Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3)

by Nicolette Hugo

  ***

  The barista called his name and Jerricho realized the man had been trying to get his attention. He took the coffee. It tasted cheap and gritty, just like the memory still bitter on his tongue.

  His father had died eight months after Jerricho had left for France. Maybe it was the fact his father had always stayed too political, maybe it was the fact there was nobody left to come home to. He’d tried to save them both. In the end Jerricho had only delayed the inevitable. And wounded a woman he’d loved.

  Here he was doing it again.

  Scarlet loved him.

  He’d failed one woman; he didn’t want to fail another.

  His hand started to shake and he put the coffee down.

  Now that Dado was taken care of did he really need to leave? He’d been running for a year and where had that got him?

  Could he go back?

  Killian might kill him. All the fucked-up the scenarios, and that seemed the best one to risk.

  Killian had told him winning was knowing when to walk away.

  This was not that time.

  He had to choose Scarlet.

  Thirty-Six

  Jerricho’s first stop back was to check on Romeo. Was the man dead or alive? He had to know what he was facing. Either way, a confrontation with Killian was looming—he was not playing doctor for him again.

  He took a deep breath then opened the old farmhouse door and froze.

  The door to the cell was open and Romeo was gone. The improbable had just become a reality.

  The noose was still lying on the floor. So too, the blank pad of paper lay with the open lock on it. Next to it, the pen lay in pieces.

  Momentarily disorientated, his brain tried to make sense of it.

  Had someone found Romeo and freed him?

  Jesus, was Scarlet in danger?

  His heart rate spiked at the thought.

  No.

  No. Killian.

  It made more sense that Killian had come and taken Romeo.

  Stomach muscles still clenched tight, his eyes scanned the debris on the floor. Killian made sense, but something was bothering him.

  He walked over and sank to his haunches staring at the evidence.

  Then he saw it.

  So easy to miss, but his eye was trained for detail. The thin spring from the pen’s barrel barely visible in the keyhole of the lock. The smallest clues were the most telling.

  If Romeo got out, That meant he was somewhere on this farm—the damage of Jerricho’s actions uncontained.

  ***

  The car lifted off the bumpy road as he raced back to the main house. He wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking he’d find Romeo on his own. Killian and his men needed in on this.

  Stones shot from under the tires as he skidded to a stop and jumped from the car. The house was still dead quiet, still asleep, but the back door was ajar.

  Cold dread slid down his spine and into his belly.

  Carefully, he pushed the door wider.

  Nothing.

  The kitchen seemed clear.

  He crept inside, the drum of his beating heart so hard it should have broken the eerie silence.

  He slipped past the counter and something caught this eye. The butcher’s knife was missing from the magnetized strip that hung above the bench top.

  The discovery wrenched his stomach muscles tighter. Tension squeezed all the way up his neck and crawled into his jaw.

  Should he call out to warn them? Would that make Romeo do something rash?

  Was he too late?

  Fuck.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  He could do this.

  Years of working in trauma in war conditions, he could do this.

  He slipped into the passage. Back against the wall, he slowly peered around the doorway into the lounge.

  Empty.

  He moved quickly and quietly up the stairs.

  He saw the tip of the blade before Romeo came out of the bedroom on the left.

  A fraction of a second, enough time to slip into the open bathroom on the right.

  Quiet. He was so fucking quiet as he held his breath.

  Romeo was searching the rooms.

  He risked a glance. Romeo’s back was moving away from him, hand reaching for the master bedroom door.

  Power surged through Jerricho’s muscles as he barreled down the passage and hurled himself at the intruder.

  Romeo turned, knife snagging the side of Jerricho’s shirt as they crashed through the door onto the bedroom floor.

  Clammy cold ran down his side just before Jerricho felt the sting. He’d been cut, but he couldn’t feel any pain. There was just the burn of adrenalin and the sound of his heart in his ears broken.

  And somewhere in the distance, there was a scream.

  He fought for the knife as they rolled, struggling to wrestle it from Romeo’s hands.

  The man should’ve been weak, but there was nothing like desperation to make a man inhumanly strong.

  Except, they were both desperate.

  Jerricho head-butted Romeo, hitting the man’s broken nose and making him scream.

  The distraction provided a split-second’s give, all he needed to overpower Romeo and slide the blade between his fourth and fifth rib. The knife found its way into the heart.

  The body under Jerricho shuddered as blood sputtered from its mouth.

  He rolled off the red bloom of blood, grabbed his cut side, and leaned against the wall, panting.

  “Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod.” Scarlet wobbled as her feet hit the floor. She let go of the bed and fell to her hands and knees. “Oh God.” She seemed to struggle as shaking, she crawled across the floor to him.

  He reached out for her, he felt so tired.

  She grabbed his hand and he pulled her across his legs and into his lap. He needed warmth against him. She was so alive and warm against his cold sweat.

  “You’re bleeding.” Stuttered words as sobs racked her body.

  He’d already probed the cut. It was just a surface wound; the knife had cut across his lower ribs, his racing heart making the bleeding worse.

  “I’m fine.” He cupped her head against his chest.

  Killian stood in front of him, taking in the scene.

  The man would have questions—questions about Romeo, questions about him—why he wasn’t in bed with them, why he was fully dressed. While Scarlet was falling apart, Killian would be working on putting the pieces together.

  Scarlet’s fingers curled, gripping his shirt tighter as she burrowed into him. Her sobs were quieter, but she was shivering with shock. He should get her something sweet, but he didn’t have the energy to stand yet.

  Then there was Killian. Something dangerous radiated off him, something warning Jerricho not to move.

  Killian nudged Romeo’s body with his foot. The nudge became a kick and another kick and another. The rage at the man who’d desecrated the sanctity of their bedroom grew.

  Scarlet screamed.

  But Killian was beyond hearing.

  No longer content kicking, he sank down on one knee between the man’s legs. His fingers roughly tugged at the button and the zip of Romeo’s pants. Then, with a forceful tug he pulled the knife free from the dead man’s chest.

  “What are you doing?” Scarlet’s voice was shrill.

  How many pieces do you think I can take off you before I’m through? Fingers? Toes? Ears? Your cock? When I castrate you, I’m going to feed it to you inch-by-motherfucking-inch, right before I start taking your teeth.

  Jerricho tried to cradle her face and shield her from the sight, but she struggled free.

  “Killian, no.” She launched herself and grabbed hold of his leg.

  New tension cramped Jerricho’s stomach, fresh pain from the cut flaring to life as he reached for her, but she held onto her husband.

  “Killian, no.”

  Killian looked down at his wife as if he didn’t recognize her.

>   “No. Please, I love you. Don’t do this. You said you’d let it go. I’m begging you. This is your chance. Let it go.”

  Killian blinked, the knife falling from his slowly opening fingers. Chest heaving, he grabbed Scarlet and pulled her to him.

  “He could’ve killed you.” The man’s voice was as raw as his mood.

  “He didn’t.” Her hands soothed over his back. “Jerricho saved me. He saved me.”

  He could feel Killian’s gaze, but Jerricho looked away.

  Thirty-Seven

  It was only 9 a.m. but the day already seemed much older as Jerricho sat in the farmhouse study. Or maybe that was just him. He still hadn’t slept, and the hangover from the night’s events was starting to crash in. He was in no state to defend himself.

  He stared across the desk at Killian.

  He’d hurt the man. Fucked him. Betrayed him. The closest of intimacies.

  Yet at this moment, he was a clear outsider.

  After the chaos surrounding Romeo had calmed down, Killian had dressed and gone to inspect the old farmhouse. Jerricho had stayed and treated Scarlet for shock before stitching and bandaging his side.

  He wasn’t surprised when Killian had come back, striding through the house and demanding to speak with him privately.

  Now they sat across from each other in silence. The noose lying on the desk said everything.

  “Big night.” Killian’s tone was measured as the man studied him.

  Jerricho looked him in the eyes. He’d done the right thing.

  “Why did you come back?”

  “Scarlet.”

  “She’d be devastated to know you left, I don’t think she’s realized yet.”

  Jerricho looked away, out the window. The moody indigoes of the morning were long gone and the day was bright with clear skies. “I know.” His voice was rough.

  “You’re lucky you killed the fuck or you wouldn’t be breathing.”

  Jerricho nodded. “I know.” Romeo had come too close to hurting Scarlet.

  Eli strode into the room, slicing through the tension as he casually perched on Killian’s desk. “Romeo is dead. I see I missed the party.”

  “Black killed him.”

  “Well, that takes care of that.”

  As if anything was that simple.

  Eli reached into his jacket pocket and dropped something on the desk. “You’re a real boy now.”

  The French passport landed in front of him.

  Confused, Jerricho looked at it. His? He was sure his passport was with the money in the bag. He leaned forward, reaching out to get a better look at it.

  “Scar told me what you did to your hand. The punching bag.” Killian gestured at Jerricho’s raw knuckles.

  Jerricho looked up, their eyes meeting in understanding.

  Scarlet would’ve also said why.

  Killian understood the reason for what Jerricho had done the previous night, and this was the closest to an apology Jerricho would get for being driven to do it. When it came to the events that led to this morning’s incident, they both shared the blame.

  But there was only one betrayal.

  You’re lucky you killed the fuck.

  The cost of his absolution was just as fucked up as the rest of it.

  Killian gave a small nod and Jerricho opened the passport.

  Jerricho Black.

  The name was in black and white, as if he really existed.

  The rest of it looked exactly like his existing passport, even the old photograph. Killian must’ve gone through his belongings after the warehouse incident.

  “The identity and the passport were the easy part because I can manipulate records online,” Eli explained.

  Jerricho flipped through the pages with shaky fingers. There was a stamped 457-Visa giving him legal Australian employment status.

  He sat there momentarily dazed.

  He held the key to freedom in his hand, and he’d given it away.

  His stomach lurched violently with the thought.

  There was no way Killian would let him keep the passport now.

  “There are things I can’t do for you,” Eli droned on. “I can’t get you on the airport CCTV cameras to prove a legal arrival. I can’t get you legitimate verbal references when you look for employment. You will have to manage the name change with your old colleagues, but …” Eli looked down at the noose with a wry grin, “you seem like an industrious type.” He turned to Killian. “Our friend at the crematorium is ready to turn Romeo into dust, these things have to be scheduled.”

  Killian nodded as Eli stood and left.

  Jerricho sat there lost. He’d thought he’d known what he could live with, but realized what he’d just lost—Scarlet and his freedom. The fact that he’d saved her life, gave him no comfort.

  Jesus, he was always making the wrong fucking choices.

  He slowly put the passport back on the desk. Stiff with reluctance, he pushed the little Bordeaux-red book across the desk and Killian’s fingers snapped down to catch it.

  Killian’s fingers drummed. “You ever love something or someone so much you could almost destroy them?”

  The question seemed to come from nowhere. Too hollow to reply, Jerricho just raised tired eyes to look at the man.

  “My father loved me. As fucked up as that sounds, I know he loved me.” Killian shook his head. “I’ve never understood if love saves you or damns you.”

  They were the same, he and Killian; Jerricho had no idea either.

  “There were teething problems with Daniel too, but Scar and I worked better with him …” Killian pushed the passport back across the desk.

  Freedom.

  The connection to the cartel had been severed with Dado and now he had his name, Jerricho Black. Naavid was gone.

  But freedom was hollow without Scarlet.

  “I’m sorry I showered so long.” Scarlet’s voice came from the doorway behind him.

  It was not the voice he knew. She sounded thin and brittle. The events from the morning would haunt them all.

  He stood up and turned, wanting to comfort her, but Killian had gotten there first.

  “Can we go home?” She stared into her husband’s eyes. “I just want to go home.”

  Jerricho looked away, briefly closing his eyes as he took a breath and picked up the passport. It should’ve felt better than it did, holding his future in his hand.

  “Of course.” Killian squeezed the back of Scarlet’s neck. “Everything’s packed. Black?”

  Jerricho met Killian’s gaze and nodded. He was packed to go. After everything, nothing had changed from the night before—he was still leaving, going away.

  His steps echoed the heaviness in his stomach.

  “Are you okay?” Scarlet’s head tilted as he approached.

  For a moment, it looked as if Scarlet was going to reach out and touch him.

  Break him.

  “What’s going on? What have you been talking about?” She looked between the two of them.

  “Black,” Killian answered before he could, “was just deciding if he wanted to stay in the boathouse or move up into the house.”

  For a moment, the statement made no sense. His head was too busy trying to figure out his goodbye.

  He tilted his head and Killian shrugged as if what he’d said was no big deal.

  Scarlet slid her arm around his waist, her touch familiar and warm.

  “Inside.” She looked at Killian. “Of course he’s staying inside.”

  As if he had a choice, as if he’d ever had a choice.

  He spoke past the lump in his throat. “Inside is good.”

  Her slow smile, as she looked at him, was beautiful. “Then let’s go home gentlemen.”

  Thank you for reading Bought

  To the readers who bought this book, a story doesn’t come to life until it has an audience. Thank you for being a part of this experience.

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  Acknowledgements

  It feels with every book the list to thank gets longer, I like that this world of mine continues to grow.

  The first thank goes to Sharon, you asked me to write a book from a male POV and Jerricho was born—got any other good ideas? I also want to thank Peregrine, whose poems move me in profound and sinful ways, I was humbled that you were gracious enough to let me use your words in my epigraph.

  Thank you to the talented Hang Le for the beautiful cover, the wonderful ladies at Hot Tree Editing and the faultless proof by Nerine, you all helped me put together this book and I am very grateful.

  A big thanks to Cate, Letitia, Carly, Emma Rose and Cari for braving a messy manuscript to do a beta read. It felt really good to have the story validated through your feedback, and all your suggested tweaks only made Jerricho, Scarlet and Killian’s story stronger.

  Lastly, my deepest thanks to the people who support me in this writing endeavor. To Mark, no one knows how much the time and space you carve out for me to do this, I love you. To Simon and Nikki for sitting through weekly breakfasts, patiently listening to me talk incessantly about my characters and story. And of course, to Catherine and Elsa, my writing family, who spend every day on the rollercoaster with me, riding the highs and lows, and making it so much fun.

  Excerpt from Exhibtion

  Chapter 1

  Grace Cantrell felt the smooth sticky slick of body paint on her skin as a man signed his name across her left breast.

  Splayed against the solid timber X-frame of a St. Andrew’s Cross, Grace was completely naked except for leather cuffs restraining her ankles and wrists, and a black satin blindfold. Above her head hung a sign: “Guestbook. Dom(mes) please sign in”. Body paint crayons sat on a small occasional table beside her. Grace was the first thing guests saw on arrival; living graffiti in a stranger’s house, where deviants danced and played.