leave anytime I want?”
“You can.” The thought of her walking out makes my chest hurt. “I would come after you, but I won’t stop you from leaving. I’m not making the same mistake again.”
Her breath catches. “I hope you don’t think—”
“You hope I don’t think what?”
The words come in a rush. “I hope you don’t think that’s why I’m doing this. What London said about the bicycle accident and the problems she had after.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s not because I feel guilty about London. I know she’s an adult. I know the addiction is an illness, not something I caused by riding my bike too fast when I was a kid.”
“I’m glad you know that. Because it’s the truth.”
“Like, yes. It messed me up as a kid, but I’m grown up now.”
I study her downcast eyes, the way the lashes brush her cheeks. I could study her for months, for years and not unpack every inch of her. The stories that London shares are my breadcrumbs, but there are no easy answers for a woman as complicated as this.
“That’s who your book was about.”
She looks alarmed. “What?”
“The book about the tooth fairy. It was about your sister. She’s the one in the human world while you didn’t belong. She’s the one who died.”
For a moment she looks stricken. Then she picks up a hard-boiled egg and flings it at me. It bounces off my shirt and rolls to the ground, harmless. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.”
“Fine,” I say, but I know I’m right. That’s how she was able to tap into the feelings of grief and guilt so well. That’s how she mourned the pain she caused her sister.
“Why are you agreeing with me so much?” she asks, suspicious.
“That’s my new strategy. I’m going to agree with you.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Yep.”
“And conceited and cocky and I don’t even know what else.”
“I could not agree more.”
Then she laughs, her head thrown back, the sound like water to parched earth. And I realize I’m officially screwed. I don’t just want her body in my possession. I want her heart and her soul. I want every morning with her in a comfortable kitchen where she throws a hard-boiled egg at me. But I’m cursed by family history as much as she is. I don’t know how to receive love any more than I know how to give it. It’s a hard truth that only those raised in abusive households understand, the certainty that love can only end in pain.
CHAPTER NINE
Elijah
Liam sets down a cut crystal glass in front of me. Water, the same as he has. The same as Josh. All of us want to have our minds clear for the meeting tonight.
“Now, let’s go over the plan,” Liam says.
“We did that already,” Josh says. “Let’s talk about the women in our custody.”
I take a sip without looking at him. “Keep your hands off Holly.”
Liam pulls up a chair and sits, looking stern and in command even in a metal cafe chair. Josh is sitting in the chair backwards, nice and casual. He acts like he doesn’t scan the perimeter every two seconds. Both of their stances match their personalities, one who gives orders, the other who loves to laugh.
I’m not sure what my stance says about me except that I can hardly take my
eyes off Holly. I’m not sure anyone could blame me, not with how she looks in that goddamn swimsuit. I’m jealous of a few feet of fabric that cups her breasts, her ass. Even the slight curve of her stomach looks unbearably sensual to me. I want to taste every goddamn inch of her. She’s standing waist-deep while her sister swims deeper, and I can feel the pull of her worry from here.
“So the sister is fair game,” Josh continues. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“No one is fair game,” Liam says.
“Then why does he get the older one? That’s the whole reason we let them come down to the sea, right? Because she smiled and gave him those eyes, and he’s pussy whipped.”
Hell. “We let them come down to the sea because it could not be more safe with us a few feet away from them. You think one of these tourists is going to best us?”
And because there’s a chance it could be the last day on this earth. I don’t say that part, but they understand. It’s why a soldier goes fucking crazy on shore leave, partying and drinking and fucking. Because it might be the last time.
If this is my last day on earth, I want to see Holly splash around in the Mediterranean Sea. I get to see her bend over as she picks up a shell. And I get to punch Josh in the arm, because he’s looking a little too close.
“The sister,” he protests. “I was looking at the sister.”
London is undeniably gorgeous, like a model who walked off the runway. And she captures a lot of attention in her string bikini and platinum blonde hair. More attention than is really safe considering we’re supposed to be blending in.
But for me she doesn’t hold a candle to Holly’s lush figure and deep, deep eyes.
“Tonight,” I say. “It’s me and Holly.”
“Fuck Taggart.” That’s Josh.
“Holly thinks I’m doing this because I respect her and trust her and want her to be an equal partner.” She doesn’t know that Taggart made it a condition of meeting, that she had to be there for us to make a deal. “And hell, maybe it’s true. I let her swim in the sea. I bring her to the meeting. I’m turning over a new leaf.”
