by Keri Lake
Chapter 42
Isadora
Present day …
The warmth of the bathwater surrounds me like a cozy blanket, as I sit on Lucian’s lap, my cheek pressed against his chest, listening to his heart. After another round of sex in the bathtub, he’s already washed every inch of me, including my hair, leaving me relaxed and content to fall asleep right here.
A part of me hates this comfort I feel with him, after we both agreed this was nothing more than sex, but I couldn’t have anticipated the emotions he’s stirred inside of me, the safety and trust. I expected him to treat me like every other asshole who’s taken a piece of me, and I hate myself for secretly wanting more from him, like some kind of betrayal.
Arms stretched across the edge of the tub, he breathes deep, and I lift my head just enough to peer up at him. The steam from the bath added to the soft glow of a candle casts a shine across his skin, emphasizing the muscles in his arms and chest.
He looks like a god. One roughened by life and wounded in battle.
Eyes on his, I bend forward and lick the dew from his skin, running my tongue over his nipple. Jerking forward, he bites his lip and growls, the expression on his face a warning. “You are a vision of temptation in the flesh, Isa. A man’s greatest weakness.” His eyes fall to my lips, and he leans forward to kiss me.
“And you should’ve been a poet, instead of a big, bad shipping mogul.”
“I’d have been happier for it.”
I feather my lips over his and kiss along his jaw to his throat. “What makes you unhappy?”
“At the moment? Knowing this bathwater is going to get cold soon, and we’ll have to get out.”
Smiling against his throat, I drag my teeth over his skin, and he shifts beneath me.
“If you keep doing that, we might not be going anywhere for a while, though. Cold, or not.”
“We’ll be prunes.”
“A fitting match for my face, then.”
One arm wrapped around his neck, I trace the scar along his lip with my finger. “I happen to like your face very much.”
His palms glide up my thighs, coming to rest at my hips, while he leans into me for a kiss. “That’d make you the first.”
“I find scars very attractive.”
The sound of his chuckle echoes in the steamy room. “Is that so?”
“Yes. They tell the story of an interesting man.”
Brows lowering, he turns his scarred half away from me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say something upsetting.”
“There’s nothing interesting about these scars. The only story they tell is regret and pain.”
I look down between us, to where the skinny lines mar my forearm. “Mine, too.”
He takes my wrist in hand and rubs his thumb over the scars. “Tell me.”
I don’t want to speak of it now and ruin the contentment, but his eyes implore me. Trusting and brimming with sadness, I recall the same look when he opened one of his own wounds, showing me the pictures of his little boy earlier in the evening.
What could be worse than the pain of losing a son?
Casting my gaze from his, I muster the strength to tear open these scars and let them bleed out for the first time in months. “It was January. My senior year. Everyone was counting down the days, and I was just … trying to hold on. I had no idea what I was going to do once high school ended. And it’s not like I loved the place, you know? Everybody hated me there, except Kelsey.”
“She’s your friend.”
I nod, running my fingers over his fine chest hairs. “Like a sister.” The smile on my face withers with my frown.
“What happened?” Lucian’s voice is a distant sound to the music blaring inside my head, as my memories transport me back to that night.
“I went to a party with her. Wasn’t my thing, but … it was senior year, and she begged me to go. Some guy she wanted to see there. Brady was his name.” I can smell the stale beer and the skunky, pungent odor of weed, from when we entered the house that night. The promise of bad things on the air and across my skin. “There was a boy there. One I’d seen around. Maybe nineteen. Everyone thought he was so hot. I used to hear the girls talk about him in the bathroom. Things they wished he’d do to them.” Shaking my head, I sneer at the stupidity, the naiveté of those girls now. “Imagine my surprise when he sat down next to me. He talked to me. Out of all those girls. I felt so … unique, for once. And he was nice. He talked about books, you know? Something I could relate to.”
“And where was Kelsey when you talked to this boy?”
“She walked off to find the guy she wanted to see there.” Closing my eyes adds vivid colors to the scene--the red lights around the room, the music blaring from the speaker, red cups of alcohol scattered over the floor. Red. “It was so loud. Everyone was drunk. Seemed like, just minutes later, she was stumbling after the guy out to the pool house.”
“Brady?”
I stare off, lost to the memory. The blur of the scene I’ve spent months pushing away with therapy and dark shadows. We’re just having a little fun.
“She stumbled after Brady?” The sound of Lucian’s voice draws me back to the present, and I nod.
“Yeah. Sorry. The beloved son of Tempest Cove,” I go on.
A flash of his naked torso flickers in my head, over the distant echo of laughter.
“She got drunk.”
Screams pierce my ears, and I screw my eyes shut, breathing hard through my nose as the sketchy memories arrive like half-drawn pictures with the edges erased.
“He tore her clothes off. And she was so intoxicated she couldn’t even fight it.”
The sharp tip of a blade scrapes over the stark white paper, connecting the lines of the image in pale gray scratches. I can’t bring myself to look at the mental image forming inside my head--the naked body of a girl lying on the floor. As if I’m looking down at her, scored onto the page in rough strokes.
“There were more of them. His teammates. Maybe four, or five, I can’t remember. They laughed, as he raped her. All of them watching, begging for a turn.”
A blackness stirs in the pit of my guts as the rest of the story seeps out of its locked compartment, the images clearer as more lines converge on the image, dark scratches filling with cold black ink, bringing details to life. Her half-drawn lids. The dirty carpet beneath her. Bruising marks where he held her too tight.
“Where were you when this happened?” Lucian’s voice fades beneath the remembered sounds of grunting and slapping skin, curses and crying.
“I was hiding. Hiding from all of them. I couldn’t breathe. But then I screamed. I screamed so loud, but no one could hear me.” I don’t even realize I’m clawing at Lucian’s chest, until my eyes focus in on the scratches streaked across his skin.
“What happened to the girl?”
What happened to the girl? His voice echoes inside my head.
“She screamed louder. Our screams were finally heard by a neighbor, who shined a flashlight. They all got spooked and ran off.”
“And the girl. Did she get away?”
“She did.” Like a movie reel, the memory continues to spin inside my head.
Wrapping my arm around Kelsey, both of us stumbling out of the pool house. The cold bite of winter air against my face, as the two of us made our way back to the car.
The urge to break down tugs at the back of my eyes, and I push off Lucian’s chest, concentrating on each breath, as my therapist told me to do whenever the anxiety struck me. Closing my eyes, I focus on every count, inhaling and exhaling, in and out, until the thrum in my veins slows, and when I feel Lucian’s arm tighten around my back, I open my eyes again.
“That must’ve been very traumatic to watch. I shouldn’t have been so rough with you tonight.” His comment lures me out of the dark thoughts, pushing them back inside their boxes.
“There’s a difference between roughness and rape. Someone completely betraying your trus
t. Making you feel small and weak. Worthless.”
“What I wouldn’t give to have been in that room that night.” The shadows behind his stare send a curling shiver down my spine as I imagine what unseen thoughts have captured his focus. “They would’ve regretted laying a hand on that girl.”
In spite of the distress humming through my veins, I try to picture that. The Devil of Bonesalt teaching those adolescent boys a lesson in karma. What a different outcome it might’ve been, and perhaps I wouldn’t have been plagued with so many nightmares after. “You’re the first time I feel safe.”
“And you’re the first time I’ve felt anything in a long time.” He kisses my forehead, squeezing my nape. With each passing second, the memories seal tighter, and my muscles tremble less.
“Tell me about the music. How did you come by such a gift?” His change of topic is a welcomed distraction from the few lingering sensations still humming inside of me.
I exhale a shaky breath, mentally willing my head to let go of the phantom images still clouding my head. “No idea. My dad, maybe? Except, I don’t know anything about him. He died when I was young. Definitely wasn’t my mother, though.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “I haven’t thought about it.” Leaning forward, I press my lips to his and feel his hands slide down to my hips. “Enough about me. I want to know about you. How did you get your scars?”
“I’ll tell you sometime, but not tonight.” Thumb tracing the edge of my jaw, he seems to be lost in thought again. “It’s a long and unpleasant story. And you need sleep.”
Chapter 43
Lucian
Four years ago …
I park the Ducati on the arc of the drive at the manor and kill the engine. It’s not often I get to ride it these days, but the first day of spring brought warm weather, and the long ride to the office sounded a whole lot better, with the wind zipping past me at speeds that’d make my mother’s eyeballs spin.
My father stands in his office window, watching me, as I dismount the bike. Almost thirty years old, and I’m still hawked like a teenager.
As I jog up the staircase, Rand meets me at the door, and I toss him my helmet.
“Nice job negotiating that contract, Master,” he says in passing.
No doubt, my father told him of the deal I struck with one of his vendors this afternoon, securing millions for over the next couple of years. More security for Blackthorne Enterprises.
“Thanks. Roark in his room?”
“I believe that’s where I last saw him.”
I make my way to the second floor and hang a left down the hallway, along which Roark’s nursery has officially been turned into a Formula One pit stop. Only three and a half, and the kid’s already taking after me. I enter to find him sitting on the floor with his toy cars, and I lean against the doorframe watching him for a second.
Zooming his car over a carpet track, he talks to himself. “Yay, I’m da winnah! I winned dah wace. Oh, wanna wace again? Yes!”
I chuckle watching him, and when he turns around to face me, those blue eyes light up.
“Daddy!” He drops the cars and dashes across the room, and I kneel to catch him. Crashing into me, he nearly knocks me on my ass. “Do you see my new caw, Daddy?” He points to one of his discarded toys on the carpet. “Uncle Wand gabed it to me.”
“Uncle Wand, huh? Where did Uncle Rand get a toy car?”
“Him buyed it at dah store.”
With a smile, I run my hand over his blond hair. Another trait he earned from Amelia. “How was your day, buddy?”
“Good. Did you worked?”
“I did. Nailed a big deal, too.” I hold my hand up, and he leaps to high five.
“Wanna pway wace wif me?”
“Let me get showered and finish up some paperwork real quick, and I’ll go a couple laps with you.”
“Yay!” He jumps up and down and throws himself at me.
Arms wrapped around him, I pull him in for a hug and kiss his cheek.
A figure sweeps by us as Amelia makes her way into his bedroom. “Okay, Roark, bath time.”
The two of us don’t speak much, with me being gone most of the day, but she doesn’t sleep as much as she did for a while there. Lately, she’s been up and dressed before ten, as I understand, and has even started taking Roark and Sampson for walks in the garden. We’ll never be what she imagined, but at least we won’t be what I imagined, either. Hands stuffed in her pocket, hair pulled back in a loose bun, she wears jeans and a flowy top that isn’t what she would’ve worn ten years ago. She looks older. Still pretty, but aged with stress.
“How’d it go today?” My mother must’ve filled her in, as I certainly didn’t tell her what was on my agenda.
Even so, I answer, “Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
An awkward silence follows, as it always does. Usually, she tries to fill in the gap with benign conversation about the weather, or my office. Most of the time, I think she’s looking for me to slip and tell her I’m fucking someone at work. Tonight, I don’t give her the chance.
“I’ve got some paperwork to finish.” Directing my attention back toward Roark, I point at him, backing myself toward the door. “I’ll see you in a few, buddy. Get in a couple warmup laps, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Lucian,” she calls after me, bringing my escape to a halt. “I was thinking … if you’re up for it tomorrow. Maybe we could have dinner? Together? Nothing special. Just … catching up.”
On four years of ignoring each other? Two of those years I spent resenting her. The three of us have never eaten as a family. I either grab something on the way home from the office, or eat alone later, after everyone’s already gone to bed.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Fair enough. I’m going to go to bed after Roark’s bath. Can you make sure he gets to sleep?”
“Yeah. Where’s Anna?”
“I gave her the night off. Just trying to get …” Gaze cast downward, she shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Trying to get what?”
“Back to being a mother.” It’s strange to hear those words from her, considering she spent the first year of Roark’s life avoiding the role. “I don’t want my son to be raised by someone else.”
Tight lipped, I nod in approval, though I haven’t been around Amelia much these days to know what kind of responsibility that might be on her.
“Anyway, let me know about tomorrow.”
“I will. ‘Night.”
“Your father is incredibly proud of you.” My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, while I sit hunched over the small bit of paperwork I’m hustling to finish so I can hang out with Roark, as promised.
“I’m sure he is. All the more reason to toss this shit aside.”
Sneering, she enters the room and saunters over to the liquor that’s set out on a tray. Glass clinks as she stands with her back to me, pouring a drink, and when she turns around, she’s carrying two, one of which she places down on the desk.
Plopping into the chair in front of me, she raises her glass. “Cheers to your successful negotiation.”
I raise my glass and nod. “Thanks.”
Seconds pass quietly, before her lips widen with a smile. “Amelia seems to be feeling better these days.”
“Seems to be.”
“If the two of you would like some time to get away, I’m happy to watch Roar--”
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Lucian, she’s trying. You have to give her that.”
“I appreciate her efforts, but I’m not here to play pretend. I didn’t choose this.” The only thing that solidified my decision to play, at all, was the paternity test results that came back positive that I was the father. For the sake of my own son, I gave the family shit a chance.
“And you think she did?”
“Why are you here, Mother? To lay another gu
ilt trip on me?”
Lips pursed, the way they do when she’s trying to cap a smartass remark meant for my father, she sets the glass on the desk. “Consider having dinner with her tomorrow. The two of you are still married, after all. It’s important to build what you can before the real hate sets in.”
“Like you and my father? Why bother to stay together? You could be doing your own thing right now. Following your heart’s desire, instead of playing into his little games of power.”
“Because divorce is messy. And expensive. Besides that, the heart is a dangerous organ that isn’t meant to be free. Why else would God have built a cage for it?”
If there was any question as to where my lack of faith in love and relationships originated, I’m staring at half the reason right now. “No promises. But I’ll think about dinner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish this so I can hang with my son.”
“Of course.” My mother gathers up the half-sipped glasses of liquor and exits the office.
I glance at the clock on my desk, and at my watch that reads twenty-to eight. “Ten more minutes.”
A cold, hard surface presses against my cheek, my jaw aching, and I open my eyes to white sheets of paper. Pain pulses inside my skull. Eyes screwed shut on the agony, I sit up and rub the sleep from them.
The clock reads almost eleven.
Shit.
I fell asleep. I don’t even remember doing so.
Shit.
Having grown up with a man who never played with me as a child, and never kept his promises, I make it a point to do both with Roark.
On my feet, the room spins for a second, and I shield my eyes behind my palm until it slows to a stop again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Stumbling out of the office, I stagger down the hallway toward Roark’s bedroom, the portraits of ancestors on the wall going in and out of focus. I must be utterly exhausted.
