Cards of Love: Justice

by Wilde, Amelia

  She stands shakily on her feet, watching me as I stand up, adjust my sleeves and prepare to step outside the room. Among other things, depending on what Justice does.

  There’s no sudden run for the door, a last dash for freedom. She only stands there in her bare feet, her blue eyes strangely aglow. It’s a look I can’t place in this room. The fact that her face is so red makes sense, but the look in her eyes squeezes at something low in my gut.

  Something I ignore.

  Because I’ll never throw away my kingdom for a woman. They all go back out the way they came in, justice served.

  I snap my fingers and point at the floor next to my feet.

  She doesn’t understand, and then she does, padding across the space between us to stand next to me. I’d make her crawl, but with her dress still hiked up around her waist, she’ll be plenty humiliated as is. It’s a good starting point. I’ll take her far, far lower while she’s here.

  “Let’s go.”

  Justice follows me, a half-step behind, out into the hallway and to the left. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, and when I open the door to the holding cell, she only hesitates a moment before stepping inside.

  “Wrists.” She holds up her delicate wrists to me, tentative in a way that steals my breath, and I press the hidden switch that releases them. I’ll hang them on the rack by the entrance. They’ll always be waiting for her.

  “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  There’s more I want to ask. There’s more I want to say. But wanting doesn’t mean doing. Not for me.

  I turn to go, but before I can shut the door between us, Justice speaks.

  Her voice is just above a whisper. “Who are you?”

  I give her the only answer that matters.

  “My name is Cassian Locke. But you will call me Sir.”

  5

  Justice

  The door shuts behind me, killing the last of the light from the hallway. I rush toward it like I’m still seven years old and afraid of the dark, but there’s no light switch on the wall. No touchpad. Nothing.

  Of course.

  During my search for the nonexistent light switch, my eyes gradually adjust to the dark. It’s not pitch-dark, I discover, but the kind of hazy moonlit dark that’s clear and unsettling at the same time.

  There’s not much here.

  A low bed, almost a cot, I think, until I go over and find out that it’s a platform built into the floor.

  I examine it like it’s going to give me any information. As if any information could enter my brain at this moment in time. I’m experiencing an insane rush of blood to the head, not to mention the sting of the hotly spanked flesh. Shit—my dress is still pulled up. I tug it back down, cheeks on fire, even though nobody is here to watch.

  Or…are they?

  I whirl around, searching for the telltale glass of a camera, a small red blinking light—anything.

  There’s nothing.

  Nothing catching any of the moonlit sheen up in the corners of the room.

  Still, a shiver moves through me like a wave. The fact that I can’t see anything doesn’t mean it’s not there.

  He might not be watching now, but I still feel those dark eyes on me.

  And his hands on me.

  Heat gathers between my legs and I clap a hand over my mouth, like it could stop me from sucking in a breath. Cassian Locke is like a magnet. I can feel myself pulled back toward him, even though I’m currently locked in…

  What is this place, even?

  A cell, only a little nicer.

  I’m desperate for sensation but tell myself it’s not because I liked what happened to me. I can barely face it. Even in my memory. His strong legs underneath me. The clarifying pain of his hand on my ass, over and over and over. Like a naughty little girl.

  What the fuck?

  It had brought me down from the whirlwind high of the fight, and I’d wanted nothing when it was over so much as I wanted to curl up into his arms and press my face into his neck. Why? Why? A rush of pure shame tears the breath from my lips. A man pulled me over his lap to punish me and I can’t say I hated it.

  Well, I will hate it. From now on, I will hate whatever this fucked-up circus becomes.

  At the side of the bed, I press my hands down into a thin mattress. It’s covered in an equally thin sheet, a thin blanket over top. In the light of the room, it all looks white, and it probably is. White things are easier to bleach.

  My heart zigs to the side. Easier to bleach for all the other women who have slept in this room. And there have been other women—I’m sure of it now. I’m sure this is what people like my mother whispered about behind their hands.

  People like my mother…and people like my sister.

  They’d named her Patience, a throwback if I’ve ever heard one. Patience, though she was never patient. She was the moon to my sun, dark-haired and pale. A rule-follower, though behind closed doors there were times I saw her rage.

  Until she was gone.

  Stop thinking of her in the past tense, I tell myself firmly, running the edge of the blanket between my fingers. It is flimsy. It would be easy to tear, easy to rip. The fact of it makes my heart thud. It’s almost too loud in the silence of the room.

  Or…is it really silence?

  I strain to hear anything beyond the white noise of the air moving through the room, but it only makes me more aware of that same air coming down from a vent in the center of the ceiling. Every exposed inch of my skin feels its fingertips brushing up against me.

  The slightest touch—air—and I’m right back over his lap. Part of me wants to shriek and never stop shrieking, and part of me wonders if this is what happened to Patience…

  It’s too hard to consider what this means.

  Not about him. Our family might be new money, but I still heard about all the things that people with power do. And maybe it is insane. Maybe it is beyond fucked up that we have a man kidnapping us off the streets in order to…

  …in order to what?

  My face heats again, hotter this time. Is he the one who decides what people are going to do? Is this man the center of our entire society, one so dark and judgmental that nobody dares utter his name?

  The list of my own transgressions seems, here in the dark, really fucking long.

  But can that really be what this is about? Making my parents angry? I’m twenty-two. I was on the verge of stepping into my very own life apart from them.

  And now…

  I have no idea how long this is going to last. Could this have happened to Patience? I pace the length of the cell and turn back around, trying to ignore the hot handprints on my ass. I didn’t keep track of her vacations. Why would I? We all have busy schedules, busy lives. If she was gone for…for I don’t know how long…

  He hasn’t said anything about how long he’s keeping me here.

  Or if he’ll ever let me out.

  He will, though. Right? He has to. That’s not how this is going to work. If people were being murdered, that’s—that’s a totally different thing. Though I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t say he was incapable of it. I felt the power in those hands. He could do anything he wanted.

  I pace back across the room and that’s when I see it—a narrow door in the center of one wall. My pulse flutters. It can’t be this easy. Can it? It could be a trick. All of this could be a little trick to get me in line, and all I have to do now is walk right out of here. In five minutes, I could be blocks away, cursing Tripp for being late. He would deserve a real show, too, me shivering and shaking while he drove around the city trying to find me.

  The door opens soundlessly under my hand, and I search for a light switch. My hand brushes against a flat touchpad on the wall, and the dimmest possible illumination shows me exactly what this room is.

  It’s not a staircase. It’s not an exit.

  It’s a bathroom.

  It’s barely bright enough to see, and in a color I can’t quite identify. It�
��s a strange choice for a man with so much money and power, but then again…it’s not strange. Not if they want to control every waking moment. Not if they want to come for me in the night, not risking my eyes having adjusted to the light. I’ll always be off guard, as long as I’m here.

  They could be coming back any moment now.

  I’m overwhelmed with the need to pee, but I do it as fast as I can, heart trapped in my throat, hoping I’ll hear them before they come back into the room. There’s the world’s tiniest sink against one wall, hardly enough room to turn around, and the dark presses in. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but honestly, this room could do it.

  I hurry back out into the relative freedom of the cell.

  It’s late.

  My ass still smarts.

  But…there are other feelings, too.

  Feelings I won’t name, or even acknowledge. Not ever. Not ever.

  I watch the door for any sign of movement until I have to sit down on the edge of the bed. My feet ache from kicking and fighting, my ankle throbs, and the rest of my muscles are going to follow. I can feel it coming already. But I have to keep watch. What if they catch me while I’m sleeping? Is that against the rules, too? What a fucking bastard, leaving me in here with no sense of…anything.

  My throat goes tight. I didn’t think I’d miss my family, or the penthouse on 32nd Street. And maybe it’s not them I miss.

  Maybe it’s my own freedom.

  I let myself fall to the side, my head connecting with a flat, thin pillow. With my head turned to the side, I can still see the faint outline of the door in the wall. That’s where they’ll come for me. There’s no other way in or out. That’s what I have to watch. And I’ll watch all night if I have to. I’ll watch until it’s dawn.

  6

  Cassian

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  I find my brother in his rooms, leaned back on his sofa and looking pretty fucking proud of himself. He hasn’t even bothered to finish his pour of Johnnie Walker Blue. A snarl rises in my throat. It’s a ridiculous habit of his, now that we’ve brought my father’s business back from the brink. Our stability won’t last if he has his way about it.

  Lysander turns his head toward me with a grin that makes me want to knock his teeth out. “Did you have a nice time?”

  The remote—a top-of-the-line thing that’s essentially a flat piece of glass—sits on the table next to the sofa. I stab at it hard enough to crack it, but it doesn’t give way—the massive television Lysander has been staring at just shuts off.

  “What. The fuck. Were you thinking?”

  He shrugs, putting his glass carefully on the side table. It’s a good decision. I might fight him right now. That’s not out of the realm of possibility. “I took a job, Cash. You can’t be pissed at me for that.”

  “Can’t I?” I move around to stand in front of him, forcing him to look at me. It’s like looking at myself in a time-lagged mirror. He’s three years younger. “We vet the jobs we take, Lysander. We don’t just accept the money and send out our people.”

  “It was a good profit.”

  “You have no idea if she’s worth it or not.”

  My brother raises one eyebrow, and an angry heat spills down my back. “Don’t you mean the contract?”

  I draw myself up to my full height. “The contract is unvetted. There’s no way you went through the full process while I was finishing up with the previous contract. There wasn’t enough time. I don’t know what you’ve gotten us into, and neither do you.”

  Lysander rolls his eyes and his reply is nonchalant and indifferent. “If it’s that big of a deal, just let her go.”

  “Just let her go?” My blood hammers in my veins, and I stab one finger in the direction of his chest, right where his heart is beating, if he has one. “You’re the one who came to me. Said that she was coming in, like it or not. This is your arrangement.” The words hiss from between my teeth.

  “Oh, come on, Cash. We both know that every arrangement is yours.” His mouth twists. “You never let me forget it.”

  “You want to be an equal partner in running this business? Then stop acting like a fucking child. You don’t take a hundred dollar bill from a man on the street without knowing that it comes with a price.”

  “It doesn’t come with a price. Not for me,” he says, a snotty edge coating his voice. “For her, maybe.”

  I change tact. “How did the mediation session go, then? I’m sure you sat down with both parties so they could agree to this as a solution to an ongoing problem, since that’s how we do things. Let me see your notes from the session.”

  His pinched look confirms there was no such session. I’ve held tens, hundreds of them. That’s the only way these things get settled without public court battles and embarrassments. Reputation has always mattered in these circles. The smart families, the families who have made their money last for generations and want to make it last for generations to come, don’t want to make the paper for their disputes. There are no public records of what I do, which is the way they like it.

  And the way other people like it.

  “There are no notes. I think you knew that when you walked in the door.”

  Anger curdles in my gut, but I keep the lid on it tightly closed. “Everything depends on those sessions. Everything depends—”

  “—on discretion,” Lysander finishes for me. “I’ve heard it a million times.”

  “And yet you accepted this contract with no discretion. With no interview. With nothing. Are you not seeing the problem?”

  “I’m seeing our bank account.” Lysander unfolds himself from the sofa and stands up. One step forward and we’re eye to eye. “My focus is on our livelihood. If you want to fight me about it, go ahead.”

  “Our livelihood only continues if there is absolute discretion. That means no mistakes. That means no fucked-up contracts with someone else’s security team.”

  “You said it yourself. Our people were out there, too.”

  “Our people were out there without my permission.” I’ve raised my voice, the anger escalating with it, though I only let it show for Lysander’s benefit. “Do this again, and you’ll be out of the business.”

  Lines form indents across his forehead. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would dare more than that.”

  “You need me,” he argues. “We’d be several million short if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Several million?” It’s an amount. It’s like any other amount of money—useless if you can’t keep it in the long term. “How long is the contract?”

  A satisfied smile lights his face. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

  I put my hands in my pockets, keeping my body absolutely relaxed, and look my brother in the eye. “I’ve had enough of your shit,” I tell him mildly. “If you’re going to keep this up, I can arrange for you to be sent back.”

  He goes still at that, nostrils flaring. The asshole knows what I mean. He knows where I mean. He knows as well as I do about the Family that watches us. He’s met them in person, and he doesn’t want to meet them again. “Five days. Don’t be a prick—if our mother were alive to see this—”

  “She’s not.”

  Something flares and dies in Lysander’s eyes.

  “Don’t underestimate me.” I leave the words at his feet.

  Tension tugs at the air between us. Lysander tries his level best, but it’s clear my threat has had some impact because his eyes flick to the floor at my feet. It only serves to remind me of Justice Danes, the blazing fire in her eyes, spitting at the floor like a feral woman dragged from the past and fighting for her life.

  “I’m going out,” he says eventually, then steels himself for one last remark. “Don’t wait up.”

  “I would never,” I tell him, the tone dripping with a mixed combination of affection and sarcasm. “Enjoy yourself, Lysander. You deserve it.”

  He presses his lips together, then tak
es a silent step around me, heading for the door.

  I don’t wait up for him—that much was true. But I don’t go to sleep, either.

  Alone, the thought of her fills the room, and the hallway, and my own rooms.

  I settle in front of the secure laptop that gives me access to all our records. We’re taxpaying citizens, another fact that would surprise the newly flush entrepreneurs who think that avoiding this responsibility is the key to making a fortune. It’s not. Paying taxes is the equivalent of hiding in plain sight. The government might frown upon the kind of extrajudicial private arrangements I facilitate, but they’ll never have a reason to investigate so long as they get their due.

  I try not to think of Justice Danes another moment as I pull up the record.

  It’s a fucking mess.

  Lysander did more than avoid the mediation session that I always insist on before accepting contracts. The amount is recorded, and it is a high one, but the rest of the information doesn’t make any sense. The money has come directly from the Danes Family Trust. There is no other party involved in the dispute, but there must have been one, because the instructions are clear:

  Break her.

  Someone wants her brought to heel.

  There’s more attached to the document, but it’s information on Justice, not the dispute. There are photos of her taken from a long-range lens, dancing in a club. There’s a man in many of the photos, tall and blonde, with his mouth on hers. More photos—the two of them in a private home.

  The sight of his hands on hers makes my insides flare with jealousy.

  I acknowledge the feeling and then dismiss it entirely. I have been in the company of Justice Danes for less than an hour. There is no reason I should be interested in her at all. There’s no reason I should give a fuck that this mystery man had his hands on her as recently as…

  …last night.

  It takes one shove to get myself clear of the desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows in my main room provide a stunning view of the city, and though I look out over all the buildings, all the twinkling lights, I don’t see any of it.