So much I want to say to him, but the only sound I make on the way out is the tapping of my heels on the floor.
I need to make this year’s Games spectacular.
Sloanie’s always been the one who was good with words. I’m more a woman of action. I can’t write Reiley a thank-you note that encapsulates my gratitude, but I can find him the submissive he’s been waiting a lifetime for.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
CHAPTER THREE
Mark
Her father gave me her address, but I need to dig a little deeper before I see her again. Get more information so I’m better informed before checking out her place. Knowledge is power and I don’t exactly trust Governor Winters.
And fine, maybe I’m fucking stalling.
Tessa has no online presence, like she’s either spent her life off the grid on a mountainside in the Andes or someone’s spent time scrubbing her from the public eye.
I’m guessing the latter. Death, taxes, and internet caches remembering all the shit you post online are the real certainties in life.
After another unsuccessful night waiting for her to return to the apartment her father said is hers—I’m beginning to have doubts about that—I returned to my apartment and turned my focus to Sloane. The Governor called her his squeaky wheel—maybe she’s the lead I need for information on the twins.
I wish I’d never googled Sloane’s name.
The video that turns up does something terrible to me.
A crowd of men fighting against political and religious ideologies focused their hatred on Sloane while she was filming on location in Pakistan.
The video is barely twelve minutes long, but my god, it feels like forever.
Seeing the young woman I’d once sworn to protect being beaten within an inch of her life turns my hands to fists and my chest to a block of ice. She’d have had a security team with her on location for that story, but it did no good. No one was there to save Sloane—the yappy, bossy, nosy young woman I remember her as. The fact she’s identical to the woman I loved and left makes it so much worse—because they’re twins, I now know what Tessa would look like swollen and bloodied by fists and feet and hatred.
All I ever wanted was for them to be safe, and this happened? Brimming with latent feelings of futility that I wasn’t there, I pace around the apartment until my leg aches and I have to sit, trembling with anger, with sorrow. Deep breaths and the knowledge Sloane made it through do nothing to calm me. My soul can’t unsee the video.
I long to track down each and every one of those men and obliterate them from the face of the earth, but I know that wouldn’t be enough. The coffee I drank to keep awake turns from bitter to sour in my stomach.
I know it’s Sloane in the video, but I can’t help but think of Tessa. I left and they weren’t mine to protect or care about any longer, but Jesus, what else have they been through in their lives if this is out there? What other horrors did they see that I wasn’t there to protect them from?
What did Tessa experience when I wasn’t there with her?
If it wasn’t before, the mission’s become personal. Focusing on something other than Sloane’s attack in Pakistan, I manage to track down some of her writing online, and from there it’s easy to trace a few IP addresses and make her online life spills its secrets. How the Governor hasn’t done this is beyond me—then again, he’s afraid of scandal and doesn’t want to know what they’re doing. His interest isn’t from a place of true concern.
He just wants them parading around in public making him look good.
From the reports, Tessa’s the one who’s in too deep with this Underground club.
Tomorrow I go in.
THE ANTIQUES STORE linked to the IP address isn’t small, but it’s so jammed full of things it makes the space feel tight. Quaint, like you’ve wandered into someone else’s grandmother’s house—if she hoarded nothing but the best and had money to burn. I wouldn’t know a knock-off from the genuine article, but even I know nothing here is cheap.
No one’s at the counter, so I head down an aisle making sure to keep my elbows to myself, tucked to my sides. I’m not lacking funds anymore, but I can’t afford expensive unintentional ‘you break it, you buy it’ purchases either.
Is that a merman lamp? What the fuck? Would someone actually—
“Can I help you?”
Shaking my head, I focus on the stuffy thirtyish guy in the suit—minus the jacket—walking toward me with a pleasant smile.
“Yes, I’m here to see Sloane Winters. Is she here?” Does she work in this shop?
The friendliness in his dark blue eyes shutters behind a protectiveness I relate to. “Who should I say is asking?”
No way she’s just an employee here—if she works in this store at all. Signs point to her spending time in this location because of this man, not because of employment. She means something to this man. I hold my hands out in a placating gesture to appear non-threatening, trying to place his accent. Not quite British... “An old friend.”
He appraises me with his gaze and I return the favor. I was wrong to dismiss him as a suit—he’s solidly built and as tall as I am, and from the way he casually positions himself into a better stance I can tell he can handle himself in a fight.
He crosses his arms. “And what is that name, old friend?”
I open my mouth to answer, but she walks down the aisle and my lungs collapse beneath the weight of seven years at the sight of her face. Her hair’s in a short, choppy cut now, and... I shake myself. Sloane. Not Tessa.
Sloane smiles at the stranger. “Darko, who’s...? Mark?” Her mouth drops open when her gaze finds me.
The guy’s eyes narrow and he maneuvers to keep Sloane slightly behind him. Old friend or not, Sloane’s not doing backflips with happiness at the sight of me.
“Hey, Sloane. Long time, no see.”
She puts her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Darko, would you mind giving Mark and me a minute?”
He glares at me. “Are you certain that is wise, Ljubav?”
She nods and gives him a smile that softens her features with affections—the same smile Tessa used to shine at me, and I have to brace myself against the emotions that fill my chest. “I have a few things to say to Mark James.”
He presses a kiss to her temple and stalks to the counter with a calm intimidation in his eyes. Military training or not, I know if I touch a hair on Sloane’s head, I’ll be picking my teeth up off the floor. My estimation of him rises further—I’d be giving me the same look. I’ve got to add this man to the list of things to look up for this job. What’s his story? Antiques dealer my ass.
Sloane jerks her head toward a little alcove with a low couch in it, and I take a seat before she does to put her at ease.
She takes two deep breaths. “You’ve got some nerve showing up after all these years—how the hell did you even find me? Have you seen Tessa yet? Where have you been? How could you just leave her like that?”
The mild disgust in her eyes surprises me. I lean back on the seat. “Why are you so mad at me? She’s the one I left, not you, and if I hurt her—”
“If?” she snarls. “Are you fucking kidding me? You destroyed her when you left. She was a vulnerable teenager. You’re the reason I mopped her up off the bathroom floor when she slit her wrists and tried to bleed you out of her heart.”
I clench my jaw as hard as I can, fighting down the nausea in an attempt to avoid puking on one of these expensive carpets. No, my Tessa was stronger than that, she wouldn’t have ever—
“She did.” Sloane’s angry words make me realize I’ve been shaking my head in denial.
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. You up and vanished and left me to pick up the husk you left behind, and you wonder why I’m not doing a dance of joy to see your face again?”
My head spins.
“Mark.”
She tried to kill herself? Because of me?
/> “Mark?” Sloane slides closer.
Tessa could have fucking died because I left without saying goodbye—not that I’d had the chance, but my God, what do I do with this information thrashing around in my guts, eating me alive with guilt? The thought of her wanting to die because I hurt her on the back of seeing the video of Sloane is too much.
I can’t fucking breathe.
“Darko!”
Darkness curls my vision inward and the air in the room has solidified, or is too thin, either way I can’t get enough.
Awareness leaks into my brain one blink at a time. My head’s between my knees and there’s a firm pressure on the back of my neck. “You can let go now.” I sit up to find Sloane pale and Darko next to me on the couch. His hand is the one on my neck.
“Do you have panic attacks often?” There’s no awkwardness or judgment on his face.
“Some PTSD when I got back, but no panic attacks for over a year.” Why would I have one—Tessa. I turn to Sloane. “You’ve got to believe me, Sloane, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, I believe that. You scared the shit out of me—I don’t even smoke and I feel like I need a cigarette right about now.” She exhales a shaky breath.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, it’s the thought of Tessa like that. We fought so hard for her to stop self-harming... if I’d had any idea I’d have come back. No matter what it had taken. I really thought the best thing was leaving her alone. I believed she was young enough to get over me quickly...at least that’s what I wanted to believe.”
Darko stands and sits across from me on a chair. “Why did you leave? You obviously still care about her.”
I shake my head. “Tessa deserves to hear the truth before anyone. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but the she should hear it first.” I turn to Sloane. “Will you tell me where she is? I know she’s not staying at her apartment because I’ve tried to catch her there the past couple days. I need to explain to her, need her to know it wasn’t because of her—she had nothing to do with me leaving. I can’t make it right, but I can give her the truth she should have had years ago.”
Sloane and Darko exchange a long look, silently speaking volumes in a glance. How long have they been together? Years? Sloane sighs. “She’s been staying at the club in preparation for...something, it doesn’t matter what...but we have plans tomorrow and she said she’d be home after seven tonight.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“I’m doing this for her, not you, Mark. She deserves the truth, and at the very least, the chance to tell you to go to hell herself. Closure would be good for her.” Her gaze hardens. “But if you hurt her again, you’re going to learn what your left nut tastes like.”
“I won’t hurt her again. I swear it.”
She narrows her eyes. “I shouldn’t, but I think I believe you.”
I RETURN TO MY APARTMENT on autopilot, and stumble to the couch, mind reeling with today’s discoveries.
Is it better that I leave her alone? Sloane said I’m the reason Tessa ended up in such a fucking terrible place emotionally. Will seeing my face tear open the scar tissue of her emotional wounds and create fresh pain? If the Governor’s right, she’s in danger. Sloane didn’t seem to be under duress or in bad shape at all, but Sloane isn’t Tessa, doesn’t have her history. History that I added a horrific chapter to.
No, I can’t just walk away from this without seeing for myself that Tessa’s okay, without making sure she knows I didn’t leave because of anything she did. If she’s carrying any of that pain with her still, it’s my duty to ease that burden. My actions in the past can’t be allowed to continue affecting her present.
I take a shower and scrub away the panic sweat of earlier. I’m considerably more scarred now than I was back then—and that’s saying something. Most of it’s superficial except for the chunk missing from my calf, and the burn scars on my back.
The movies make it look heroic and glamorous when the soldier dives over his buddy to protect him from a blast; they don’t show the pain, the guys who you didn’t get there in time to save bleeding out on the ground in front of you. They don’t show the guilt when you lose a chunk of your leg but your friend one of his. They don’t show the agony on his face when he wakes up in pieces and for a moment hates you for not letting him die. They don’t show your pain and how fucking hard work recovery is. They don’t show the lengthy physical therapy or the panic attacks and the nightmares and the survivor’s guilt.
They don’t show the soldier coming home to nothing, trying to rebuild a life he never had to begin with because he was forced to leave the woman he loved years before and maybe he never really got over her.
I scrub my hands down my face, realizing my stubble’s pretty much a beard—and I have no razors. Vaguely, I remember using my last one a couple weeks ago, intending to get more. Guess I never got around to it. Shit like that happens a lot these days.
But today’s not about how I look. I’ll be lucky if Tessa doesn’t slam the door into my stubble.
The drive back to Tessa’s apartment is surreal. I feel like my body’s been swaddled in cotton, but random electricity skitters over my skin, irritating my nerves. What am I going to say to her?
I park my truck.
How will I explain?
A man exits as I head up the stairs, and I catch the door and nod at him. He glances down at the truck keys in my hand and assumes they’re building keys, returns my nod, lets me in when he shouldn’t. It’s not a happy sign for her safety, and I’d warn him if it wasn’t defeating the whole reason I’m here.
The elevator doors ping open and closed and I’m carried up to her floor.
What if she’s not home like Sloane said she’d be? It’s seven-thirty-eight according to my phone. I tuck it into my pocket. Memories of Tessa’s face the last time we were together flash through my mind, alternating with imagined images of her lying on the bathroom floor bleeding, almost driving me to my knees again.
One last shaky breath brings me to her door and I knock three times.
The door opens and I’m punched in the gut at her beauty all over again. Her face is free of makeup and she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her dark brown eyes widen and her gaze sweeps me from head to toe before locking onto mine.
“Mark?”
“Hi, Tessa.”
Her face is a mask of horror and hope and she seizes the front of my shirt and hauls me into her apartment, using my back to slam the door shut with us both inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tessa
Mark fucking James.
My fingers hurt from clutching his shirt too tightly but I hold on like he’s going to twist from my grip and run away again for another seven years.
How has it been that long?
How have I breathed without him for that eternity?
I haven’t thought of him in years.
That’s a lie. I’ve dreamed about him and spent time trying not to think of him or I’d shatter all over again and bleed out through the cracks he left in my heart when he went away. I thought they’d healed, but the sight of him in my hallway makes me keenly aware of every single fissure.
Where did he come from? Why is he back? Am I dreaming again or imagining this?
He trembles beneath my hand—or maybe it’s me who’s shaking.
He’s barely changed at all. The same vivid auburn hair, only worn slightly longer on top. Those sky blue eyes that seem too bright to be real, like someone captured the most perfect October sky and made them into irises. I trace his full lips and scruffy jaw with disbelieving fingertips. But I’m not the same vulnerable young woman I was back then. I’ve learned to be strong, taken control of my life in ways he has no idea of. And yet, the attraction to him is every bit as consuming as it was. I needed him to breathe back then.
Everything’s changed.
Nothing’s changed.
It’s intrinsic. He’s more a part of me than the tattoo I got to represent him. W
hat do you call a person who’s inside every atom in your body? Maybe he’s not the atoms, but the space around them holding me together. That would explain a lot. Because when he left I blew apart.
How many times did I wish he’d appear so I could have another chance with him, or have another chance to end things on my terms—or to end things at all instead of the gaping ‘what happened’ that he left me with.
Except for the barely visible scars on my wrists, the time we spent together feels like it was nothing more than a dream, and now he’s here in my apartment. I thought I was awake.
But if I’m dreaming, don’t let me wake up.
I swallow hard. “Are you really here?”
“Yes. I had to see you, Tessa.” His hands squeeze me tightly enough to prove he’s not a dream, or delusion. My legs turn rubbery, offering nothing but numb stiffness for support.
He needs to get out.
I need to tie him to my bed.
The urge to slap his face and scream at him wars with the need to kiss him and hold him close.
I don’t kiss him.
I grab his shoulders and bite his lip harder than I should to see if he’s real and punish him all at once. He winces and pulls me closer, gasping, plunging his tongue into my mouth, claiming it with deep stabs that melt my bones.
He’s leaner, harder than seven years ago, but smells exactly the same. I don’t know if it’s body wash or detergent, but it’s sweet and tangy, vaguely citrusy mingling with his natural male musk. Breathing in as much of that scent as I can, I wrap my legs around his waist and cling to him. Chills overtake my flesh, sent from the contact of his hands on my back. He walks us down the hall to my bedroom as though he’s been here before.
It’s wrong, wrong to want him so intensely I ache from my toenails to the roots of my hair, but goddamn my body and goddamn my heart. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t get another chance to hurt me, but kissing him feels so fucking right it’s painful in itself.
Take Me (The Submission Games Book 2) Page 3
