by T. L. Martin
I suck in a breath, curl my arms around my waist, and turn my cheek. Raife meets my gaze, a wicked tilt to his lips, and my pulse slows a fraction. I don’t know why it’s so much easier to look at him.
Warm fingers brush the curve of my jaw, and my head is angled back to the man before me. A man who holds every skipping beat of my heart, every uneven breath, in the palm of his hand.
I try to turn my head again, but Adam’s grip on my jaw drops to my neck, and I stop. “I want Rai—”
“So you said.” His eyes flash, but his tone remains calm. One large hand is curled all the way around my neck, overlapping the scarf. His touch sears my throat, despite the delicate hold he has on me. He leans in, and the stubble of his jaw skims my cheek. “But I have a deal to keep”—he steps into me; I step back—“and the clock is ticking.” Another step toward me, another step back.
“You’re going to lose,” I breathe, just before my shoulders hit the cold, hard wall.
He raises his left arm and presses his palm against the wall, simultaneously caging me in and blocking Raife from my view. Then he dips his head just enough to look at me fully. Something flickers in his eyes as he traces every inch of my face, and I can’t tell if he wants to fuck me or hurt me.
A slow tremor runs through me. Jesus, that should not turn me on.
“I should tell you, little mouse,” he murmurs. The hand around my neck disappears before he brushes the hair out of my face, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “I never lose.”
Shit.
I snap my knees shut, but not before his hard, warm thigh wedges between my legs, rubbing against my G-string. A spark zips straight to my core at the delicious friction. I bite my bottom lip hard, barely containing the moan rumbling up my throat.
Raife’s chuckle sneaks its way to my ears, and I hear the squeak of a chair as he sits.
Without thinking, I bend my elbows and push my palms against Adam’s chest, trying to escape before he unravels me. But my arms are forced downward as he moves forward and closes the small gap between us. I gasp when my feet leave the floor and the only thing keeping me up is Adam’s strong thigh, my full weight pressing down on him. I squirm, but that only makes me moan as his warmth vibrates against my clit.
When my hips buck against his, every curved dip of his abdomen tenses beneath my palms.
My inhale catches in my throat at the unexpected reaction.
I freeze, my breaths heavy, and take in the shudder that ripples through him as I slowly manage to slide my hands up between our crushed bodies, until my fingers are wrapped around his neck.
Then I angle my chin to look directly at Adam.
His heavy gaze is on mine, his eyelids lowered. His jaw is clenched, chest rising and falling. He doesn’t move when I inch my fingers higher and brush them through the thick strands of his hair, messing them up in the process. The tension is stifling, and my chest aches with every rapid thump of my heart. I drag my nails back down, along the back of his neck.
A swallow passes through his throat, and a gust of air pours from my lips.
His eyes flick down, tracking the motion.
His mouth is so close. His skin so warm. I don’t even realize I’m leaning in, toward his lips, until his tight grip is on my jaw, my neck thrown back, halting me from getting any closer. My pulse races. With my eyes now forced toward the ceiling, I’m barely able to lower my gaze enough to see him.
He pushes me back an inch until my scalp touches the wall, then drags his grip down my throat, past my scarf, his eyes following every movement. When his hand dips lower, barely skimming the curve of my breasts and lingering just below my belly button, goose bumps erupt from the pit of my stomach to my core.
A faint “Tick tock” sounds behind him.
For a moment, Adam doesn’t move.
Turmoil flares behind his eyes. A tendon in his neck bulges. And his gaze drifts back up to mine. It darkens when he catches me staring so intently at him.
Blood rushes through me like a giant wave.
“I don’t want you.” The broken whisper spills from my lips in one last, useless plea, and it’s the same moment I spread my legs further, inviting him in.
His shoulders tighten beneath my grip. I watch as he grinds his jaw back and forth. What I would give to see inside his mind right now, to sense his next move. But for a few painful seconds, he gives me nothing but an icy gaze.
Then his strong hand is beneath my G-string, and an electric heat stirs to life right on my clit.
Oh, god.
My forehead drops to his shoulder as pleasure rolls through me, but his free hand clutches my hair and forces my eyes back to his.
“I said,” he rasps, his long fingers sliding all the way inside me, “look at me.”
And so I do. With every agonizingly slow pump, every teasing dip, every delicious rub of his thumb on my clit, I look at him. Adam Matthews. My lips part, and I let my pants fill the small gap between our mouths. His eyes go a shade darker, his own breaths shortening as he expertly works his fingers faster, harder.
Fuck.
It feels good. Ripples of pleasure shock me with each slick movement, and I’m already so close. I can taste it in the air between our bodies—my wetness, his heat, our breath.
“Thirty seconds.” My broken moans drown out Raife’s voice.
I grind against Adam’s fingers, chasing it, but the strong grip on my hair slips to my ass, stilling me. I narrow my eyes and growl, and I swear I see his lips twitch. Keeping my hips locked, unmoving, between the wall and his body, he wraps my legs around him so I’m completely opened up, then drives his fingers all the way inside.
I gasp, my jaw falling open, and my skin flushes as hot tingles erupt inside my core. “Oh, god . . .”
He works his hand harder, chasing something I didn’t even know was there, and my insides tighten as an orgasm rips through me so violently my entire body shakes. Pleasure surges up my core then ripples between my thighs, leaving me breathless as it goes on and on. I bite down on my lip as the last moan bubbles up my throat, and my legs clench around him.
“Five seconds.”
A final spasm spreads from my inner thighs to my toes. My eyes are closed, my muscles mush, as Adam slides me down his hard body.
He keeps me upright with one strong arm, and I watch in a daze as he glances over his shoulder at Raife.
Raife shrugs and reaches for the papers at the end of his desk.
“I’ll have it done by the end of the night.”
“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side
which he never shows to anybody.”
—Mark Twain
My strides are long, shoulders tense, as I stalk downstairs to the basement. I pass the closed door to my . . . office . . . and continue down the dark hall until I reach the camera room.
The door opens before I reach it. Aubrey’s on her game today.
She sits behind the desk, the control panels within reach. Her eyebrows are drawn, her green eyes flicking from the wide display of monitors to mine. “Master.” She sounds surprised to see me.
I rarely enter the camera room. But I need a favor, and Aubrey’s the only secretary I trust enough to keep it quiet. More accurately, to keep it from Raife.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course.” Her gaze drops to my pants, where I feel my hard cock straining against the material. She quickly averts her attention, and she actually looks baffled. Certainly not the first time the girl’s seen a hard on, but it is the first time she’s seen one on me.
She’ll get over it. Just like I’ll have to.
“How long till Felix relieves you from your shift?”
She glances at the time on one of the monitors. “Twenty minutes.”
I nod. “I’ll cover for you. Get me all the files we have on Emmy Highland.”
She rolls the chair back and stands. “Right away.” She starts to walk around me, then pauses, glances back. “Master, if I may .
. . Raife’s just trying to get to you. It’s what he wants.”
I let out a breath of dry amusement, my gaze narrowing on the monitors before me when a certain petite girl with long black hair flits across one of the screens. Truthfully, Raife’s not my concern right now.
“Get the files, Aubrey.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then her heels click toward the exit, and the door locks behind her.
I continue to track Emmy as she enters the ladies’ quarters, probably checking out for the night. My feet are rooted to the floor, my entire body stiff and pulsing with an unrested sensation I can’t fucking shake.
Her warmth, her wetness, is still on my fingers, tucked inside my pocket where her scent can’t get to me. I should have stopped to wash my hands and rid myself of her completely, but my blood was boiling to the point I couldn’t see straight on my way here.
My worst case of blue balls yet, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.
Emmy stops before her door, then glances down both ends of the empty hall before opening it and stepping inside. She makes her way to the bathroom, the one place without a camera, and closes the door behind her.
I let out a frustrated sigh and take a small step toward the monitors.
I remember vividly the last time I fucked a woman, nearly six years ago—just like I recall the terrified look on her pale face. I had one hand locked around her throat with my knuckles going white, and the other holding a knife an inch from her stomach without me even realizing it.
And she was a professional.
By then, I’d already gone through unintentionally scaring the shit out of women when I needed a fix. I quickly learned I needed someone who specifically enjoyed, or at the very least could take it, when I hit that point of blinding release. Every time, I lost all sense of the control I work so hard at maintaining.
I can’t even use my own damn hand without losing myself, losing my barely-there sanity, in those final moments of ecstasy. However fleeting, it’s enough to give me a sense of what it would be like to lose it all. To threaten unleashing the demons of my mind forever and breaking me down completely. And time isn’t on my side. The longer I keep my past locked inside, the more difficult it becomes to contain. I won’t risk surrendering my control again.
So I abstain. Like a fucking priest.
With an unhealthy appetite for spilling blood.
The door opens, and I look over my shoulder. Aubrey sets two manila folders on the desk, then glances up at me. “Want me to stay?”
I shake my head, flicking my attention back to the monitor. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“Yes, Master.”
She leaves, and soon I relax enough to sit down, pick up the files, and lean back against the seat.
The first file is generic legal bullshit—contracts, payroll information. Not what I’m looking for. I swap it out for the second folder and skim over the few pages of personal info provided.
Emmy May Highland. Born in Presley, Mississippi on October 22, 1997 to parents Agnes and Karl Highland. One sister by the name of Francesca Highland.
I rub my chin and scan the rest of the pages—a picture of the trailer park she calls home, some greasy diner she worked at, a tattooed neighbor she had multiple flings with. Since when do we keep photos of anything other than the hires themselves? I’m about to turn the page when my gaze flies back to the last picture.
Her fling, with a stupid smirk on his face and a beer in his inked hand. The longer I stare at his photo, the more my skin burns. It’s irritating as shit, so I tear the paper down the middle and toss it into the trash bin behind me.
A trivial reaction, but fuck it.
I flip to the next page and narrow my eyes. There’s a close up of her trailer with a Bible sitting on a stand beside the front porch. Since when is Emmy fucking Highland religious? Angling my head, I trace my thumb along the side of my jaw and notice an old dog house in the backyard with a long, heavy chain sprawled out on the dirt. No dog in sight.
Irritated, I blow out a breath and shake my head.
There has to be more here. Something that ties her to Katerina or Sofia. The resemblance is too coincidental. Or in Raife’s words, uncanny.
I’ve noticed it before, every goddamn time I look at her I see it, but today, at the mercy of my hands, there was something too distinct in those sky-blue eyes. Something childlike, a spark of pure vulnerability. It’s a look identical to the one I used to see behind bright lights and iron bars every morning and night. A look that haunted me to the brink of insanity every time I shut my eyes for five long years after my escape, before I trained myself to block it out completely.
A look that can’t be replicated.
Of course it’s impossible. I watched them both die—Katerina at the hands of all four of us the day of our escape. It was a far cry from how we would have done things now. The burning regret of not making her suffer fuels each of us every single day. But we were kids then. Amateurs. No kills to our name.
Except for me.
I had Sofia, and her death was on no one’s hands but my own. Despite the promise I made to her.
My grip squeezes the edges of the papers, and my chest tightens in a way I fucking hate. The same way it did when I watched Emmy lying on her bed this morning, limbs weak and eyes glassy.
I drop the file and push off the chair. Something’s up, and I’m going to figure out what it is. But right now, the tension coiling inside me is hot enough to implode, and the knife in my pocket is lonely. Just as I pull out my phone to text Aubrey to return, my gaze catches on a page I must have missed sticking out from behind the others.
I pick it up and squint at the image. It’s a photo of Emmy taken outside a trailer home that isn’t hers. She’s wearing skin-tight jeans and a plain black top, holding one hand over her forehead to block the sun. A smile is plastered on her face for the camera, but the sunlight highlights an unnaturally pink tint around her eyes. I tilt the page and notice they’re swollen, like she’d been crying.
What the hell is this?
It’s standard for our potential hires to send in a photo of themselves after Stella contacts them, part of the process Raife monitors. But they’re usually dressed in something seductive, a genuine glint of excitement in their eyes. They’re never fucking crying.
If they were, we wouldn’t hire them.
I pick up my phone and dial the last person I want to speak with about this. Well, the second to last.
“Stella Larsson,” she purrs.
I look at my watch then dip my free hand into my pocket, keeping my tone neutral despite the turmoil twisting inside my gut. “Who told you to hire Emmy?”
“What do you mea—”
“Did you scout her yourself, like you usually do?”
“Well, no—”
“So how’d she get in contact with us?”
There’s a pause. “I . . . don’t exactly know.”
I grind my teeth. “Explain.”
“She called out of the blue a little over a month ago. I went through the interview process as usual, assuming she was someone I had scouted, but when I had her submit her photo I figured there must have been a mistake. She didn’t fit the profile at all.” Another pause. “So, when I reported the issue to Raife, he instructed me to shred her information, as expected. But then he stopped me and said to hire her anyway.”
I lean a shoulder against the wall and cross one ankle over the other. “What gave him this sudden change of heart?”
“He didn’t say. He simply looked at her picture and decided—”
“The photo she submitted?”
“Yes, he looked at her picture and decided he wanted to give her a chance. So I booked her flight. But, Mr. Matthews, I’m sure my master would be happy to discuss the case with you personally. Honestly I’m a little uncomfortable answering anything further without—”
“Send Aubrey to the camera room.” I hang up and straighten my cuffs.
It’s no question why Raife changed his mind after seeing Emmy’s photo. I’ll bet a single look at Katerina’s mini-me filled his mind with all kinds of fantasies on how he could finally quench his thirst for Katerina’s rightful revenge. The kind of revenge she deserved and escaped from even in death.
Probably explains all the extra pictures in her file, too. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from digging up whatever he could on Katerina’s doppelganger. And judging from her file, he wound up at the same dead end I’m at now.
Nothing on her ties to Katerina or Sofia. Nothing on how she got our number in the first place. What she’s really doing here.
Aubrey enters the room, and I stride past her, leaving the files behind.
Raife’s manipulations are nothing new. Shit, it’s the only reason he’s alive. Growing up the way we did taught us to put ourselves first. But where I had a mom to look after me for my first eight years, even if we were homeless, Raife never had anyone. There’s no question he would’ve wound up dead long ago if it weren’t for his cleverness, his ability to manipulate. But frankly, it’s beginning to bore me.
Emmy Highland, however, just got a helluva lot more interesting.
“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too.
They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”
—Stephen King
(Thirteen years old)
“Mmhmm. Can you tell me more about that?” Katerina’s soft voice trickles to my ears. She scribbles something onto a notepad, then leans over the whimpering teenager strapped to her work table. “More specifically, about the feelings that stirred within you when your foster mother struck you?”
I let out a puff of air and shake my head. The girl is a couple years older than me. She has scraggly hair and, based on her answers so far, she was out on the streets for less than a year before winding up here. Really, she had it good. Should’ve stayed in her foster home—a roof overhead, food in her stomach, a bed to sleep on.
The girl’s responses are quiet, a tremble cracking her voice. I know the tone well. She’s past fighting, crying, and she’s latched onto the only shred of hope she has left—the realization that at least this fucked up interview buys her a little more time.
