by S. Massery
A roar echoes through the house.
Perhaps he’s realized I came back in—that I am the idiot who’s prepared to burn with her family’s heirlooms. Aunt Mary was the gentle history-keeper. There’s an opal ring in my bag, luckily still in Aiden’s car, that belonged to my mother. I found it yesterday in Aunt Mary’s bathroom, and I knew immediately who it used to belong to. My heart ached when I thought that of all the possessions Aunt Mary could take, she didn’t take the reminder of my mother.
A blast throws me forward, into the sliding glass door. Searing heat burns my back. I drop the extinguisher and slide the door open, falling onto the patio.
I think I’m on fire.
I hazard a glance back. The hem of my dress is, indeed, on fire. I don’t think—I just scramble forward and launch into the pool.
Cool water envelopes me. The sky suddenly bursts orange, and I hover under the water. Little bubbles stream out of my nose, rushing up. Was it an explosion? Did the fire hit the gas—ah, that’s it. Aiden probably turned on the stove and blew out the flame. It explains the sudden blast that put me against the door—although I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.
It certainly seems worse now. My back stings, and my dress tangles around my legs.
I kick back to the surface and pop up near the far edge, glancing back at the house. The fire rages now, lighting up the whole backyard. Black smoke belches from the windows on the second story. There’s a sharp ringing in my ears.
Someone hauls me out of the water, hands under my armpits. I’m set on my feet and spun around, and I take too long to register Aiden’s furious expression. He pats me down roughly, all over. If the knife is still strapped to my ankle—it must be—he doesn’t feel it. And then I realize his lips are moving.
“I can’t hear you,” I say.
I think I say it.
He scowls, turning my head to the side. He touches my earlobe and shows me the streaked blood on his finger.
Shit. That explains the ringing.
He resumes scanning me, and my skin prickles. My dress was loose, but now it’s like a second skin.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“Good,” I think he says. And then he puts his hot hands on my hips, lifting me…
Up and over his shoulder. I’m no better than a bag of sand.
The ringing in my ears is rather violent, but it’s lessening. I can start to pick up other sounds—mainly, the sirens.
His car beeps, but he doesn’t set me down. I only catch a glimpse of the trunk opening.
Oh, that motherfu—
2
Gemma
He drops me into the trunk.
“No!” I squeal, pushing up on my elbows. “Aiden—”
“I’m this close to strangling you,” he shouts in my face.
I rear back, blinking in surprise. I’m not sure why that stings as much as it does.
He slams the trunk closed, and I’m left in darkness. The sharpness of his words retreats. Anger takes over. I pound on my low ceiling, yelling at the top of my lungs. It smells like gasoline in here.
The car engine turns over, and I slide as he shoots away from the curb.
My stomach rolls. I have a turbulent relationship with cars—and motion sickness. Now would be an awful time to lose it.
I pitch onto my side and gasp. I feel around me. My fingers land on thick rope, then a roll of something smooth—tape, I’d guess. And a box. Since I have nothing better to do, I work the edges until the top pops open. The box is just bigger than my palm. I run my finger over the contents, trying to visualize it in the dark.
We hit something—a bump or a pothole—and I’m weightless for a split second. Whatever’s in the box clinks together.
I pull one out and run my finger over it. It’s smooth and cylindrical. Maybe a cartridge for a gun? Makes sense, seeing as how he’s a freaking hitman.
Settling back, I close my eyes. There’s no point keeping them open, and now that I’m caught… my sense of self-preservation is draining.
Well, we can agree that it was already nearly gone. I ran into a burning building. My long-sleeved dress is ice-cold, and before long I’m hunched in a fetal position. I can’t stop shivering. My muscles ache from the exertion, but I’m not warming up. If anything, my temperature is dropping.
What feels like hours later, the car slows to a halt. A door opens and closes, and then the trunk clicks open an inch.
He doesn’t open it farther, though, and the barest amount of light seeps in through the crack.
Huh.
A trap for me, then? Payback is a bitch.
I shove it open and peek out. My nerves are shot, and my tremble is too rough to go unnoticed. The car is parked in a garage—no big surprise if we’re in downtown Manhattan—and the only light is a fluorescent bulb that flickers overhead.
Slowly, I climb—eh, more like barrel-roll—out of the trunk.
My heels hit the floor, and pain spikes up my legs.
I hate him.
For burning down my aunt’s house, for putting me in the trunk, for coming after us in the first place. For ruining my life one step at a time.
Decimation is a process.
I stare around the garage. We’re on the slant between levels. I could go up to an elevator, the exit sign glowing, or down to what I would guess is a side street. Freedom is in that direction, and at this rate, I can’t breathe with how angry I am.
Down, then.
Someone steps out of the shadows at the base of the ramp. A man—but not Aiden. He’s too bulky to be him. He folds his arms over his chest, and the way he tilts his head is a challenge to keep coming at him.
No thanks.
I pivot and go back the way I came. A quick check of the interior of Aiden’s car reveals my bag is gone. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming, then move on. No point in getting pissed when he’s not around to witness it.
The elevator door is open and waiting. I step inside and hit a button at random.
Nothing.
I try another, keeping one eye on the man. He’s meandering toward me, his hands in his pockets now. He gives off a carefree vibe, but it’s a lie. He probably knows who I am, and both those things translate to danger.
None of the buttons light up, but the doors close without warning. If there was ever a way to make sure a girl didn’t run…
I cross my arms over my chest. The dress now seems like a bad move, because I’m being whisked into the center of my enemy’s lair. Armor would’ve been more appropriate.
Even after the long ride, water drips from the fabric. I wring it out as best I can, leaving a puddle in my wake.
The elevator chimes and slides open on the seventeenth floor, revealing a hallway with only a few doors. It’s more like a lobby than a hallway.
I try the door all the way to my left, but it’s locked. Same with the second. The third opens easily, swinging inward. At first, I don’t understand. It’s… a kitchen?
Commercial, from the look of it. There are many stations, and everything is deserted. Only one row of lights is lit, illuminating the way. I’ve got to believe I’m on the right path, whatever that means.
My footsteps echo on the tile.
I try to home in on my anger, but finding my way through a maze has blunted it. I walk into the dining room and try to get my bearings. Two walls are just glass, giving an unobstructed view of the surrounding skyscrapers. It’s growing lighter by the minute outside, but it’s still too early for the lights across the street to come on. I guess the fact that we can look across the street into the next building is the definition of an obstructed view, but whatever.
There’s a light on at one of the tables.
Aiden sits leaned back in his chair, gaze on the view.
Not on me.
I come to a stop beside him.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. My stomach is in knots—I’m sure I’ll be hungry soon, but I can’t fathom eating now. Not with
him.
He sighs and pushes away the water glass. “Okay.”
“Why are we here?”
He nods to the view. “That doesn’t seem familiar?”
I frown and spare it a glance. “No.”
He rises and leaves me standing there. I squint across the street, wondering what I’m missing, but I don’t want to be abandoned. I hurry after him.
“Where’d my bag go?” I call.
He doesn’t respond. I follow him up two flights of stairs, puffing by the time he stops and unlocks a door.
We go down a hallway, and he unlocks another door.
“This is where we wait,” he tells me. He turns on a light and waves me ahead of him.
I step into the room, spinning in a slow circle. Bed, desk, chair, television. It does a good impression of a hotel room. At least it’s warm in here. “Wait for what?”
“For whom,” he corrects.
I cross my arms. “Wait for who?”
He smirks. “My father.”
Ah. All this has been subterfuge. Delaying the inevitable. He’s going to let his father decide what to do with me because that’ll be easier.
“That’s cowardly,” I point out. “You can’t make up your own mind?”
He frowns and takes a seat. “Why did you run back into the house?”
Why, indeed?
“That house held a lot of happy memories, and you just destroyed it. Why would you do that?” A question for a question seems fair.
He stands right back up again. “You’re not in charge here, Gemma. If you want to stay alive, you’re going to remember that.”
I push my shoulders back. I shouldn’t provoke him, but it’s so easy. “And you’re saying you’re not, either.”
He frowns, but then it’s gone.
“It’s been two months, Aiden. You’re the new heir, aren’t you? And instead, you’re wasting your time hunting down my family instead of doing whatever it is heirs do. What’s your plan? Or your dad’s?”
I never had a chance to be an heir. First born, but a girl. If that weighed on my parents’ minds at all, they never said. They just let me be a regular girl… until Aiden took me the first time. Then it seemed that the lightbulbs went on for them that I could be more than ordinary.
But Colin… he was raised knowing he was going to take over.
Aiden regards me. “I haven’t decided.”
I wonder how I come across now. Sopping wet clothes, hair. Waterlogged boots. I’m still trembling from the cold, my muscles twitching involuntarily. I’m outgunned and, at this rate, probably outsmarted. His territory, after all. He’s at an advantage.
I’ve never been one for helplessness. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid it.
Aiden brought me here, but he doesn’t have a plan to get me out.
Think. My sudden predicament has me chewing at the bars of my cage—and I’ve only just arrived.
“Well, let me know when you do.” I turn away from him and go for the door. “I’ll go.”
“You won’t,” he says quietly.
I pause with my hand on the knob. “And why not?”
“Because I’m afraid you won’t like what’s on the other side, especially once they start waking up. A mad lot, especially in the morning.” He brushes his hands over his thighs and cocks his head. “But do go ahead and try.”
I tilt my head. “Is that it, then? Your way or—”
The door swings open, knocking me back a few steps.
Jameson DeSantis, Aiden’s father, fills the doorway. His gaze flits from me to Aiden, then back again. He looks me up and down, lingering on my chest. “Well, well. You caught a West.”
Don’t back up, don’t back up. Showing fear is deadly, especially in this viper’s nest.
He doesn’t ask my name. There’s no need, really. The only Wests worth capturing are ones in direct relation to Lawrence, the head of the family. Cousins, nieces and nephews, distant relatives… they’re expendable. To an extent, anyway. Kill one and there will be retribution. Kidnap one for leverage?
Not likely.
“The daughter, then?”
Aiden sighs. “Obviously.”
“We’ll keep her with the others,” Jameson says. He takes my arm, pinching just above my elbow. “To lure Lawrence out.”
“No.” Aiden stands. It seems he’s decided, after all.
Jameson stops. He’s imposing, almost as tall as his son and just as broad. His goatee is neatly trimmed, and he seems too put together for dawn. Like he’s already been working for hours.
“No?” he drawls.
“I’ve already claimed her.” Aiden comes forward and stares pointedly at his father’s hand, until the latter releases my arm.
Lead balls drop into my stomach. This is a worst-case scenario—he’s claimed me? What the hell does that mean?
I try not to let my confusion show.
“Claimed,” Jameson repeats drily. “You’ve fucked girls before, Aiden. There’s no need to get attached to this one.”
My face flames.
“She agreed to marry me,” Aiden says. “So, no, she won’t join the prostitutes.”
Married? I stare at Aiden.
I couldn’t have guessed this would be his chosen path. Why he’d want to be stuck with me for the rest of his life is beyond me… unless he plans on killing me later. After my family’s businesses are under his control. Yeah, that seems more likely. He’s feeling a bit possessive and doesn’t want me sold for sex, but the marriage thing is just a line of crap to buy us time.
There’s always an endgame with a DeSantis.
Jameson grunts. “She doesn’t appear to be on board with that plan, son.”
The muscle in Aiden’s jaw tics.
“I’m totally on board,” I blurt out. “I, um, Aiden and I—”
Jameson narrows his eyes.
I get the impression I’m doing more harm than good by speaking. I close my mouth and shrink back against the wall.
They have a nonverbal exchange. I can’t make sense of these miniscule actions that belie a silent conversation, but then I don’t have to.
“Prove it,” Jameson says to Aiden. “That you’ve already taken her—and will again, of course. If she’s your wife, prove that she’s willing.”
Aiden rolls his eyes, but the bastard doesn’t object.
“Come here,” he says to me.
I almost shake my head but think better of it. What’s my other option? Joining the whores the DeSantis family keeps? Let Jameson do God knows what to me? I don’t doubt it would be more insidious than anything Aiden has planned.
The sinking feeling in my belly gives way to anticipation. I’m nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
I go to Aiden.
I’m not quick enough for his liking, though, because he grabs my neck and hauls me to him.
His lips slam against mine.
It’s shocking.
Horrific.
…Pleasant?
My thoughts screech to a halt, and I fight him. I push at his chest, but it just incentivizes him. He spins us, shoving me against the wall. His tongue invades my mouth as he lifts me. I automatically wrap my legs around his hips.
This is an act.
Say it, Gemma.
This is an act. To trick his father. To save me from his wrath and so much more.
His hand has navigated under my dress, to my core, and I inhale sharply.
He strokes my center. I grip his shoulders, turning my head away abruptly. This cannot be happening.
Aiden thrusts his finger inside me, and his lips move to my throat. I gasp and let my head fall back to the wall. It’s sensation overload mixed with extreme embarrassment. My whole body is crawling with fire—good and bad. I waver on which way to lean… into the pleasure or other.
My gaze goes to Aiden’s father. He stands there, expressionless, and I tense. I can’t help it.
Aiden stills. He has two fingers inside of me, and, wel
l, those don’t stop moving. “Do you mind?”
His father nods once, even though I’m the only one who catches it. The door closes, and then it’s just us. Now that we’re alone, the ruse can drop. He’ll set me back on my feet and sit back in his chair and contemplate what he just did.
But if anything, the door closing pushes him on. He tugs my panties farther to the side, rubbing my clit in small circles. Electricity builds under his touch, and I dig my fingers into his jacket. I can’t take the pressure.
“What are you doing?” I ask on a whimper.
He puts his mouth to my ear. “I’m going to make you come, princess. And when I do, it better be my damn name that comes out of your pretty mouth.”
“Stop,” I whisper. I can’t do this. Not when we’re alone.
He bites my neck. “No.”
“Aiden.”
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs. His free hand wanders up my side. “Say it again.”
I press my lips together and let my head fall back on the door. If he wants me to say his name, I’ll go to hell in silence.
He slows until my whole body trembles, left dangling on an unknown edge. He pulls away from me piece by piece, but we’re so tangled together. His fingers first, then his grip on my thigh. I put my feet back on the floor.
The wild part of me would say anything to feel his touch again. To push me off the cliff.
But sensible Gemma takes charge, and I put a hand on his chest. To get him away from me, to be able to breathe, I don’t know. I just need space.
He gives it to me. His own breathing is ragged, and he sharply turns away from me.
I let loose a sigh of relief.
“Your bag is in the bathroom. Shower if you want. Put on dry clothes.” His gaze sweeps up and down me, heating slightly. But he tears himself away and leaves me in the middle of the room. The door closes behind him. It’s impossible to miss the snick of a deadbolt sliding home from the outside.
I rush to the door and try the handle anyway, but the wood rattles in the frame. Stuck and definitely not opening.
Great.
But my bag—that’s the first piece of good news I’ve had today.
I lock myself in the bathroom and strip off my boots. I turn them upside down in the sink. A fair amount of water splashes out.
