But I Need You (This Love Hurts Book 2)

by W. Winters

  “You didn’t implicate my sister—” My words are rushed as I scoot closer to the edge of the chair, desperation overwhelming me.

  Marcus’s tsk cuts me off. “I’m here to help, little mouse. Be careful, be quiet … and what I’ve set into motion will be good enough.”

  “What does it say?” I ask. When he doesn’t immediately answer, I add to clarify, “The note. What did you leave?”

  “It’s of no concern to you. It would lead to more questions because you’re missing so much of the story.”

  “Tell me then,” I plead with him, my throat going dry.

  “More questions for questions?” Marcus asks and the sibilant sound of each S lingers like the hiss of a snake. Goosebumps rake down my body, the memories of the other night more than eager to replace the fear that lays over every inch of me.

  “It seems like you have more answers than I do.” The thudding in my chest beats faster, but this time for a different reason. The small room is suddenly suffocating and there’s not enough room to separate us. It’s one sided and so very obvious.

  Ignoring my comment completely, Marcus says, “Cody’s a bit hung up but he had a feeling. He’s perceptive like that.”

  My eyes close as I sit back, letting the low blow make me feel even lower. I have no words although I wish I could respond. I love him. I love the man and I know I do. But he’s a liar and I don’t trust him.

  “He blames himself, if that helps. And he’ll fight for you.” Lifting my eyes to Marcus’s pale blue gaze, I keep my questions to myself.

  “Maybe a smoke would help?” he says. He’s toying with me. That’s what this is to him, a cat and mouse game. That must be where he gets that nickname for me from. Anger would normally be my response. It should be. But it’s entirely absent from my reaction to the slight. The wash of sadness is just as unexpected and only adds salt to the wound.

  I watch as Marcus opens the drawer to the nightstand and lights a blunt.

  With a puff of smoke, he offers it to me, but I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”

  He takes his time inhaling deeply before gesturing to the small fridge. “Wine it is then,” he tells me. I’m frozen in the small chair, watching this powerful man let out a cloud of smoke from between his teeth, the white and black playing among the shadows.

  “Don’t be shy. I thought you’d need something more … but maybe not.”

  “Something more?” I ask and force myself out of the chair, forcing myself to play his game if for no other reason than the fact that I can’t do anything else. And my mother needs him. Fuck, I need him.

  The fridge is small and the single bottle of white wine has been placed inside at an angle so that it fits neatly. “Thank you for chilling it …” I tell him and then spot a small plastic black bag on top of the dresser to the left. I recognize it as generic to liquor stores and inside of it I find a corkscrew and two plastic cups.

  My fingers rest on both cups, my rational and logical side failing me. Silently, I hold up the cups, offering him one, but he shakes his head. The silence turns to a faint ringing in my ears that gets louder and louder. The images of today crash through me like a tidal wave as I open the bottle and pour the wine.

  Marcus

  One cup of wine and her red eyes glisten. It’s a good distraction, asking her about Cody. She’s more defensive than anything when it comes to him … when it comes to us.

  Two cups and her stiff shoulders loosen while her answers start to come easier. Her reluctance falls just as she does, slowly falling to pieces as I feed her clues bit by bit.

  He did something a long time ago and her mother put the pieces together. I’m not sure Delilah is following the little breadcrumbs I’m giving her. She’ll blink one day and see it all. Tonight I think she’s simply looking for a distraction.

  Her mother wouldn’t have been able to, if he hadn’t started up again. If I hadn’t helped her along. Not that I added that last little piece out loud for Delilah. She doesn’t need to know. All she has to fully accept is that he had done something bad and that her mother didn’t mean it. Just like the sweet alcohol, it offers her the smallest sips of peace.

  “Don’t cry,” I say, consoling her as she sniffs again, closing her eyes and pretending like she isn’t on the verge of breaking down. I’ve seen so many men and women respond to death. It’s almost always the same. Delilah’s different. I attribute that to her cases and how hard it tried to make her. Or rather, how hard she tried to make herself so she could continue. So she could make it all make sense.

  We all have our limits, though.

  “Ask me something else … something about us.” Her dark chestnut gaze meets mine. Every time she looks at me, she centers. More than likely refusing to let go of this opportunity where she can use me. She could have so many questions answered, resolve so many of those cases that keep her up at night. And the riddles between myself and Cody would be revealed if only she asked the right questions. If only she could pull herself together. If only she could trust me enough.

  We have time, little mouse. She’ll get there.

  She doesn’t ask me any of that, though, as she grabs the bottle, eager to pour the last bits. “You watched me?” she asks with her back to me. The thin pajama pants hang loose on her hips and the burgundy tank top hugs her tempting curves.

  “Yes.”

  “You stalked me?” she says and the empty bottle lands with a clink on the dresser. She sips her drink with her back to me.

  “Yes.”

  “For years?”

  I hesitate only a moment before saying, “Yes.”

  Finally, she soothes my anxiousness, turning around to face me and she leans against the dresser. She’s gorgeous when she’s full of accusations.

  “Why?”

  I can’t help but smile at her. Years … she knows. But how many years? is the question she’s still lacking.

  I answer her the only way I know how. “If only I could tell you.” Why do any of us torture ourselves with the things we can’t have?

  “Tell me something.” For the first time, she gives me a demand and it makes me harder for her than I’ve ever been.

  “And you’ll tell me something in return?” There’s only a slight movement from me in response to my eagerness. The tips of my fingers slip against the bedsheets. As if that would be enough to ground me … as if it would hold me back.

  “Of course,” she says, whispering her answer and then biting down on her bottom lip. My cock stirs at the motion. I’ve never been a giving soul. There’s always a selfish reason.

  “You saw them for what they were.” I speak without thinking.

  “What do you mean?” Curiosity knits her brow.

  “Just like the case last month … Ross Brass.” At the mention of his name, Delilah stops the cup midway to her lips. A coldness flickers in her gaze.

  “It’s not all black and white. It’s covered in as much gray as it is blood. But once you see them for what they are, you don’t let go.”

  Perhaps she’d rather I talk about anything other than herself because her mind wanders. I’m certain she thinks of her mother again. Or her father. It’s given away by the drop of her gaze and the slower rate of her breathing.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” I ask her and my throat is suddenly tight.

  Confusion is apparent in her dark brown eyes and I’m certain she almost asks, about what?, but instead she only nods a yes. Maybe two cups have already been two too many.

  “I think it will all be all right but it will take a few days and you’ll be just as anxious every day. Each day more anxious than the last until they have another name. Someone else to blame for your father’s death. I think that’s what you’ll need to move past the worry.”

  “It will be all right?” Skepticism laces her question. It’s almost sarcastic.

  “With the note I left, no one will want to pin it on your mother. They’ll have someone else in mind.”

  “W
ho?” she asks in a single breath.

  “Someone who deserves to die.”

  “You’re an angel of death,” she says as if it’s fact and I can only laugh. “That’s what they tell me.”

  My amusement is a short but deep rumble in my chest. Her hips sway slightly and I pat the bed next to me, getting her attention.

  I wait for her as she walks slowly to the very end of the bed and sits. I’m well aware she can see me, really see me if she looked up. Her eyes would have adjusted to the dark by now. My pulse races and just as she’s about to, just as her thick lashes raise, I tell her to go turn off the light first.

  “Turn it off and come back.” She hums and doesn’t hesitate to rise from the bed, making a soft groan.

  She can’t see me yet. Not yet, not just yet. Panic flows through my veins as the floor creaks with her gentle movements and she turns off the sole light that was on in the bathroom.

  “So you are an angel of death?” she asks as the light disappears with a soft click.

  “I don’t decide, though? Do I?” I say to her, bringing her attention back to the conversation as she comes back to me like the good girl she is.

  “They’re going to die, regardless. I simply pull strings so it flows easier. So they kill each other and the victims, the ones who would fall pray to them otherwise, are reduced. That’s not so wrong, is it?”

  Delilah’s quiet, so silent that I hear the moment the plastic cup, nearly empty now, hits her bottom lip.

  “Like your cases. The ones they tampered with and never solved. They made that decision and it led to … whatever it is it leads to …” I debate confessing, but I can’t help myself.

  I can practically feel the way her pulse ramps up when I tell her, “I did you a favor, I closed them.”

  “This isn’t the game we play,” Delilah says, not asking about the cases I know she seeks answers to for refuge. I should have known better. She doesn’t care about those cases right now. Not in the least. There’s only one murder on her mind. “Did she do it because he hit her? Can you tell me that?” Back to her mother …

  No. The answer is there on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Then I would have to tell her. And that’s a depressing conversation for another day.

  “If your mother had pressed charges, what do you think would have happened?”

  “He wouldn’t have been found guilty. He would have kept it quiet and they would have split.” Tears muffle her words.

  “Not to him … to her. What would have happened to her?” I have to remind the disappointment in me that she’s too close to it and too uncertain of so many things. Too conflicted like Cody can be. It’s not her fault that she didn’t think of the other piece. No one ever thinks of the other one. The victim and what’s left behind. As if a punishment makes those wrongs all right.

  Her inhale is quicker, louder, but she remains silent.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Finally. We agree on something tonight. The pieces are in motion, and there’s nothing left to do but allow the dominoes to fall.

  Before I can relish in leaving this conversation alone for the night, Delilah stands, readying herself to leave perhaps. But first she tosses the empty cup into the small bin by the desk. “Thank you for … covering for my mother.”

  “And for you,” I remind her, suddenly feeling hotter than I’d like.

  My fingers itch, eager to keep her here. Again, they skip across the sheet, this time with more desperation.

  “I don’t like seeing you like this,” I say, barely getting out the words. Even though it’s nearly pitch black and the sounds from beyond the door fill the silence with both the chirps of crickets and the rushing of cars passing along the road, all I can hear is my heart beating as she crosses her arms against her chest.

  At the sight of her breasts rising, my cock stiffens.

  “I owe you,” she tells me, but she already owes me more than she could imagine.

  “You do,” I say, agreeing with her admission and my tone gives her pause.

  The day she came into that barn is the day he stopped. Every monster has a boundary. Look at what good came from such an awful man. At first, my fascination was simply due to watching out for her. She was his keeper in a way and I had so much to learn from him.

  But it grew to be more. I don’t know how or why.

  I had a chance to kill him years ago, and didn’t. So many chances and at some point I had to admit, I allowed him to live because of her.

  I settled on a threat instead. The fool should have never set out to pick up his old habit.

  Rather than counting up her debt, I happily contribute to it and say, “I have something to help you sleep if you need it.”

  I can hear her swallow from all the way over here.

  “It’s called sweets.”

  “My father told me not to take candy from strangers—” she starts to say but then stops herself midword. With an instant pang of sadness and regret evident on her beautiful face.

  With her head falling back, her bottom lip drops as her mouth opens and sorrow overwhelms her inhale. She’s trying to stifle her cries.

  “Come here,” I say. It’s a demand and I’m not sure how she’ll take it, so I soften my next words as I add, “Let me make you feel better.”

  Delilah

  It’s not the wine. I can’t tell you the number of defendants I’ve seen in the courtroom who blamed their actions on alcohol. It’s never the buzz of a night out that’s to blame for what they’ve done. Never.

  We do the things we want to do. It’s that simple.

  If it wasn’t already planted in the back of our minds, the seeds of the action wouldn’t exist.

  So it’s not the wine. As much as I’d like to believe it is. The sweet taste is still on my lips as I stare across the dark room at a man who terrifies yet excites me.

  I could claim my actions before were due to curiosity. I could claim that I wanted information, not unlike an undercover detective. In fact, that excuse had lingered on the tip of my tongue ever since those first unforgivable thoughts entered my vivid imagination.

  Marcus’s large hand smooths the comforter beside him. My body is heavy and weak; every piece of me is practically lead, weighed down in this moment.

  Hot, molten lead, to be more specific. Unable to keep its form and desperate for somewhere to go.

  There’s not a single soul I could have confided in. Not one … not even Cody.

  No one but the man who beckons me to come lie with him. And if I’m honest with myself, it’s something I’ve wanted since he first whispered my name.

  Swallowing thickly, I make my way to him, letting the floor emphasize each of my steps with a creak. I don’t bother with pretenses, so in that time, I lift the hem of my tank top over my head, uncovering my small breasts and the cool air instantly caresses my body.

  I don’t know how he’ll react but I imagine this is what he’s after, and with the weight of today still firmly weighing down on me, I want it too. I’m eager to forget it all and feel something else that is far more intoxicating to lure me into the depths of sleep.

  A hiss of intake is followed by a groan of satisfaction from the man in the room, but I don’t bother to look him in the eye. Leaning against the bed, I kick off the loose-fitting sweatpants, but leave on the one garment that will stay between us for the moment. With my clothes tossed carelessly on the floor of the cheap motel, I drag down the comforter that he just smoothed and crawl in.

  It’s not lost on me that I’m exposed, bared to a man who stays in the shadows and won’t let me see him.

  Something about that fact makes it even easier to do what I’m about to do next.

  When I crawl on the bed, the springs give a slight protest with a soft squeak. My fingers dig into the mattress and I lean forward on my hands and knees at the top of the bed. My eyes are closed, my breathing even and I plant the barest of kisses on his hard jaw lined with stubble. He’s rough
against my gentleness, but something about the simple act, breaks down any wall of protest.

  “Tell me it’s going to be all right?” I whisper the plea, my forehead resting against his temple. If he were going to push me away, now would be the time and it’s quite possibly something that will happen. An act that would destroy me.

  But I would take it. I’d take it just as much as I’d take him laying me down on my stomach and fucking me raw on this bed. If he’ll make everything right again, I’ll let him do whatever he wants to me.

  Time tortures me as I wait for what feels like forever for an answer. My eyes remain closed even when I feel him move, shifting next to me until his deft fingers slip down the curves of my side. With goosebumps following the trace of his fingertips, a shiver elicits the darkest of wants.

  “It will be.” His answer comes with a nip on my shoulder, a warning maybe. “You know I’m a bad man, don’t you?” His warm breath trails down my shoulders like a silk sash falling from the finest of robes and all at once, he’s no longer touching me.

  My long lashes flutter open and I stare directly ahead at his throat. The cords in his neck tighten and the dark stubble begs me to brush the tip of my nose against it, just to feel how sharp it is. “I know exactly who you are,” I whisper and although it feels true as each syllable slips out, so many questions in the back of my mind doubt my conviction.

  His lips brush against mine and his smile plays against my parted lips. With the rustling of the sheets, his bottom teeth graze along my lower lip until he nips me.

  The sound of shock and want mingle into a deadly concoction as I yelp, still on all fours, in only my panties. Still with my eyes closed.

  His thumb brushes along my backside. “You left these on,” he says and the click of the heat turning on does nothing to soothe my already heated skin.

  Swallowing, I nod my head, expecting to feel him there, but he must be leaning back. My core is hot and my nipples harden. Without his touch, I could be alone on the bed for all I know, but I haven’t heard the bed signal his movements.