by Celia Aaron
I reached for one of the hammers.
“And my face. That was all you, Con. All. Fucking. You. Severed the muscles, but not the nerve endings. I can feel it burning, can feel the pain of the bullet as if it just happened yesterday.”
“That sounds like a sad, sad story, Ramone.” Con pointed to some empty paint buckets near the door. “Did you stop by to get one of those to hold your tears? They’re on special this week. Two for one.”
“You’re a funny guy. Real funny.” Ramone turned his gaze back to me. “Did I see a baby bump on you when you were crossing the street?”
I swallowed hard.
His half-grin made my skin crawl. “I did, didn’t I? So Con’s going to be a daddy? How wonderful! I’m glad I’m here to celebrate ahead of time. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. First, I’m going to tie both of you up in the back of your nice little hardware shop. I’ll use your rope, of course. I’m sure it’s the finest in town. Then I’m going to go ahead and meet your little one. Pull that nugget right out and say hello. While you bleed out, I’ll get to work on Con. Cut his dick off and stuff it down his throat, for starters.”
I staggered back against the counter.
“Did I scare you?” He lurched closer. “We can’t have the new mommy scared, especially not on delivery day.”
I stood straighter and hooked the hammer into Con’s back pocket.
“I’m not afraid of you, Ramone.” I stepped out beside Con, drawing Ramone’s attention. “You didn’t have the stones to kill either of us when you had the chance.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” He waved the gun at me. “I’m here to finish the job, and this time I’m going to do it right.”
Con put his left hand out, shielding me. “Let her go. Just kill me, you sadistic fuck.”
“Too late for that.” Ramone moved closer. “Now, like I said, I’m in the market for some rope.”
Before I could so much as blink, Con embedded the claw hammer in Ramone’s throat. He ripped the gun from Ramone’s hand and shot him in the face, then turned to me.
“Charlie? Oh fuck, Charlie!” He pressed his hand to my stomach as blood soaked into my white sundress.
The hospital machines beeped, pulling me from a fitful sleep. Why was I here? An image of Ramone flashed through my mind: the gun in his hand, his deformed face. Then Con, his skin gone pale and his eyes wide as he carried me into the emergency room.
I reached down and felt my stomach. The bump was gone. Tears burned in my eyes. My baby. My Jesse had been taken away from me again. A sob shook me as I tried to open my eyes.
“Oh, thank god. Thank god.” Con’s voice.
I struggled to look at him, but the fog finally cleared enough to where I could see his face. His eyes were wet, his cheeks drawn with worry.
“I’m here.”
He kissed my hand over and over. “Thank you. Thank you.”
I couldn’t piece it all together. How long had I been here?
“What happened?” I tried to turn to him, but my body didn’t respond.
He wiped at his eyes. I’d never seen him cry. Something about his tears broke a piece of me and made me cry harder.
“You lost a lot of blood and went into shock. They had to sedate you. Transfusions for two days, and they weren’t sure if you’d come out of it.”
The room seemed hazy, like it was in a fog. He kept kissing my hand, his warm lips reassuring me that maybe everything would still be okay. As long as I didn’t think about Jesse, maybe it would be.
“I’ll get the doctor. He’s making rounds on six.” A woman’s voice, but I couldn’t see her.
“You’re going to be all right.” He rose and leaned over me, his light eyes just as captivating as they were the very first day I saw them.
“But Jesse—” My voice caught on a sob.
“She’s here.” Con turned. “Can you bring her over?”
“Sure thing.” Another woman’s voice and the squeak of shoes on tile. “Here she is: little Miss Jesse Rose Hemlock.”
I blinked hard, then blinked again to try and clear my vision as a nurse laid a baby in my arms. Con helped me support her. She looked up at me, maybe even more aware than I was, and made a cooing noise.
“She’s alive?” I stared at her, unsure of what was real.
“Yes.” Con smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “Don’t you remember? You went into labor early, and we came in. But they had to do an emergency C-section when they realized Jesse was breach.”
“But … Ramone?”
He furrowed his brow. “No, baby. That happened months ago. You lost your appendix, but that was it. Remember?”
“Was that the armed robbery incident she’s talking about?” The nurse’s voice. “She must be a little confused coming out of it. Once the anesthesia wears off, it’ll all clear up.”
“The baby’s fine. She’s just fine.” Con smiled and kissed my forehead. “And now you are too.”
The fog began to clear, and my memories righted themselves. Ramone’s death, my injury, the months Con and I had spent waiting for Jesse’s arrival. We’d done her nursery a light shade of rose, and I’d hand-painted flowers along the baseboards while Con scolded me for overdoing it.
“I remember. I remember now.” I moved my hand up and stroked her soft cheek. “She’s beautiful.”
“Perfect just like her mother.” Con beamed down at us.
“Look, Mommy!” Jesse ran up, her glasses askew and a Mason jar in her hand.
“What did you find this time?” I peered at the jar. Inside was a small green lizard. It blinked up at me and ran around in a circle.
“I got him down by the creek.” She beamed, her light blue eyes sparkling in the bright sun. “Daddy’s going to love him!”
“He’ll be home soon. Let’s all go inside and wash up. Bo, come on, little man.” I scooped Bo up from his play blanket and carried him inside as Jesse led the way with her lizard. Lightning bugs began to glow in the field as the sun fell behind the line of trees separating our property from the next.
“Are you going to tell him you hit all the cans?” Jesse bounced to the sink and turned it on.
“No.”
“Why not?” She washed her hands as I set Bo in his high chair.
“It’ll just hurt his feelings.”
“Why?” She adjusted her glasses and stared at me as I opened the fridge.
“Because last time he shot the cans, he missed the last one. It’s not nice to gloat.”
“But you got all of them. That means you’re a better shot. I want to tell him.” She sat down at the table and made funny faces at Bo as he drooled and smiled.
“Like I said, no point hurting his feelings.” I closed the fridge to find Con standing in the kitchen door, grinning.
“Better shot, huh?” He reached out and grabbed me by the waist, pulling me close.
“Eww, are you two going to kiss again?” Jesse stood and flounced into the living room. “I got a lizard,” she called over her shoulder.
“Good going, baby.” Con leaned down and nipped at my throat. “So you hit all the cans?”
“I wasn’t going to brag or anything.” I couldn’t stop the smile that he always put on my face.
“Is there anything I’m better at than you?” He kissed down my chest, skirting his tongue along the swells of my breasts beneath my tank top.
“I can think of a few things.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he lifted me and set me on the table next to Bo.
He cupped one of my breasts and gripped my hair with his other hand. “Early bedtime for the kids tonight.” He leaned closer until his lips grazed mine.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, because they need to be sound asleep by the time you’re screaming into my palm.”
Heat rushed through me as we kissed, his mouth telling me that he would always find me, protect me, and most of all—live for me.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Mr
. Aaron and the girls for putting up with my constant bloodlust and need for vengeance. Mr. Aaron is more than fair with the allotment of book money I’m allowed to spend on various warrior face paints, machetes, throwing stars, and Krav Maga classes. Without his limitless patience, I wouldn’t be able to write about sexy killing machines like Conrad Mercer.
As always, thanks to my editor Jeff for the snarky commentary and grammar fixes. Also, that note with “this scene really doesn’t work for me.” … Yeah, well, you know what Jeff? YOUR FACE doesn’t work FOR ME! Just kidding. Mostly. I mean, I rewrote it, so really, you won. But I get the last word because you didn’t get to edit my Acknowledgements. Hahahaaaaa, sucker!
Thanks to Stacey and the ladies at Spell Bound. I would have a lot of “the the” instances if it weren’t for them, as well as other inanities. They keep my words tight.
To the photographer, Alex Marshall, thanks for the beautiful shot of Mario Skaric looking HAM. And to Mario, thank you for the stare that is the epitome of “cash me ousside, how bout dah?”
To Mel. Thanks for reading it and then forgetting that you read it and then telling how much you liked it. Weirdo.
To my beta boos, Viv, Rachel, Sybil, Shelly, and Lauren, thanks for crushing on Nate the whole time, you whores.
Give Me Books and Enticing Book Journey—thanks for the promo assist. You ladies are fabulous.
And finally to my wonderful readers! You guys are the foundation upon which my shenanigans are built. Thanks for being there for me.
My next book will be out sometime in early summer. It’s dark and delicious. More info to come on the most intense (and admittedly psychotic . . .) alpha yet, so make sure you’ve signed up for my newsletter.
Xoxo,
Celia
Counsellor
Enjoy Dark Reads? Check out The Acquisition Series
1 Sinclair
In the heart of every man is a darkness. Primal. Instinctive.
At its most basic, it’s a desirous nature—one that covets, demands, takes. Most men brick it up behind a wall of self-control. They invest time and effort in maintaining the separation. These men, good men, control the darkness until it withers away and becomes nothing more than a shadow haunting their innermost thoughts. Something easily forgotten, dismissed, erased.
I've never been a good man.
My darkness is neither restrained nor buried. It lives right at the surface. The only thing that hides it is my mask.
My mask is the law, the light, the pursuit of justice. It is forthright and airy. It is the appearance of righteousness in a fallen world.
The mask I wear is purely the act of a predator. Theater. Pageantry. Deceptive and lethal. It allows me to get close and closer still until it is time to strike.
I stalk so near that my prey can feel the tickle of my breath, the coldness of my heart, the depth of my depravity. Only a whisper separates me from what I desire.
Then the mask falls away, and all my victim sees is darkness.
2 Stella
The district attorney sat completely still at the dark, polished table across the courtroom. My father sat in front of me at an identical table, but he was full of nervous energy. He shifted, ran a hand through his silver hair, and leaned over to whisper to his attorney.
I clasped my hands in my lap until the ring on my index finger dug into my flesh. This was the last chance my father had for freedom, the last day he would be able to throw himself on the mercy of the court. My gaze wandered back to the district attorney, the one who had my father arrested. Investigators scrutinized every last cent the old man ever invested or borrowed. And, just like that, my world became a smoldering heap of ashes. All because of one man.
Sinclair Vinemont was unmoving, like a spider poised on a web, waiting for the slightest sensation of movement from a hapless moth. My father was the moth, and Vinemont was about to destroy him. The investigation and prosecution had been the careful work of a master. Vinemont had woven the cocoon tighter and tighter until my father was caught from all sides. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to try and hide from Vinemont’s poison. Dad was being systematically dismantled by the silent monster in a perfect suit.
I wanted to crumble. I couldn’t. Dad needed me. No matter the long list of allegations and the even longer list of evidence against him, he was my father. He had always been there for me. Always protected me, stood by me, and encouraged me. Even after what my mother had done. Even after what I had done.
I would not leave his side. He was staring down a hefty prison sentence. Even if the worst happened, I would visit him, call him, write him, and keep him company until the day he got out. I owed him that and much more.
I stared at Vinemont so hard I hoped he would burst into flames from the sheer heat of my hatred. I’d wished for his demise for so long it had become like second nature to me. I hated him, hated every slick word from his mouth, every breath he took. Vinemont’s downfall was stuck on replay in my mind. As I glared at his back, he remained tranquil, completely at ease despite my father coming apart with worry at the table next to him.
I forced myself to drop my gaze, lest anyone see me glaring at him with embittered rage. I couldn’t bear for my father to suffer any further torment, especially not if it was based on any of my actions. My hands were pale in my lap, a white contrast to my dark pinstriped skirt. I took a deep breath and settled myself. It would do no good for me to fall apart now. Not in the face of my father’s sentencing. I let out my breath slowly and looked up.
Something was different. I darted my gaze to the side. Sinclair Vinemont sat just as still, but now his eyes were trained on me. His gaze pierced me, as if he were seeing more than my exterior. I refused to turn away and, instead, gave him a matching stare full of righteous anger. We were locked in a battle, though not a word was said and no one threw a punch. I wouldn’t look away. I wouldn’t let him win even more than he already had. I perused his appearance more fully than I had ever dared. He would have been handsome—dark hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He was tall, broad, fit. The perfect man except for the ice I knew coated his heart.
The internet had told me everything I needed to know about him. Single, old money, career in public service, and at twenty-nine years old, he was the youngest district attorney in parish history. The only thing I didn’t know about him was why he would dare look at me, why he thought he had any right to pin me with his gaze after he’d ruined my life. I wanted to spit in his face, claw his eyes, and make him hurt the same way he’d hurt my father and me.
The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the judge entered, a stark, elderly man in black robes. Vinemont finally turned away, vanquished for the time being. Everyone in the courtroom stood. The judge shuffled to his seat behind a high wall of wood and state insignias, far above the spectators and lawyers.
“Be seated.” Despite his apparent age, his voice boomed, echoing off the dusty shutters and up into the gallery above. “Counsellor Vinemont…” He trailed off, sorting through the papers on his desk.
My father sank into his chair and turned to grant me a thin smile. I tried to smile back to give him some sort of comfort, but it was too late. He’d already faced forward, watching the judge. I willed the judge to let my father go, to suspend his sentence, to do anything except take him away from me. I had no one else. No mother. No one except Dylan, and I refused to rely on him for anything.
Vinemont stood and fastened the top button of his suit coat before stepping from behind the table. He was tall, and like so many dangerous things, effortlessly beautiful.
The bespectacled, bearded judge was still rifling through sheets upon sheets of documents when Vinemont spoke.
“Judge Montagnet, I have several victims lined up to speak against Mr. Rousseau.” His deep Southern drawl was an affront to my ears. Even so, words spilled off his tongue with ease. He could charm the devil himself. As far as I was concerned, Sinclair Vinemont was the devil.
I wished we’d never
left New York, never travelled to this backwoods bayou full of snakes. Vinemont condemned my father with airy ease every chance he got. No one spoke against him. No one countered his venomous lies other than the ham-handed defense attorney my father hired. So many of the people we’d met in this town were good, forthright souls—or so I’d thought. They weren’t here. They didn’t sit on my father’s side to give him support against Vinemont’s false charges. They hadn’t come to testify that my father’s sentence should be reduced or that he should be granted mercy. It was only me and rows upon rows of empty, cold pews. We were alone.
On Vinemont’s side of the courtroom, two rows full of people, maybe twenty in all, sat and glared at Dad and me. Most of them were elderly men and women who had invested with my father. They blamed him for losing their money when all he did was invest as they requested. He had no control over the market, or the crashes, or the resulting instability. My father wasn’t the monster Vinemont had made him out to be.
One of the women, gray and wrinkly, met my gaze and made the sign of the evil eye. I only knew what it was because she’d done it before, the last time I’d seen her in court during my father’s trial. I’d looked it up and realized she was cursing me. With each movement of her hand, she was willing destruction down on my head. I looked away, back to the true reason for my father’s disgrace and my desperation. Sinclair Vinemont.
The judge nodded. “Bring up your first witness, Counsellor.”
I steeled myself as one by one, the alleged victims walked, limped, or wheeled past me to testify against my father. Their tears should have moved me, their tales of trust broken and fortunes lost should have forced some shred of empathy from my heart. All I felt was anger. Anger at them for getting my father into this mess. More than that, anger at Vinemont as he stood and patted the “victims” on the shoulder or the arm and gave out hugs like he was running for office. Every so often I could have sworn he leered back at me, some sort of smug satisfaction on his hard face.
