by Skye Warren
“And your house before the army,” I say, bracing myself, fortifying my courage against what I’m sure will be a brick wall. Possibly I’ll even face his scorn. He won’t like this.
He stiffens, but he doesn’t immediately push me away. That’s better than I expected. The ghosts around us seem to stir, as if some of them came from the past. As if they like being mentioned.
“Yes,” he says, his voice low. “Different from that.”
It’s not much of an invitation, but more than he’s ever shown before. I feel like someone navigating an ancient temple filled with traps. One wrong step, and I might be faced with flying arrows or boulders with spikes running down a ramp. “What was it like instead?”
A long silence. The ghosts become thick in the room.
“It was… dirty. That’s the main thing I remember. There was barely enough money for food. Definitely none for Windex. Even the water came out brown from the tap, as if nothing there could ever be pure.”
My heart squeezes. “I’m sorry.”
“I think living in the woods would have been cleaner, actually. At least there would have been fresh air. We lived in such filth that the bugs had a field day. They feasted on us, until it felt more like their home than ours.”
A heave of my stomach. “You don’t have to—”
“Disgusting, isn’t it? I learned to pick fleas and ticks off my body the way other children fiddle with the controls of a video game. I never expected to be free of them completely. They stuck to my skin. They climbed into my eyes while I slept because they liked the moisture.”
I sit up abruptly with a useless wave of my hand, as if I can bat the ghosts away. Of course they aren’t real. They’re inside him. Inside Liam. “I wish I could meet your father,” I cry, tears in my eyes. The moisture that fleas would seek. “I would hit him over and over again. I would hurt him.”
A soft chuckle. “So bloodthirsty. Perhaps you and I aren’t so different after all.”
“Wasn’t there someone? A teacher or—”
“My mother did her best while she was there. She would wash our clothes in the powdered soap we purchased in bulk. It dried outside in the sun, where the heat could kill anything living there. At least until it was brought back inside the house. It was worse when she left. Most of the teachers knew better than to confront my father. They might find someone waiting for them at night.”
His mother left. My mother left. It leaves a hole of a certain shape that can never be filled. It’s always there, wondering why you weren’t good enough. I put my hand over his chest, feeling the way the breath rises and falls. “Why did she go?”
“Why did she stay as long as she did? That’s the question. I suppose I’m the reason.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “You blame yourself.”
“After Elijah I suppose she realized it would never end. It was a rough delivery. There was no doctor. She must have known my father would continue getting her pregnant until she finally died.”
“Have you looked for her?” It’s something North Security does—find people. They trade in information even more than weapons. That’s the world we live in.
“No.” A wealth of emotion hides beneath the steel of his voice. “Why should I?”
“Because she’s your mother.” If mine hadn’t died I would have sought her out. Of course, if mine hadn’t died I would have gone to her when my father was thought dead.
I never would have met Liam North.
“Not anymore.”
Sympathy rises like a fine mist. “You’re angry at her. I understand that but—”
“I’m not angry at her. I’m angry at myself. What would I say to her? I’m sorry that I let him rape you in the room next to mine. I’m sorry that I covered my ears instead of listen to you beg him.” He flips me over in a rough flash, and I’m facing the bed, a weight behind me. His breath warms my temple. “I’m sorry he hurt you for so long because you wanted to make sure I was fed.”
Tears dampen the sheets beneath my cheek. “Liam.”
“It wouldn’t be a sweet reunion, Samantha.”
“You’re hurting me,” I say, even though it isn’t exactly true. It doesn’t hurt, the way my arms are held down. You’re scaring me. That’s what I really mean. He lifts some of the weight on my back, but he doesn’t let me go. I’m his prisoner. It’s like I’ve awakened a beast inside him, one who won’t be satisfied until he tastes first blood.
Liam
Fear. Pain. Grief. The scars from a lifetime ago burn across my skin.
A heavy heartbeat pounds in my chest. It’s like I’m in battle, but I’m not fighting the slim form beneath me. I’m fighting a formless enemy—the past. Samantha should know what she’s tempting with these questions.
I would hit him over and over again. I would hurt him.
Of course she would. Justice makes sense to her. She loves me with the wholehearted purity that a ward can love a guardian. I saved her from a life of drudgery in that orphanage. And probably death, from whoever hunts her now. Only a fool would assume gratitude has nothing to do with it.
My knee presses between her legs. She stiffens as she senses my intent.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice muffled against the mattress.
Does she sound afraid? I’m depraved enough to prefer it. “You said you wanted me to hold you. For comfort. That’s what I’m doing, little prodigy.”
“This isn’t comfortable.”
I press my face to her neck, breathing in deep. It’s a fully animal bondage, scenting her where she’s the most vulnerable, brushing my nose against her nape so she shivers. “It isn’t?” I press a kiss to the top of her spine. “I’ll have to try harder.”
My other knee pushes her legs farther apart. In this position I can press my erection to her core. I don’t plan to fuck her right now. I’m not quite sane enough for that. There’s the chance I could hurt her, and there is no pleasure in the world that would make me risk it. I can rut against her, though. Again and again until she moans low and reluctant, her little hands forming fists in the bedcovers.
“Wait,” she gasps out. “Wait. Wait.”
Red tints my vision. I’m not the man who’s taken care of her all these years. I’m not the man who waits because she’s nervous about the pressure on her clit. “I’m sorry if that wasn’t the foreplay you wanted, hearing about my mother getting raped. It was a better outcome than some of the women who came on that truck. She was sold to a man who married her. Most men won’t do that.”
Her body stills beneath me. “What truck?”
“Didn’t I mention? My mother was imported from Mexico. Like avocados. Or little sombrero hats that hang on rearview mirrors. She cost a few hundred dollars. And she was young enough that most men who wanted a girl would keep her in a basement somewhere. My father was the kind of bastard who didn’t care that other people knew he bought her young.”
Shivers wrack her body, and I realize she’s crying.
Disgust turns my stomach. I force myself to back away from her. I’m kneeling on the bed, touching her in zero places, and still I can feel the imprint of her body. “Now you know what I am. The devil inside me? It doesn’t care about how old you are or whether you want this.”
She looks over her shoulder, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. My heart stops at the picture of her despair. What have I done to her? “How dare you,” she says, her voice low. “You aren’t him. You aren’t anything like him.”
“Haven’t you heard me—”
“Oh, I’ve heard you. I’ve heard that you think you’re using me. And you’re just waiting for me to leave, aren’t you? That’s why you refuse to open up to me, because you think that one day I’m going to disappear like your mother did.”
I stare at her helplessly, unsure why she doesn’t see the truth of the statement. She’s the one kneeling, but she has all the power right now. I’m a supplicant behind her.
She stretches her body far enou
gh that her pretty little ass touches my groin. I suck in a breath. “Samantha. You shouldn’t do that. I don’t have any control.”
“That’s right.” Her voice comes out caustic. “There’s a devil inside.”
“Don’t tempt me, little prodigy. I want to prove how much it’s true.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” Another press of her ass. She’s turned into a little cock tease. “Show me what’s so scary. Show me how you’re going to act like your father.”
It’s wrong to touch her with the memory of my father on her lips. With the tragedy of my mother on her mind. I should definitely walk away. Find a bottle of vodka. Lose myself in a hard, dreamless sleep. Instead I nudge my cock against her sex. “Like this.”
“By making me feel good?” Her tone challenges me to do worse.
I reach around her body and slip my hand beneath her panties. Smooth skin. Warm damp. I find her clit with unerring precision. There’s no slow unfolding. My touch forces her towards an orgasm. Her shattered breath reveals how close she is. A pinch between my thumb and forefinger. That’s all it takes for her to buck against me in a wild climax. It’s both punishment and reward for standing up to me. I cup her pussy in wordless possession as she comes back into her body.
Another nudge with her ass. I flinch from the pleasure.
“What about you?” she whispers.
“There’s no comfort for me,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. I settle her carefully on the bed, exactly like I found her, except her limbs are more lax. Part of her wants to object, but the endorphins have their way. They drag her down into dreams, leaving me to hold her through the night.
CHAPTER SIX
The piano has over 12,000 parts, 10,000 of which are moving.
Josh
It probably looks like I’m lost to the world, fists flying against the bag, sweat dripping down my body, a long stretch of violence tainting the air. She probably thinks I don’t notice her. I can’t look directly. That would scare her away, like a hare running to ground. There’s only the impression of her in the mirror—her long body encased in a leotard and tights, her dark hair pulled high.
Apparently Bethany uses the gym for her own practice.
That means I’m the intruder. Well, thank God for small favors.
Liam prefers to use the outside for his practice. A ten-mile run interspersed with push-ups and other old-fashioned drills. He’d probably climb a fucking tree like Tarzan. I prefer the air-conditioned sterility of a high-end gym, such as the one in the duke’s chateau.
I planned to find her, but this is better. There’s more than enough room for both of us to practice here. A large area with mats and mirrors. Training equipment. A sauna. There’s even a goddamn hot tub for soothing aching muscles, and I spare a thought to imagining Bethany using it naked, the way the bubbling water would obscure and reveal her.
Is she brave enough to come inside when I’m here? If she runs away I’d follow her.
One, two. One, two. Even knowing she’s there doesn’t blunt my blows to the bag. Hell, it probably makes them more powerful. The sexual frustration has to go somewhere. I feel her eyes on me. It occurs to me that she’s doing more than hiding right now. More than deciding whether or not to come in. She’s watching me. Maybe admiring me? Lusting after me? Fuck.
Even the possibility makes me hard.
I tossed my shirt down an hour ago. My muscles are bunched and thick from hard use. She works with athletic men in her fancy Cirque du Monde, but there’s a difference between muscles made for performance and those honed on the battlefield.
Sweatpants hang low on my hips. Low enough I can imagine pushing them down with Bethany on her knees in front of me. It wouldn’t matter that I’m sweaty. She’d hold her mouth open, her tongue pink and pointed. I’d pump my dick until I spilled white come across her lips.
With the image in my mind I have to stop punching the bag. I rest my forehead against the leather, panting, fighting the urge to touch her.
What a terrible fucking time she chooses to finally enter.
“Hello, Josh,” she says in such a reasonable, calm tone that I’m desperate to press her against the mirror. I want to smear it with her spit, her sweat. Her come. It takes a decent amount of effort to calm the boil in my blood. I’m still erect when I turn around. No hiding that in fucking sweatpants.
“You decided to come in?”
She notices, of course. Her brown eyes widen. God, if she didn’t look so much like a doe caught in the woods. “I knew you wouldn’t bother me in Fransisco’s house.”
“You knew that, did you?”
She turns away dropping a bottle of water against the wall. “Don’t stop on my account. I’m going to use the treadmill to warm up before I use the mats.”
Here’s the thing. She has to bend over to put her water bottle down, which means revealing her ass in its tight glory. If it were a little less perfect, maybe I could have walked away. I could have turned around and punched the bag hard enough to break my hand—and maybe that would kill my boner.
Probably not, though.
“Don’t you stretch first?” I ask, grabbing a towel from a bench. I wipe my face, doing my best to appear harmless. It’s a bit like a wolf putting on a granny cap and climbing into bed.
“Yes.” She draws out the word, stalling.
Of course she stretches first. You’re supposed to stretch first, and Bethany is a rule follower. Which makes me want to create rules for her to follow. “I’ll help you.”
It’s a completely normal offer between workout partners. We aren’t exactly partners, but the private facility creates a sort of intimacy. Her expression wavers. “I’m not sure.”
“What are you worried about? You already said I won’t bother you in Fransisco’s house.”
She’s smart enough to recognize the threat inherent in my words. And polite enough to still consider letting me touch her lithe body. I would bend her legs far apart, giving her the perfect stretch. Only when she was completely warm would I consider touching her inappropriately.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” she says, taking a step back. It doesn’t appear to be conscious, that step. It’s the natural move away from danger. Walking away from a ledge. “You and I don’t exactly get along. I promise not to disturb your workout, though.”
“It’s a little late for that promise,” I say with a wry laugh, glancing down at my erection. Hope springs eternal, even though she’s unlikely to give it up in the next few minutes.
A blush darkens her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls a little quicker. Well, well. She’s not immune to me. Then again, I already knew that. It wouldn’t be so fun to tease her if she didn’t mind.
“I’m not going to apologize,” she says. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Wrong,” I say, tasting the words. “Is it wrong to have a tight little body? Wrong to make me lust after you? Wrong to make me imagine that pretty little mouth wrapped around my—”
“You’re trying to scare me, but it won’t work.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to turn you on.” Her eyes have dilated. Nipples press against the stretchy material of her leotard. Oh yes, it’s working.
“God, don’t you have someone else to bother.”
I turn around, because looking at her only makes the ache harder to bear. A hard punch to the bag reverberates through my body. Fight or flight. “So many, Bethany. You have no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
In a study of music in dreams, nearly half of the recalled music was non-standard, suggesting that original music can be created in dreams.
Samantha
A maid wakes me up at 7 a.m. on the day of the ball. I’m led to the duchess’s apartments, which make my set of rooms look tiny.
“I’m used to doing my own before the shows,” I say, hoping that I won’t have to be fussed over. I’m also hoping that I don’t end up trapped in a chair for hours. The ball does
n’t start until 8 p.m.
I have a ritual involving black dresses and lip gloss. The tour added liquid eyeliner and some glitter to my cheeks so that my expressions would be more visible from far away. We’re still talking about fifteen minutes, not a full day of preparations.
Isa exclaims with a weird amount of excitement for early in the morning and gives me a hug. Bethany appears from behind a swath of red fabric, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’m relieved that neither of them look primped, even if Isa’s disconcertingly enthusiastic.
“We’re going to be bugs,” she says.
“Excuse me?” It occurs to me that I might still be asleep. This could be a dream.
Only Bethany looks slightly amused, which lends realism to the experience. “I had this idea when I saw you last night, that you were like a ladybug. They mean good luck.”
My gaze falls to a mountain of a red dress. Like a ladybug. It looked pretty but maybe a little disturbing. “I’m not sure how I feel about being a bug.”
“Told you so,” Isa says to Bethany. “That’s why we’re going to do it with you. My lady’s maid has been sewing since nine o’clock last night. I’m going to be a monarch butterfly. Obviously.”
I turn to Bethany. “What are you going to be? A dragonfly?”
“Ooh, that’s actually a good idea. I already had a different idea, though. I’m going to be a bumble bee.” She gestures to two fashion forms standing in the corner of the room. A ballgown of deep orange is streaked by symmetrical black designs, giving the impression of wings. The yellow gown beside it is broken only by a single thick band of black at the waist. Both of them are gorgeous and classy—the whole insect thing more of a suggestion than actual costume.
“So I just wear a red dress?” I ask hopefully.
“Don’t be silly,” Isa says, turning the red mountain of fabric upright so it resembles a dress. “We have this black netting that will resemble the spots.”
