by An Latro
She shrugs as her feet hit the ground and she adjusts her skirt. Something like sorrow and regret—but not quite either—are ebbing in as the pleasure fades. The weight of what they did is settling in and she says, simply, “Seth.”
It's not a lot of explanation, but it's all she needs to kill the look in his eyes. Except, it doesn't. He draws her close by the waist, and kisses her softly, and a dark smile forms when he pulls away.
"I'll deal with Seth," he says, her words echoed back at her. And then he draws her into the small cabana and shuts the door on the night.
Chapter 25. Grigg's Warehouse, Brooklyn. November 20th
Rama slowly lowers the phone, toying with a lighter. Her words are ringing in his mind and he doesn’t know what to do with this new knowledge. Caleb was his friend, his ally, his sometimes lover. The man had kept secrets—Rama was not so besotted that he didn’t realize that.
But this is more than a secret. It’s a betrayal that stings almost as much seeing Emma in his clubs had been.
Caleb had always protected her. Even from the people he trusted—she was sacrosanct and untouchable. With this new revelation, another piece of the puzzle that is the Morgan family falls into place, shifting everything into focus a little more.
There is a slight tap on the door and Rama looks up, away from the bar where Caleb had once fucked him.
Memories are dangerous things. “Come in,” he calls, swallowing the last of his scotch.
Kai opens the door and steps inside. “The delivery arrived, sir.”
A grim smile creases his face, and Rama stands. Straightens his suit coat. “Then we shouldn’t keep our guest waiting any longer.”
Kai follows Rama out of the office, through the back of the club to the waiting car. Once inside, Rama glances at his bodyguard.
“Any issues?”
Kai shakes his head. “Nothing.” Satisfied, Rama leans back.
It’s been four days since the attack. Four days of holding the Oliver thug. And he’s done very little to drag information from the man.
Seth would have shot him by now. He would have shot him there in the glass and broken restaurant. Seth is, even now, driven by his fury when roused, and nothing infuriates him quite like a threat to Emma.
Rama isn’t impulsive. He’s quiet and methodical and deliberate. And that deliberation has stayed his hand for the past four days. But that’s over now.
“Has he told you anything useful?” Kai asks, glancing at his boss.
Rama shrugs, a careless movement that is too stiff with tension. “He’s been very talkative. But nothing useful.”
Kai makes a soft noise of displeasure, but Rama filters it out, settling deeper into himself.
Here, there is rarely a need to display this side of himself. Here, he is the exiled king and his people adore him.
But he grew up in the streets of Bangkok, and that is a world completely apart from this.
Savage and gentle and strange—a city that demands all of that and more from her king.
He wants to show Emma that—the beauty of his home. The brutality it breeds in him.
Rama releases the breath in his lungs, and—absurdly—wishes for drugs. Anything to distill the thrumming anger and anticipation in his veins.
The car slows, and he’s moving, exploding out of it before it comes to a full stop. Kai curses and fumbles to follow the younger man. Rama ignores him completely as he strides into the building.
Two Thais are sitting in chairs at a small table, eating noodles. Their eyes go wide at the sight of Rama and they scramble to their feet, shouting for their compatriots.
“Where is it?” Rama asks, ignoring the panic.
“Sao is finishing setting it up.”
Rama nods and pushes into the holding room.
It’s dark and dirty, blood on the floor. It smells of shit and sweat and fear. And something else that makes Rama smile.
If Emma saw him, in this moment, she would not recognize her quiet lover.
The thug is twitching and moaning on the bed. One of the crew speaks up. “It’s been a little over twenty hours since his last dose.”
Rama smiles. “Then he’s in withdrawal.”
The thug is barely recognizable as the man wielding a gun from four days ago. His face is a mess of bruises and shattered bones, his eyes so swollen one won’t open. His hands are bloody, slivers of bamboo still embedded under his nails. He’s naked and covered in bruises, old and new. “Are you ready to talk?” Rama asks softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Fuck you, man,” the assassin lisps. Rama’s lips curve into a smile.
“Do you know, in my country, we have an apex predator? There are no threats to this creature. In Australia, they have sharks and in Africa, there are the lions and hyenas. And people sometimes laugh. Because we? We have a giant hornet.” The thug barks a laugh, through mangled teeth. Rama smiles with him, a genial smirk that accepts the humor poked at his country. “It’s harmless, yes? Sao?”
The thin man pops out of the adjoining room. “All set.”
Rama shifts. “Let me tell you about this hornet. It’s territorial. And fierce. It has eight different properties to its venom, but what it really does is liquefies the muscle. Hornets can’t bite, so this allows them to eat their prey. And unlike bees, there is no barb—which means that a single hornet can sting as often as it wants.” He pauses, and the thug’s eye is wide and worried, panic beginning to seep in.
“A handful of the giant hornets can kill an entire hive—thirty thousand bees—in less than a day. Do you begin to understand this predator?”
“I got no beef with you, Ratchaphure. This is about the girl,” the thug babbles.
Rama smiles, coming closer. He leans down, until his lips are close to the thug’s ear and he murmurs, “The girl was wearing my mark. She is under my protection. And I love her. You shot the woman I love, you fucker. Do you think I’ll ignore that?”
The thug shudders. Everything Rama says is delivered in a soft croon—cool and calm. And disturbing because of it.
“Here’s what will happen. I will leave the room. My man will release the hornets.
They’re pissed and hungry, and you are all that’s here. You talk—tell us who sent you and why.
And maybe we kill you before your muscles melt and organs fail. Maybe.” Rama straightens as the thug gasps.
He starts talking before the door closes behind Rama, as the sound of wings buzzing together fill the room.
Later, Rama stubs out his cigarette and pulls out his phone. Inside the holding room, what remains of the thug is dripping to the floor. Hornets are still hovering on his body, lazily buzzing now. It’s a good hive—pity that it will need to be destroyed now. He glances at Sao and the others. “Give them another hour. Then destroy the hive. And the body.” They nod and he turns away, dialing quickly.
When Tinney answers, he says quietly. “It’s done. The hit came from Bethania.”
“Did he know where she is?”
“No. He didn't actually see her; she used a go-between. There was no mention of Oliver at all. This guy didn't even know that name.”
Rama sighs and rubs his eyes. “Tell Seth it’s over.”
“What did you do to him?” Tinney asks, his voice curious.
Rama pauses. Shrugs. “We fed him to a hive of giant hornets.”
There is a shocked silence on the other end of the line and Rama smiles grimly. Hangs up.
No one ever expects the quiet Buddhist to resort to violence. It never fails to surprise them.
It never surprised Caleb.
Chapter 26. Havana's Villa. November 20th
Seth Wakes With A Jolt To The Sound Of A Buzzer. He's reaching for his guns in their usual place when the torrent of sunshine takes him off guard. His hand feels around on a marbletopped table, as the scent of salt air registers to his senses. No, no guns, not here.
Several more realizations dawn on him in quick succession; this is his guest suite, he
did not go to sleep alone, it's very hot, and he's naked. He jerks a sheet over his sprawled out body just as the door to his room opens. It's a house girl, sent to wake him. His eyes flash to the other side of the bed, but somehow he is not surprised to find that there's no body beside him. Was she a dream? He glances down at the red marks on his chest from her fingernails. Not a chance.
“Lunch is in an hour, señor,” says the house girl, politely keeping her eyes down.
“Thanks,” he grunts, his voice hoarse and his throat incredibly dry. He can see the girl moving in his not-yet-cleared vision, but he mostly focuses on the instant railroad of energy in his veins, those shaky, high-tension jitters that signal the come-down. How did he sleep through a moment of this stuff?
The house girl draws near, extends a glass of water toward him, which fails to register in his cocaine haze, and he grabs her wrist before he realizes what he's doing. She gasps, and the contact spills a bit of the water onto the sheet that barely protects the valuables between his legs.
The iced liquid is a shock, and he recoils as if he's been hit.
Maybe it's the glide from the previous night—no, it must have been morning when they had finally relented. Or maybe it's the strung out result of the island's cash crop, but his eyes crawl hungrily over the girl, so young, and he considers tearing the uniform dress from her, and holding her down on the bed while he pounds her so hard she screams. Her gaze is heavy on his as the heat in his eyes rages, and he can almost feel her assent, her hot interest. She glances down at the now-wet sheet, a tiny smile on her lips. He blinks, releases her.
“Forgive me,” he says, accepting the water, and she abruptly pulls back.
Disappointment turns down the corners of her lips, and she slips her gaze back to the floor. “Buzz if you need anything, Mr. Morgan.”
She turns toward the door. Good thing, too, because her accent tugs again at his sexual appetite. He hears the door closed and he throws the now-wet sheet off of him. It's hot. He's hard, and he glares at his dick. He just fucked himself into oblivion. But here he is – alone on this island, again. His thoughts flit to Emma, how she probably didn't wake up alone. Fucking Miguel. His anger rises and his arousal depletes, so he shoves himself off the bed to wander to a huge, open window.
As always, the ocean does her coy dance upon the shore, ever teasing, whispering to join her in the forbidden secrets of the deep. The tide is high and the sun is blazing. The humidity is also a cruel lady, coaxing sweat and hormones to their limits. Part of him would stay forever in this fevered paradise, but just as much as Cuba is in his bones, New York is in his blood, and that part of him recognizes the relief that soon he must return home. Cuba would be the death of him, and not by any other hand but his own.
He shakes his head at himself. None of these thoughts will help him prepare for the serious subject of the pending lunch—the reason he is here at all. On his way to a cold shower, a sure way to douse his rioting nerves, he notices a spread has been set up on a breakfast table. An iced pitcher of water sweats beside a glass; a decanter of orange juice and a chilled bottle of champagne beckon to him. Right in the middle of the setting sits a mirror and a pile of coke. The sight stops him in his tracks. He's been doing well, hasn't had a taste for the stuff, but in this moment, there's no one but himself to admonish him, and if he's good at anything, it's dealing with his consequences later. What was it he had said? When in Rome.
He pours himself a champagne-heavy mimosa, and sips it as he chops out a line. There's something opulent about doing so naked, and he grins. Again, his thoughts roam to Emma. Has she realized yet that not all plays are made with an audience?
He takes the rail and feels his fortitude slide into place as the blow oozes down the back of his throat. His stomach clenches and he's glad that it's empty. For a long stretch, all he can do is lean back and close his eyes. Now that his sexual rage has been sated—somewhat—the rest of his anger just melts into something cold and hard around his emotions. Yes, this is the old confidence that comes with this demon, but only when this is the only demon at the gate.
He drains the mimosa and shoves himself to his feet. And as he turns on the water, as it slides over his coiled muscles, his spinning thoughts land inexplicably on Vera. He was still drunk when he woke. He realizes that now as the mimosa kicks back in the previous night's inebriation, and the blow has his body raging once again. Last night's drunken indignation is nowhere to be found, and his shame is nonexistent as he makes use of some ridiculously expensive soap and grabs his dick like a teenager. He leans a forearm against the shower wall, stroking himself in a hard rhythm, his hot breaths spreading against the tile.
His misery makes a potent cocktail with his pleasure. Why Vera? Because she is infuriating. She is successful, and brilliant, and because she fucks like a goddess would. Just as he is danger to her, she is the same for him. His thoughts crawl back to that tiny park on the outskirts of Chinatown, her brazen act of indecent exposure, and the way she called him out on his insecurities.
His back teeth grind together, and he makes a frustrated growl. Why her? Because he hasn't actually fucked her since his triumphant return from “studying abroad.” The play she made after the gala, coming to the office unannounced, was so ballsy he has almost called her several times. Her cunning is maddening.
His breaths are fast, short, and his pleasure is coiled impossibly close to release. His thoughts come in rapid fire abandon—green devil eyes, the time she found his gun then fucked him harder, the way she made Emma so mad—
Emma. His eyes fly wide and the climb to orgasm halts, as painful as plugging a hole in a dam. He jerks his hand away from his cock and releases a long, pointed string of profanity at the shower wall, and he only just stops himself from breaking his knuckles against the tile. His breath seethes through his clenched teeth, and he turns the shower to nothing but cold water.
By the time Seth ambles out to the patio, he has locked away his personal issues for some other moment alone. He is also wide awake, and his jitters have been quelled by most of the bottle of champagne. For all the reserve Havana found in Seth last night, he will certainly see the raw side of the Morgan son today. Emma is alone at the large round table when Seth approaches. He quickly takes in her hair pulled back, her simple sundress, and the huge sunglasses that darken her eyes. She sips at something clear and fizzy with a grimace. He's seen that look before. She's hung over.
She doesn't speak as he takes the seat beside her, but she turns her solemn attention in his direction. He has opted to let his hair do its wild mess of a dance, and there's a dusting of stubble on his jaw. His mirror shades hide his mood, and his linen shirt is open. He is aware of her hot interest, the desire she’s been hiding since the night everything changed. She’s not hiding it now.
He catches the tiny downward movement of her face, her eyes tracing the claw marks on his chest, then she looks away, her expression tightening.
He smirks, then turns his attention to a waiting glass of water. The tension lingers with the silence for several long minutes before Seth spots Havana approaching. The kingpin is not alone, Seth also realizes. He and Emma stand as their host reaches the table, and Seth whips his shirt closed as he stands. He works the buttons closed with a nearly imperceptible swiftness, as his firm grip on his nerves snaps and drops into his gut.
“Seth, Emma,” says Havana, “I'd like you to meet my daughter, Aleja.”
Seth swallows the dry lump in his throat, and thanks god for his mirror shades as he takes the hand of the exotic beauty he bedded last night. A smile claims those nude lips, lips that almost make him hard again, and he kisses the backs of her knuckles. His voice almost cracks when he says, “A pleasure.”
Emma's scowl turns into a nearly-smile that momentarily reminds Seth of Bethania. If he weren't so close to losing his own composure, he would be amused that Emma is certainly not amused by this new development. The women shake hands, a very formal affair, as his cousin eyes the older wo
man with barely checked hostility.
“Please, sit,” says Havana.
Seth clears his throat. Damn that premium coke. He says, “What a shame that I never met you during my time here before.”
Emma's fingers twitch against her beverage. Seth sips at his water. Aleja smiles and Seth is glad that her dark eyes are also hidden behind sunglasses. She says, “Father keeps me busy. You might know me by the name Riza.”
Seth's breath catches and he inhales his drink of water. He has heard the name Riza—the merciless right hand of Havana who is nearly as elusive as the kingpin himself. Seth always presumed it was a man. He coughs his way through his body's rebellion, which causes his sinuses to drain, and the taste of cocaine slides down to his stomach.
Through his distress, he sees Emma glaring at him—at least he's pretty sure it's a glare based on the thin line of her lips. Just the same, he sees a contrasting smirk on Aleja's lips.
Finally, he says, “Somehow I never imagined that the Reaper was so beautiful.”
“Of course she is beautiful; she is my child,” Havana says with a proud smile. Yet there is that calculated warning in his eyes as he watches Seth.
“Respectfully, of course,” Seth answers.
The first course of their lunch arrives, dark green salad with fruit and vinaigrette. They take a few moments to savor the food, and Seth glances at Emma to catch the slight grimace she makes as she forces herself to eat. Havana takes a few bites, then dabs his napkin against his lips.
His gaze volleys from Seth to Emma, then back. Then he says, “I have reviewed your plans. You say this idea was your brother's?”
Seth forces his food down as well, which proves more difficult than expected when coupled with the unexpected mention of Caleb. He nods just for the extra seconds of composure, but before Seth can answer, Emma says, “Mostly. I had to tweak some details regarding the movement of certain assets, and the involvement of some deceased parties, but the foundation of the plan was Caleb’s.”
