by Sadie Grubor
Chuckling, he breaks the kiss, and slips his hands down to collar my neck. He extends his thumbs, running them along the sides of my windpipe and propping my chin up. Grinning again, he releases me, causing me to sway back from his loss.
He swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, collecting the blood before sucking it into his mouth. Instinctively, I run my tongue over my injured lip. Nostrils flaring, his eyes follow the action.
"I assure you, I'll find out who you are, but I'll give you one more chance to tell me, dead girl." His eyes come to mine.
"I am no one," I respond as the elevator chimes our arrival to the first floor.
"Have it your way," he states, taking me by the bicep and tugging me along at his side.
An older man dressed in a plain black suit opens the rear door of a silver SUV.
"Sir." He bows his head.
Saint shoves me into the backseat, and the scent of new car and leather fills my senses. If my fingers weren't encased in my thin gloves, I'm sure the seats would be the softest I've ever felt. Saint climbs in behind me, pulling me out of my assessment of the vehicle.
The door closes, sealing me in. "Let's hope what I find out doesn't get you into trouble."
Wrapping my arms around myself, I glance out the window. "That's the catch, Saint," I admit, turning my face back to his. "What people find out gets them into trouble—not me."
Saint
Her words send a jolt of truth through me. She's an enigma, and the intrigue she inspires is dangerous to the male population.
The way her neighbor looked at her, grabbed her…it took everything I had to lock down the urge to pull the trigger. Fuck, this woman has me twisted in a way I've never known.
I've even contemplated murdering Sketch, the very one helping me uncover her secrets. The puzzle she creates for a man like him, one used to find every last detail about a person, sparks the thrill of the challenge. And it has me wanting to cut his fucking throat, the overly curious bastard.
I don't do jealousy. There was never a reason for this emotion in my life. The fact that this little female who doesn't exist brings it out of me is disrupting everything. Sketch is one thing, but having it happen in front of Felix pisses me off. There are plans I need to put into place—dangerous and careful plans.
"You could just let me go," she whispers to the tinted window. "I was leaving town and have no interest in—"
"You weren't going anywhere," I inform her. "The moment you stepped into the bus station my men would have brought you to me."
She sighs and her shoulders sag.
"It's for your own good, dead girl," I reveal.
Her head snaps to me, eyes searching my face.
"You made a choice last night." Her mouth opens, but I continue before she can make a sound. "Felix wasn't there for just one night of fun." I can't stop the curl of my lip. "However, you denied him."
"I…I…" she stutters, giving her head a shake. "He was called away. I didn't deny him anything."
Grinning, I rub my thumb along my chin.
"When you sank down onto my cock in front of him, giving yourself to me," she stiffens at my words, "you made your choice."
"So?" She drops her arms, turning her body to face me. "I leave town and the problem is solved."
I snort. "You'd think that, but Felix is a proud man. You bruised his ego."
What I don't tell her is, even without a name, without her history, she's claimed. The moment she tore away the mask and revealed the dark and dirty beneath that lovely costume, she became mine. When she drew the blade over her palm, coating me in her blood and taking me inside her body, she became mine.
"That's ridiculous," she snarls, gripping the edge of the seat. I stare at her gloved hands. It's not cold enough yet for gloves. Thinking about it, she's had them on every time I see her. It's barely fall in Chicago and the weather is warm for the most part.
"You want me to drop you off at the bus station right now?" I dangle her freedom like a fucking carrot she'll never get. "Tell me who the fuck you are and I'll tell Frank to head to the bus station."
It's a goddamn lie. I've caught my prey and, like the animal I am, playing with them is the most fun. However, Felix will press the issue of her identity. If I can't figure her out, and soon, his vengeful ass will take it to Angelo. The last fucking thing I need is Angelo getting involved. He'll order the hit and my loyalty will be tested. Again.
Straightening her spine, she clenches her mouth shut.
"Very well then." I lift one shoulder. "I'll get my answers."
Taking the cell from inside my suit jacket, I locate Sketch and press the call button.
"Why does it matter?" she asks, her question barely audible.
"Yeah," Sketch answers on a grunt.
There's a female moan in the background.
Rolling my eyes, I inhale through my nose, and on the exhale, say, "Your services are needed."
The damn exhibitionist is all about being watched and/or heard.
"When?" he grounds out.
"Now," I say, feeling Mei's eyes on me.
"Fuck," he groans. "I'm sort of in the middle of something."
"You've got twenty minutes to meet the dead girl and me" I order.
"You have her?" he asks as a female voice protests and curses.
"Careful. Your eagerness isn't appreciated," I growl, ending the call before he can respond.
Her round eyes stay fixed on me. Fear lines her face, mixing with a hint of curiosity, surely wanting to know who and what Sketch is.
"Because I'm sure you aren't a fed," I finally respond to her question. "But I have to wonder what or who you are hiding from. The last thing we need are the police looking for you."
"Then let me go and you have nothing to worry about," she rushes out on a breath.
"So, the police are looking for you?" I press.
Her lips press into a tight line, locking shut.
"I'm afraid that's not a possibility," I rumble, the suggestion of letting her go causing the dark creature to claw at me.
Her body sags back into the seat. "Then just kill me and get it over with."
The car comes to a stop in front of the building I call home.
"Frank, give us a moment." At my request, he exits the car and stands next to the closed driver side door.
Mei scoots closer to her door, wide eyes moving from the exiting driver to me. Her bottom lip begins to tremble, and it makes my dick twitch. She's unsure and afraid, but the sudden lift of her chin and tightening of her hands into fists means she's also ready to fight. The fear coming off her sends a rush of excitement through me. The thrill of the battle she's silently promising has my cock as hard as the steel blades I carry.
Reaching out in a flash of movement, I grip her thigh and tear her legs apart. The move surprises her long enough for me to put my body between her knees.
Hands claw at the door handle, and I shackle them in my grasp. Lifting her arms over her head, I transfer both her small wrists into one hand and squeeze. Her body jerks and bucks, fighting my invasion.
Using the weight of my body, not all two hundred and thirty pounds, but enough to still her, I take her chin in my free hand and turn her head.
"Please," she whimpers, a silent plea for her life. One tear falls from the outside corner of her clenched eye, mesmerizing me and causing my dick to throb.
Placing my forehead just above her temple, my tongue darts out, catching the tear. The moment is so perfect—too fucking beautiful—the creature surges beneath my flesh, wanting a piece of her as well.
With a small shift of my head, my mouth hovers over her ear.
"I plan to kill you…" her body stiffens, "in so many ways—ways you'll beg for me to kill you, over and over again."
Mei
The words should scare me. His behavior should terrify me.
I know he thinks it does. That the fear rolling through me, the fight I put up and tears I let escape are a result of his action
s and promises. He has no idea he's only part of it. My past and unreasonable attraction to him intensify every mixed up emotion.
His fingers tighten once more, a silent indication to look at him.
"Let's go," he orders, releasing my face.
Wrists still locked in his large hand, he pushes off me. The heat of his body disappears, chilling me. When the door behind him opens, the night air sends a shiver up my spine. And without releasing me, he backs himself out of the car, pulling me out with him.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" the driver, Frank, asks from our right.
"No," Saint clips out.
Moving my eyes beyond his broad chest, I focus on the wide glass doors to the tall building before us. Lifting my head, I glance up and take in the sky-high structure.
A tug on my arms brings me back to my captor. Stumbling behind him, he strides into the building. Walking passed the four metal elevators, he turns a corner into a narrow private hallway.
Craning my neck, I try to find our destination, but he's too wide for me to see around. Frustrated and nervous, I begin to chew on the bottom of my lip. He stops at a wooden panel and holds a card up to a small black circle. I jump at the sound the panel makes when it slides open to reveal a single elevator.
Even knowing it's pointless, I plant my feet in defiance. Saint enters the lift, pulling on my arms. His head snaps around at my resistance, his eyes narrowed. Bringing my hands to his chest, he steps toward me, and I back up with each of his steps. Raising one brow, the right side of his mouth lifts.
While I try to determine whether it's a smile or sneer, he swings my arms out to the side, releases my wrists, and wraps his thick arm around my waist.
My back to his chest, he walks us backward until we are inside the elevator.
"It's in your best interest to stop fighting me," he says, a hint of strain in his voice.
"Go to hell," I growl, feeling bold.
He's going to kill me, anyway. Probably torture me first, given his threat, so why should I make it easy on him?
To accentuate my words, I reach for the closing elevator door. I'm only able to get my fingertips curled around the metal's edge before he jerks me back and slams his card against another black circle. If I ever regretted the gloves I wear, it's this moment.
The tightening of his arm takes my breath away. I claw at it, even though it's pointless, and freeze when the scruff of his cheek brushes my ear.
"Your defiance isn't getting your desired effect," he rumbles, running his nose over the shell of my ear.
"Obviously," I choke out, confused by the threats and dark seduction.
The penthouse is what you would think it to be—dark wood flooring, shiny, light surfaces, and windows. The moment I'm forced into the foyer, we're greeted by two men in dark suits. Only their heads turn our direction, giving Saint an expectant look.
"Is everything set up?" he asks, nudging me forward.
I struggle to get out of his hold, and his arms tighten until I still. Then, he releases me.
In two strides, I stand next to a dark wooden staircase and look through an archway. Curious, I step through, stopping to take in the room.
The ceiling is so high, it holds a large glass chandelier. Every wall is covered in windows framed with large stone looking arches. They instantly remind me of a church I saw on TV once. Beyond the windows are railings to a wraparound balcony.
My body twitches to step out one of the floor length windows, though I'm not sure whether I would simply look at the view or jump and finally free myself.
The pieces of furniture are muted and look like a piece of untouched art rather than comfortable seating. The shock of bright blue in the massive rug seems too cheerful for a man like Saint.
"If she runs," his words recapture my attention, "shoot her," he finishes, walking down a small hallway in the opposite direction.
I don't miss the matching grins the men give each other.
"Come on, dead girl," Saint calls over his shoulder.
Turning, I walk until I'm next to the penthouse elevator, my eyes lingering on the silver door. This is my chance. Probably my only opportunity to attempt an escape.
"I'll catch you."
Snapping my head around, I find Saint watching me, arms over his chest and one brow raised.
Squaring my shoulders, I take tentative steps in his direction. Before I reach him, he turns and walks away, continuing down the hallway.
"Get comfortable," Saint instructs, motioning to a large sofa covered in dark gray material filling the far side of the room. This furniture is definitely for comfort, unlike the other room, and could probably seat twenty people.
Standing behind the couch, I wrap my arms around myself. "I'm good," I say, turning my head to look out the massive wall of windows.
Without taking my eyes from the view outside, I feel the vicinity of his body as he moves around the room. The swoosh of material is finally the thing to draw my attention back to him.
He discards his tie onto a chair at the breakfast bar before approaching.
Dropping my arms, I take a step back.
"It's time to tell me who you are, dead girl," he states.
Taking my arm in his large hand, he pulls me around the oversized piece of furniture. I dig my heels into the floor, resisting, but one solid tug and I'm forced to follow. Moving from the hard wood to a super thick rug, he brings me to the other side of the couch and turns to face me, his muscular body outlined by the cityscape behind him. Eyes locked on mine, he slides his hand up my arm to my shoulder and pushes down, giving me the silent instruction to sit. The more he stares at me, the harder it is to fight him, so I give in.
Sitting slowly onto the couch, I don't dare look away. My ass sinks into the cushion and I grip the edges. The moment my head is level to his belt, his lip gives a familiar twitch.
Pulling his hand away, but keeping his eyes on mine, he slides his suit jacket from his shoulders, and I fight the urge to reach out and touch him. It's fucked up and so wrong to want him this way, but desire moves like lava beneath my skin. The burn crawls over me, settling in the most sensitive places.
His cufflinks gleam in my peripheral as he removes them and slips them into his pocket. The muscles in his forearms flex and bunch while he starts releasing the buttons of his shirt, displaying dark inked designs on his olive skin and a white tank beneath.
Pulling the dress shirt from the waist of his pants, he tosses it to the cushion on my left. The personal strip tease continues until he's standing in just pants and the white tank.
I push farther into the couch when he drops into a crouch in front of me. Bringing his hands to my knees, he grips.
"You aren't Meissa Winters," he says in a way that dares me to challenge. I lock my jaw, keeping my lips pressed together and words mute. "You're really going to continue this game?" he asks, offering me my last chance.
But I can't. No matter what I do, say, it won't end well for me.
I tell him, and his curiosity ends. Probably right along with my life. They could turn me over to the police or worse—him. I would choose death before returning to him. I may have been young and naïve all those years ago, but I'd learned so much in my time away from that man, that house. Even when part of me, the sick, twisted part, yearns to go home.
A shiver shakes my body at the thought of what would've most likely happened to me in that house. Alive or dead, I would've been another piece in his collection. In fact, I would've been the prized doll. His finest work. Part of me still is.
"Fine," he barks, shoving at my legs, pulling me out of such morbid thoughts.
Standing to his full height, he casts a shadow over my body, sending fear through my veins. I pull my feet up, curl them beneath me, and settle into the back of the couch.
"Sir?" One of the suits draws Saint's attention from me.
"Yes, Tony," he responds.
"He's on his way up now," Tony states, standing with his back to the wall.
>
I tense. Who is on his way?
"I'll have my answers soon enough, dead girl," Saint says with a smirk.
Minutes pass before a tall, lean man enters the room. His dark shaggy curls look wet.
"Saint." The man nods in greeting.
"Sketch," he returns.
"You don't look dead to me," Sketch says, smiling wide. "Fuck me, look at that face. You look like a little doll." His gaze moves to Saint. "No wonder you want to play with her."
His eyes are so dark, they look black, and his smile feels off and manic. The way he stares at me sends off warning signals.
"Did you bring everything you need?" Saint asks, an annoyance I don't understand in his question.
Sketch pats a sleek black bag at his side. Approaching the sofa, his fingers run up the strap slung across his chest and pull it over his head as he sits next to me, his gaze never leaving mine. There's curiosity, intrigue, and something else behind those dark irises. It calls to my evil desires, making them fight against the internal place where I lock them away.
He slides a thin silver laptop, a flat black mat, and a couple other items I'm not familiar with from an army green messenger back onto the coffee table. The speed that he sets up his equipment is almost as fast as the hand he uses to grab my forearm.
Gasping, I yank at his hold. Sketch may be lean and long, but it's evidently pure muscle beneath the black, long-sleeve shirt and jeans.
"This is quite the fashion statement," he teases, pinching the material of my glove.
I make a fist—my last-ditch effort to ensure the glove stays on. I should've known it was pointless. With his thumb and finger, he applies pressure to the skin between mine, and I yelp, my fist unclenching. In the next moment, the glove is slid from my hand and dropped to the floor.
Before I can close my hand again, Saint has it captured in his.
"What the fuck did you do?" he asks on a growl.
"Jesus," Sketch breathes out. "They're mutilated," he says looking over my fingertips, then to my face.
"Can you still run them?" Saint asks.
I pull at my arm, my heart racing and lungs constricting. They can't run my prints. I'm in the system. All foster kids are. I'll be found.
