I’m a statue. I’m stone, immobile, witness to the flames consuming the bed. The fire’s bright and mesmerizing, the heat drifting closer. A few steps, and I could touch it. I might be able to squeeze along the wall to the side window.
They’ve got the house surrounded. The bottles came in through the front and the back, and if I manage to get out through the side, I’ll still have to pass them. I’m a sitting duck.
Panic threatens, tickling my throat, threatening to close it over. I shut my eyes, lock it down. I can panic later when I’m outside, where there’s no fire waiting to swallow me whole. Where I can breathe without inhaling smoke. Where I only have to worry about dying by a knife or bullet wound.
The bed is a fluid mass of red and gold, the heat and smoke stinging. After dropping to the floor, I unzip the bag and pull out the Glock. If I make it out of this house alive, I’m not going to be unarmed.
Giving up the exit from the guest room as a lost cause, I crawl along the hall before pausing at the door to the master bedroom. Lost cause number two. Fire’s starting to work its way up the far walls. I crawl to the hallway entrance, phone buzzing against my ass.
The living room is a death trap. Sparks fly and pop as the TV explodes, and I throw myself flat on the ground and cover my head. Lifting it when the sounds die away, I scan the room. The couches are toast, the curtains shreds. The hardwood floor groans, sending up more sparks as a portion collapses.
But the way to the kitchen is still clear.
I could be trapped in the backyard. Someone could be waiting in the kitchen to finish me off. I have to get out of the house, though. Leaving through the kitchen is a chance I’ll have to take.
Pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth, I get to my feet and run for the kitchen, eyes blurring from tears. Another flaming bottle crashes through the dining room window as I fumble with the lock on the kitchen door. My fingers slip on the smooth metal. Eyes burning from the smoke, I squint and force myself to slow down.
The lock disengages as tears begin tracking down my cheeks. Shifting so my back is flat against the door, I open it and peer around into the darkness of the backyard. Through the smoky haze, I can’t see anything.
Another portion of the living room floor collapses, startling me into action. I run into the backyard and yank my shirt down, drawing in a lungful of air.
Click.
React. I’m so tired of just reacting, and yet when it comes down to it, that’s what I do. I react. I fire the Glock in the direction of the sound, dropping to the dirt the moment the bullet leaves the barrel, rolling away from the house. I pop up, blinking furiously, tears still streaming from my eyes.
The smoke…
There’s more of it. The master bedroom is fully engaged, fire clawing its way through the walls to the bathroom. Beyond the bathroom is a huge linen closet full of fuel. If it catches, it won’t be long before the gas line ruptures.
Something about the fire, the pure gold and red, is beautiful even as it destroys. It’s hypnotizing, and it takes more effort than I’d think to tear my gaze away. I can’t afford distractions now, not when there’s someone or multiple someones hanging around, waiting for me to appear.
Nick will be so pissed if I end up with another scar.
A bullet whizzes past, and I drop to a crouch and spin around. That click must have been a bullet being chambered. I scan the rear of the yard, the smoke not helping as I struggle to make out the shape of a man coming toward me.
I don’t bother aiming. Either the bullet hits him or it doesn’t. The point is to distract him so I can aim properly and hit him. If I’m lucky, he won’t return fire. If someone sees fit to grant me a miracle, he’ll leave me alone.
It’s too dark to see where the bullet lands. All I know is he’s still coming toward me, didn’t flinch a bit, so he wasn’t hit. I step back, one step, two steps, retreating as he approaches. The light from the fire plays over his face, blurring his features.
Stop moving, Cass. Stop running away.
I don’t want another body on my conscience. Raising the gun, I fire again, dead center of his chest. He jerks to a halt.
Watching him crumble is surreal. First his knees buckle, his legs bending in half until he hits the ground. His torso goes all mushy, folding like his knees did. When he falls forward, he twists and lands on his shoulder.
Over the roar of the fire, wood creaks as it crumbles inside, furniture busting through the hardwood floors. Sirens screech to a stop in front of the house, and the man remains on the ground.
Fuck. There are sirens out front, a man’s been shot, and I’m holding the gun.
Throwing it away isn’t an option. I flick the safety on and scan the back of the house. The fire’s likely close to the kitchen now. If the line blows, the lawn could catch next. The lot is fenced, the space between houses mere feet. To get around to the front of the house, I’ll have to climb the fence to the neighbor’s yard.
I tuck the gun in the back of my waistband, hissing as the warm metal makes contact with my skin. The fence is solid wood. I run straight at it and jump, splinters digging into my toes as I scramble for the top. The rough edges scrape my palms. I wince as I haul myself over the top and land on gravel. I choke back my yelp of pain. Gravel? Seriously? Yards should have grass, not gravel.
Feet smarting, I walk as quickly as I can to the front. Firefighters uncoil hoses and adjust helmets, fanning out along the sidewalk, staying away from the flames. “Hey!” Picking up the pace to a jog, I try to get the attention of the nearest firefighter.
“Miss, please stay back.” He tries to point me off to the other side of the street.
I stop out of touching range. “It’s my boyfriend’s house. The stove’s a gas range.”
His eyes widen, and he spins around, shouting instructions at the other men. “Other side of the street, miss.” He turns to me. “Now.”
I back away, waiting until he’s focused on the house before doing as he asks and walking across the street, safely out of range of any explosions. My phone vibrates for probably the hundredth time since I hung up with Lia. I pull it out. “Hello?”
“Is the house really on fire?” Lia asks.
“The house is really on fire, and I shot a guy in the backyard. He may still be alive, but if the gas line ruptures, he’ll probably die.”
“Got it.” It’s her turn to hang up on me.
As I stare at the house, the gas line explodes. Shouts ring out, feet pound over the pavement, and the hoses crank on, water steaming and arching, the drops sparkling in the firelight.
They don’t make a lot of progress. The fire’s a monster, a living, breathing creature, gleefully smashing and choking everything in its path. People come out of their homes, huddle in pairs and small groups on the sidewalk, pointing at what used to be Nick’s house.
A car races up the street, tires squealing when it stops in front of the house next door. Two men get out and run toward the fire trucks. More shouting ensues, the words unintelligible. One of them backs off and strides across the street. “Cassidy!”
Nick. Oh, God, Nick.
He’s looking at the wrong part of the sidewalk. “Nick!”
“Cass?” He finally spots me and strides over. He crushes me to his chest in a hug. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You okay?”
I take one of his hands and guide it to my lower back. “We need to do something about this first.”
Nodding once, he releases me enough to lead me to his car. He opens the passenger door and I sit, pulling the gun from my waistband and sticking it under the seat.
He crouches in front of me and grasps my hands. “Body in the backyard,” I say. “He was waiting when I ran out of the kitchen. I fired three times. Hit him once in the chest. I don’t know where the other two bullets ended up. They were mostly a distraction.”
“We’ll worry about it later.” He tugs me to my feet and cups my face, rubbing his thumbs over my ch
eekbones. “I’m going to kill the bastard. Slowly. Then I’m going to do it all over again.”
I press a kiss to the heel of his palm. “I was the one in the line of fire, so I think I should get to do the killing.”
“Shut up, Cass.”
Chapter 10
The fire’s still burning as we get ready to leave. The fire marshal has a bunch of questions about how it started, so I tell him everything I think I can, leaving out the man I shot in the chest. Nick stays pressed to my side the entire time. Great. If he was worried before, he’ll never let me out of his sight now.
Apparently satisfied with my answers, the marshal sends me to a waiting ambulance to get checked for injuries. I point a finger at Nick. “Don’t even think about picking me up.” My bare feet are cold more than anything else right now, and I can walk perfectly fine. He helps me into the back of the ambulance and hovers while he watches the paramedic pull the slivers from my skin.
The medic looks up. “You’ve got a couple of shallow scrapes. Do you have any shoes?” I lift a brow, and she shakes her head. “Right. No shoes. I wouldn’t recommend walking around barefoot. They may not be deep, but they’re still susceptible to infection.” She scoots away, giving us room to maneuver ourselves out of the ambulance.
Nick grins and slides an arm under my knees, his other arm around my shoulders, forcing me to hang on or flop around like a damsel in distress. He crouches down and jumps from the back of the ambulance, and I tighten my grip on his neck. Satisfied I’m not going to fall out of his arms, he nods to the paramedics and walks away. “Con offered to put us up for a few days. He stopped by Lia’s to pick up a couple things for you to wear until you can go shopping to replace everything.”
I figured we’d be going to the condo in Manhattan Beach. “So we’re staying with Constantine?”
He waits until we’re in the car to answer. “If you’d rather relocate to the condo, we can. Keep in mind we’d be disappearing and reappearing a few times a day, and that increases the risk someone will find the place.”
“And staying with your cousin doesn’t increase the risk to his life?” I point out.
“He lives in a condo. On the twelfth floor. Hard to throw a firebomb through the window that high up.” He puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.
The drive is short, about thirty minutes. Constantine’s home is in a newer building. Fifteen stories tall, the exterior is similar to the other new construction around it, sleek and light-colored, with few flourishes and very little character.
We take the elevator to the twelfth floor, and Constantine has the door open before we reach it. “Fuckin’ sucks, bro.” He drags a hand through his hair, the already messy locks becoming even more disordered. Then he grabs me in a fierce hug. “Glad you got out all right,” he murmurs into my ear. At Nick’s warning growl, he releases me, and Nick immediately snakes an arm around my waist. “Come on. Guest room’s all set up for you.”
He leads us down a short hall. He opens the second door on the left and waves us inside. The room’s bigger than the one in the condo, dominated by a king-size bed and a large, blocky black dresser situated under the room’s single window. The walls are bare and painted a pale gray, set off by carpeting in a deeper shade of the same color. “Bathroom’s through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the far corner of the room. “Lia wasn’t sure what would fit. Said if you wanted something different to stop by.” He gestures to a plastic bag at the end of the bed.
He claps Nick on the back. “Let me know if you need anything else.” He shuts the door, leaving the two of us alone.
I hold up my hands to ward off his approach. “I need a shower.” Smoke’s sunk into my hair, permeated my clothes, and those clothes are dirty from having to roll around in the yard to get away from the man outside the house.
Stripping to the skin, I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, climbing in once it’s heated. The warm water soothes away some of the stiffness in my shoulders, my feet tender and tingling from so much contact with cement.
I reach for the shampoo as the bathroom door opens. “How’d it go with Isaiah?” I ask.
“’Bout as well as we figured. The floor was quiet the whole time. Based on your information and the layout, I’d guess he’s holed up in one of the two end units. He’d want to be close to an escape route.” There’s another staircase at the end of the hall.
“Any thoughts on how you’ll get to him?” It was one of the things we’d argued about. Storming the battlements won’t work in a building full of students. Waiting in the hallway won’t work, either, for a variety of reasons. When they left, they were still discussing ways to get to him.
Nick pushes aside the curtain and steps into the tub. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I know that look. That’s the look he gets when he’s about to pounce. That’s the look he had when he stormed my office several weeks ago, shoved my skirt up to my waist, and ripped away my panties, shouldering my knees apart so he could lick me into a pile of goo.
Reaching up, I lace my fingers through his hair and yank his head down, launching the first strike. Mouths clashing in a flurry of slickness and need, the kiss is all about greed, and there’s nothing gentle or sweet about it. The month-long recovery, Nick’s hesitation to touch me again, the anxiety and anger over being targeted once more all falls away as our lips slide and rub, tongues stroking and thrusting.
He glides a hand down and palms my breast, squeezing a bit too hard to be pleasurable. My nipple catches between his thumb and forefinger, and the pinch of pain makes me gasp. He rolls it between his fingers, tugging, tightening, and then he’s kissing his way down my neck, scraping his teeth on my collarbone before making his way to my nipple.
The bite isn’t gentle. The sting zips right to my clit, the little bundle of nerves aching to be touched. I circle my hips, seeking friction and not finding it. Dammit. I run my hands over any part of him I can reach, trailing my fingers over his back, digging them into his hips when his mouth gets particularly enthusiastic. My whimpers bounce off the tile, drowned by the water raining down on us.
Wrapping my hand around his cock, I twist on the upstroke, jolting when he shoves his fingers inside me, thumb pressing on my clit. “Fuck. Are you ready, Cass? Is this what you want?” He thrusts his fingers into me, and I rock on him, my strokes faltering as I focus on the mounting pleasure.
Yes. All of this. “Nick. Don’t make me wait.” Tonight of all nights, I need this. We both do.
He swears and tears his hand away. “Now. Against the wall. Now.”
I turn away and brace my forearms on the wall of the tub, rising up on my toes and tilting my ass, inviting him in.
The blunt head of his cock presses into me, and he stops. “Shit. No condom.”
Over the fall of water, his ragged breathing fills my head, blocking out everything else. Including reason. Make this move. It’s time. “Do it,” I whisper.
He doesn’t need any further prompting. He plunges forward in a brutal stroke, groaning. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“Nick. Move.”
He withdraws, then pushes back in, each stroke as hard and steady as the last. He hasn’t stopped swearing. The temperature in the shower rises with every snap of his hips against mine, the running water no longer loud enough to cover the sounds we make. It’s fast and vicious. A taking. A branding.
He’ll mark me, this first time, skin on skin.
He pinches my clit, the sting rocketing through me and twisting everything tighter. “More.” I shove my hips back at him.
“Jesus. Hot. So fucking hot.” He slides an arm under my breasts and yanks me up, and I twist my head to the side as his mouth comes down. Licking inside my mouth, he pinches my clit a second time, and the jolt’s stronger. He groans. “You like that? Come for me.”
He rubs tight, slick circles, then pinches me a third time. I’m not quite there. Orgas
m’s so close, I want to claw toward the bright, shiny climax. My breath catches in my throat as he grows impossibly harder inside me. I’ve never been able to feel that before. Before I find release, Nick curses and thrusts one last time, holding on to my hips in a grip hard enough I’ll likely have bruises.
Panting, bracing my arms on the wall, I rest my forehead on the slick tile as my ability to think clearly returns at a snail’s pace. I just let Nick fuck me. Without a condom.
My stomach is a block of ice.
He gentles his hold and rubs my hips to ease some of the pain from his grip. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.” He drops an absent kiss on my shoulder, and then another firmer one on my jaw. I straighten and brush my lips over his, willing my legs to hold me up a while longer.
“Mmm. You know, I did come in here to get clean.” I stretch past him for the shampoo, giving him a lazy smile, hoping like hell the confusion and panic inside isn’t showing on my face.
He takes my mouth again, slower this time, the sweetness of it weakening my knees. “I’ll get out of your way.”
I manage to wait until he’s shut the door behind him before I lose control of my legs. The hard porcelain of the tub under my ass barely registers. Nick’s been demanding before. He’s taken me hard, but it’s never been anything like what just happened. The slickness between my legs is a reminder that it’s not all water. What we did very much left a mark on me.
Will he notice?
* * * *
Constantine’s living room is kind of boring. Of course, that could be because I’m sitting here in the dark. I like the dark. I’m used to the dark. It does a good job of hiding things I don’t want to see.
Unable to sleep, I stole Nick’s shirt and wandered out here, making myself comfortable on the couch facing the windows. Constantine doesn’t have anything on his balcony other than a couple of chairs. It needs plants. A grill. I thought all men had grills. It’s part of the man code. Thou shalt have a grill.
“Can’t sleep?” Nick walks into the living room clad in his boxers, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
Game of Vengeance Page 8
