by Amber Bardan
He kisses me, his tongue fills my mouth along with his taste.
Everything, inside me and out, trembles. Weak, and most frighteningly, completely exposed.
He breaks the kiss and stares at me.
How it’s going to be between us is... There’s not a word for it. It’s going to be everything.
Everything.
“Two weeks, baby.” He holds me while I gasp and pant like someone doused with water. “Two weeks and we finish this.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bloody Birthday
1:56 p.m.
“Yes, it’s in the shed. The safe is in the back shed.”
“Good girl.” Julius smiles. A big, wide smile, transforming the brutal edges of his features into something utterly beautiful.
I blink. The smile fades. I’m seeing things.
“Baby and I are going to take a walk.” He seizes my hand. Tingles radiate up my palm.
“Like fuck you are.” Dad bends down and collects Joel’s abandoned rifle, swinging it to Julius.
He looks at my dad. “Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s all right,” I cut in. “I’ll go with him.” I face Julius. The pull of the weapon he holds threatens to swallow my focus. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you, Mr. King?”
He stares at my father but his jaw twitches. “Nothing will happen to her with me.”
Dad’s gaze moves between my face and the gun fixed on him. Damn, Julius. He could’ve threatened my father with anything, and he’d never cave.
But he’s here, at my party, standing next to me. Holding a gun.
My chest constricts. I won’t let Dad down. “We’ll be okay.”
“Be very careful what you’re doing, King.”
Julius releases my palm. “I’m not the one who’s been careless.”
He’s talking in circles, I feel it. I glance at Dad. His brow is wrinkled. He is too.
“Let him have the damn safe.” Dad lowers the gun and gives me a long stare.
I nod at my father. “I’ll lead the way.”
We step backward at first, then turn. Julius follows me down the path toward the shed. I swipe at my damp nose with the back of my hand. His footsteps crunch behind me, getting louder as we walk farther out of sight.
“This is it,” I say as we reach the plain silver shed. “It’s in the workroom under the floor.”
He steps up behind me. Not touching. Not a finger on me. But the heat of him, some indefinable force of body and of presence, sears my back worse than any hand. My nerves ignite, senses bursting with awareness. The clothes on my skin, the neckline of my dress, the leather on my heels, constrict.
“How much does your father trust you?”
Yesterday, I would’ve said completely. I don’t look behind us. Not back down the path to my father, a man who maybe I never got to truly see until today. “I’m not sure.”
“Let’s find out,” he whispers, then shifts aside. His heat eases, freeing my senses. “Open the door.”
My fingers jerk but I reach out and turn the handle. Metal squeaks and groans. The door opens and I step into the dark mouth of the shed, swatting at the wall beside us for the panel of switches. Globes flicker, flashing three times before the building floods with light.
The sight that greets me is one I know well. The stripped body of a vintage car hangs suspended, as it has for years, in a hoist. Worn couches crowd a television in the corner where the boys hang out. The scent of dirt, and oil, and old earthy things washes over me. These things are embedded in my youth. I drew with chalk on these concrete floors while my father and his boys did what they do. The house at the other end of the path might be a mansion but this right here is my father’s castle. This place, these things remind me that every person who’s ever gone against my father—who’s ever challenged my family—has failed.
My steps strengthen as we cross the floor to the room at the other side. Julius enters Dad’s partitioned workroom. I turn on the light and lean in the doorway. “It’s under the plastic mat.”
He glances at the floor but steps around the mat, instead inspecting Dad’s desk. His gaze sweeps over the fingerprint-smeared phone, scattered papers, an unwashed mug, the magazine left open. Organized chaos, Dad calls it. The space is stamped with his presence. Julius fingers through a stack of papers. The bones in my lower back lock. He moves on, tugging open the beaten filing cabinet.
I stalk into the room and throw back the mat, hook my finger in the hole in the plywood panel underneath and yank it up. “See, right here, just like I said.”
Julius looks at the solid gray safe set in the floor, but reaches inside the filing cabinet. His hand emerges clutching a thick stack of bills. I glance at the money, the entire enormous wad of it. My pulse vibrates in my veins. I lean closer and peer past Julius.
Neat stacks of notes, sorted and bound with elastic bands, fill two-thirds of the deep drawer. My brows knit together. I glance at the safe, then back at the drawer. Something drops in my belly, as though I swallowed a stone.
Paper fans between Julius’s thumb and forefinger, he examines the money almost as if it’s a puzzle. He slaps the stack against his palm three times. Each thwack sends a shiver through me. I can’t guess what so much cash could be for. My focus slinks back to the safe.
Julius puts the money away. Metal screeches and thunks as he closes the drawer. There’s a taste in my mouth. I’m not sure if it’s from this room, the tang in the air from tools scattered on the workbench next to the desk, rust and other potent things.
He didn’t take the money.
Why didn’t he take it?
The next drawer groans open. He flicks through files, pausing at one, then tugs out a manila folder. He sets it on the desk, and his movements slow as he withdraws a yellow envelope and slips it into the inside of his jacket without pausing.
He replaces the file and closes the cabinet, then returns his attention to me.
“Do you know the code?”
The way he studies me is blinding. Makes me want to shield my eyes. I don’t so much as squint.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
He maneuvers around the safe toward me, body rippling with purpose, as though I am the thing he came here for.
“I want to protect you. I really do.” His voice gets blunter, sharper. He’s articulating every syllable. “But I need to trust you.”
His words swim around me. I can’t distinguish the threat from the promise in them. But then he’s crazy, so who knows what he means.
“You can trust me,” I whisper. “I swear you can.”
His gaze sweeps across my features like fingers. “I can’t protect you if you let me down.”
I’m hot and cold, flushed and chilled, all at once. “I won’t let you down.”
There’s a look in his eyes, flashing heat in a color opposing warmth. “Tell me.”
I blink, and answers I’d planned along the way dissolve in my throat. Words won’t form on my tongue. My lips part and I stare at him. This is not like widening my eyes and uttering easy little white lies.
My thick tongue presses up along the top of my palate, like something hidden in the roof of my mouth could be dislodged.
The truth or lies, I’m not sure which would be worse.
“My six-digit date of birth.”
His expression doesn’t flicker, he keeps watching me. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I hold his gaze, my chin bobbing in a tiny nod. “I promise.”
He takes a step back and kneels by the safe, then reaches for the keypad.
I don’t move yet, but start breathing in.
His index finger touches each key, and I forget I’m supposed to hold that breath. He didn’t ask for my date of birth. A be
ep sounds from the floor. I catch all the air in my lungs. Today is my birthday, he can do math. I put it down to that and scoot to the side, my heart thrashing. A thunk echoes from the safe, then the faintest little sound—a pop.
Julius tilts his head, brows furrowing as he watches the floor.
Sound crashes through the room. I lunge for the wooden handle of the shovel propped in the corner. The boom rattles from the ground up, vibrating through my feet into my calves. I lock my heels on the floor and hoist the shovel up onto my shoulder. Black smoke creeps from the safe. Julius’s head snaps toward me.
His gaze locks on mine, but I’m already moving. Momentum burns through my swinging arms. The blunt shovel blade cracks into his temple. His expression slices through me, severing my will. My muscles dissolve. The shovel crashes to the floor.
Julius sways, then falls sideways. He catches himself on a forearm. Smoke billows into the air, pungent and choking.
Plastic smog burns my tongue.
He coughs, head bowed, body hunched. Blood oozes from his temple. I’ve never seen anything so red as the trickle on his skin. My eyes water. My vision blurs. My feet are hinged to the floor.
I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do now.
Julius looks up from all fours, chin low, eyes rolled up toward me. Those eyes trigger all the adrenaline ever stored in my glands.
Accusation rolls from his gaze. His expression draws tight, revealing his true face. Predator. There’s nothing human in him.
Who the hell have I betrayed?
Chapter Eighteen
My period arrives and she is not her usual moderately cranky self. No, this is a tsunami of agony the likes of which could only possibly be Julius fault. Has to be. My uterus never turned on me before he gave me squirting orgasms.
I clutch my cramping abdomen and groan into a pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around me. It’d serve Julius right if I die from this before he’s finished with me. Before he gets what he wants. Pain radiates through my lower back, and I squeeze the blanket in my fist. Damn him, I haven’t gone through anything half as brutal as this since I was fourteen.
“Sorry, lass, we don’t have anything, um, more specific.”
I peer up from the cocoon of my bed at Pa, who’s holding up yet another box of acetaminophen, of which I’ve already exceeded the recommended dosage to absolutely zero effect.
“He’s killed me.”
Pa sets the not-so-painkilling painkillers on the side table. “I figure that’s not how this works.”
“What would you know?” Another cramp takes a hatchet to my midsection, and I shut my eyes.
“I’m going to have to call Julius.”
My eyes fly open. “No.” I drag myself onto an elbow. “Don’t you dare call Julius because I have my period.”
Pa frowns, lines shifting on the map of his face.
Dammit, I know that look. These men are all the same. Stubborn. It’s bad enough I had to call Pa for help, I will not have the evil scumbag—source of my misery—summoned.
“Sorry, lass.” Pa walks to the door.
I manage to find enough rage-induced strength to point at him. “Don’t do it. Don’t you do it.”
His hand pauses on the door.
My finger shakes. There’s enough violence coursing through me to tremble my entire arm.
His white brows arch toward the ceiling. He’s onto me.
So maybe, perhaps, there might be something hormonal going on here. I’m not one of those oblivious mental people. I’m perfectly aware I’m not entirely psychologically balanced. I’m aware I’m not particularly rational at times. Times such as now. When I’m not obsessing where I shouldn’t be obsessing, I’m running memories on repeat. The memories I can’t block out, and others I can’t hold on to—like sand slipping through my mind. A wash of blood and pain scarred on my brain. No wonder I’m crazy.
No wonder I play the games I do.
Today, though, my mental has kicked up enough to make me feel a little deranged. I’ll own that. I’d just rather unleash the loco on a different obnoxious know-it-all.
Pa opens the door.
“Jesus, I swear to God, Pa, when I get up from this bed, I am going to kill you.”
“I’ll be forgiving your blasphemy today, lass.” He points a finger right back at me. “But next time we’ll be having words.”
He shuts the door behind him, and I scream up at the roof.
This place is a nuthouse.
Drug dealing—fine.
Guns—bring ’em on.
Holding people prisoner—sure, why not?
But take the Lord’s name in vain and we’ll have words.
Okay, right, then.
I file this moment away nicely into my box of reasons why I’m not to think fondly of old assholes who happen to look grandfatherly.
I sink back onto my bed and drag the sheet over my head. No mercy. That’s what I’m going to have for the lot of them one day. When Ash/Fury comes back with his pirate crew, it’ll be cutlasses and plank walking for them all.
Hurry up, Ash.
I shut my eyes, and sink into red-tinged darkness.
* * *
My eyelids fly open, and I wake to the glamorous sensation of drool on my cheek and fuzz on my teeth. The bed dips beside me. I swipe my hand over my face, then lower the sheet.
Julius’s massive body monopolizes my bed. He hunches over me. Plastic rustles in his lap.
A pharmacy bag.
I groan. Julius shopping for my tampons and jumbo pads... Well, doesn’t that just make my humiliation complete.
“You did not need to come home early on account of me.”
He leans closer and presses the bag into my chest. “When will you learn, you’re my number one priority?”
“Fuck off, it hurts to laugh.” I clutch the bag and slide myself up.
His chest rumbles. “I’m really glad to have you back, baby.”
I scowl and seriously consider reverting to being the ice queen again. Problem is, there’s too much fire princess burning up my endocrine system at the moment.
I say nothing.
He pats my thigh. “Take some medicine and get yourself together, then you’re coming back to the house with me.”
“Come with you?” I cradle my heavy aching abdomen with my free hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You broke my vagina and now I’m dying.”
His brows rise, then he leans closer. “Believe me, your vagina can stand up to a hell of a lot more than that.”
Warmth travels up my neck. I try not to picture the “more.”
“Stress, though, can do a number on hormones.” He straightens, then climbs off my bed. “Try to relax and stop overthinking.”
The pharmacy bag crinkles in my hand, and I shoot Julius a glare that would have a lesser man backing away.
“If you’re not inside in half an hour, I’ll assume you need me to come and carry you in.”
A lot of fucks collect on my tongue. The smug-ass look on his face makes me bite them down. I yank open the pharmacy bag, push two capsules out of a packet and swallow them dry. The pills scrape down my esophagus. I don’t cough or gag, just stare him down, because if my feet fell off, I’d rather walk on bloody stumps than have him carry me.
“See you in half an hour, then.” He smirks and walks to the door. “There’s a surprise waiting for you.”
The door closes with a thump behind him. I crawl out of bed, and take my aching self to the bathroom.
Surprises—yay.
* * *
I shuffle to the house wearing a fluffy robe over my clothes, because left to my own devices, I’m all style like that. My lips pinch tighter with each step. Not because it hurts, the medica
tion helped, but because there is absolutely nothing Julius could possibly have to surprise me with right now that could be more appealing than being curled in a ball with blankets over my head.
I get to the back entrance and slide the door open. Even if he hadn’t already given me so many good reasons to get away with murder, messing with me today surely constitutes a solid justifiable homicide defense. I enter the dining room. Courier bags fill the table.
Shopping.
My legs manage to move a little faster in order to reach the parcels. I tear open the first bag with my teeth, and empty the contents. Sweatpants. And it’s so a sweatpants kind of day, tropics or no tropics. I tug them on right under my dress, then sink into a dining room chair. These pants are never coming off. I lean over and pry a pair of Ugg boots out of a bag and pull them on over the sweatpants.
“I see you found the supplies?”
I glance up at Julius in the doorway.
“Yep.” Not that I can figure out why this surprise demanded a special trip to the house when they are only going to end up delivered to my room anyway.
He just loves to annoy me...
His gaze travels from the top of my robe to where the hem of my dress sticks out above sweatpants, then to the Ugg boots.
I smirk. “Like my new look?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.” He leans against the door frame with one hand.
I grin. “Good, I call this look hobo-don’t-give-a-fuck.”
He matches my grin. “It goes with your hairstyle.”
I halt the automatic rise of my hand to my head. So what, I will not care that my hair looks like a fuzzy party wig after being slept on. “Thanks.”
His lips stretch wider. “So you can still say it.”
“Say what?”
“Thank you.”
My eyes flare, but I sink deeper into the chair and put my feet up on the table with a clang. “Sorry, baby,” I drag the word out with far more sweetness than he uses when he calls me that. “Thank you so much for my presents. How may I demonstrate my appreciation?” My gaze sweeps the line of buttons flowing down his wide chest to where his shirt tucks neatly into his pants. My attention hooks on his belt, the oversize smooth plate of the buckle. A shiver flows over my skin. There’s always something so aggressive about his belts. “I’m on the rag, but how about a blow job?”
