Cards of Love: The Tower

by Linnea May

  She lets out a dark chuckle, shaking her head.

  "A child," she whispers. "I wasn't a child anymore. I was old enough to have my own children."

  She stops, fixating me with a pleading look. But if she's hoping for me to know where she's going with this, she's not in luck.

  I jut my chin forward, beckoning her to continue.

  She sighs. "I got pregnant. At fifteen."

  Shit.

  "You have a child?" I blurt out, realizing that she may regret telling me about this already. If there's yet another little Abbott running around out there, that means...

  "No," she says, cutting off my horrifying train of thought. "I lost it. At nine weeks."

  I nod, trying not to let her see how relieved I am to hear that. As tragic as that miscarriage must have been for her, it does make life a lot easier for me at this point.

  "I'm sorry," I say, knowing that it doesn't sound sincere in the slightest. "So that's it? You got pregnant at fifteen, and even though the child was never born, your family disowned you?"

  Libby shrugs. "In a way, you could say that. It's only the short version, though."

  She takes a deep breath before she goes on. "The long version is that I've always been seen as some kind of troublemaker. I never really belonged to the circles I grew up in. I wasn't a well-behaved little girl. I was loud, angry, and violent with a constant cry for attention. And when I got old enough, the boys started listening to that cry. There are many names for a girl like I was back then—a slut, a whore, or simply promiscuous. I didn't always give; sometimes things were taken from me without asking. It was only a matter of time until one of them would impregnate me. And when it did, it happened with the wrong boy."

  She stops, shaking her head while a sad smile graces her face.

  "Well, no, actually he was the right boy, very right," she corrects herself. "A good boy, an heir to an empire of wealth that surpasses that of my family's by far. He was right in every aspect, but the circumstances weren't. And I certainly wasn't right for him. It was a joint decision by both of our families to send me away until I'd given birth to the child. Out of sight, out of mind. They told me I should give the child up for adoption. I was an embarrassment to them. I was never asked what I wanted."

  I grimace at her ugly story. It sounds like a tale from old times when things like that happened to young aristocratic girls all the time. I never thought that such practices were still held up nowadays.

  How backward can people be? How cruel?

  Fucking picture perfect.

  "That's fucked up," I remark, causing her to let out a hurt little laugh.

  "It really was, yeah," she agrees. "I never felt welcomed in my uncle's home, but I had nowhere else to go after my parents' death. It was almost a relief when they sent me away."

  I'm surprised at the way my chest tightens at her words. We never talked about her parents, but it should come as no surprise to me that they're both dead. If Clyde Abbott is her uncle, she must be the daughter of Jane and August Clyde, a couple who died in a car accident almost twenty years ago. I've seen their names on one of our lists marked as 'dead' and listed with no offspring. They didn't die at the Covey's hand, and they were part of the outer circle of the family, dead for so long that no one paid any further attention to them when we started our mission about five years ago.

  And the result of that negligence is now sitting next to me.

  "But you never carried your child to term," I probe. "They didn't take you back when you lost it?"

  She shakes her head. "It was too late for me at that point. I was spoiled goods. They sent me to boarding school on the other side of the country, as far away as possible. And to be honest, I was pretty okay with that."

  She pauses, catching my eyes before she adds, "I never really belonged. In a way, that tragic pregnancy was a blessing in disguise because it enabled me to get away from a family that never provided me with a happy home. I've always been treated as an outcast, a troubled kid—and I lived up to that image. Of course, it hurt, but really, it wasn't all bad to get away from that."

  I nod along as she speaks, knowing all too well what she's talking about.

  Not belonging, being treated like an outcast.

  "I know the feeling."

  The words escape before I can stop myself, and they're met with Libby's instant attention.

  "Yeah?" she asks. "Is that why you're doing this... job? A bad family history?"

  A cynical tone laces her words, almost as if she was ridiculing me.

  "I'm doing this job because I'm good at it," I say. "And I don't have a bad family history. I have no history at all. I never met my parents because I was given up for adoption right after I was born. And none of the foster parents I had would deserve the name father or mother."

  Her expression softens. "Oh, I'm sorry."

  I'm not sure how I feel about the way she looks at me now with such empathy and care. After all I've done to her, she's the one feeling sorry for me just because I shared some of the darkness of my upbringing with her.

  It paints a new kind of beauty on her face, something so raw and honest, very different from the cute little punk she was when I first saw her. She looks even younger without all that color in her face, and while she bore more resemblance to a ghost than anything else during her first days with me, a healthy color has returned to her cheeks. It's good to see her healing and regaining her strength, and it fills me with a weird sense of power, knowing that I was the one who made that possible.

  I took her to a place where she could get help. I made sure she was taken care of.

  I protected her, and I will continue to do so.

  It may not make up for all the sins I've committed under the Covey's command, but it gives me a sense of satisfaction and hope.

  Hope that I'm moving in the right direction.

  Wherever that may lead me.

  Or us.

  Chapter 13

  Libby

  With the darkness of the night comes a new spate of fear and worry. The beautiful sunset that dipped the valley in warm colors, the birds singing their good night songs, and the calm breeze whispering through the bushes surrounding the small house provided a false sense of security. It was too beautiful, too peaceful to worry.

  The night is different. I can see nothing but black vastness through the windows, a perfect hiding place for all evil. If anyone followed us up here, they'd probably wait until nightfall to attack.

  Keane never left my side, and I didn't mind one bit. If what he told me is true, I shouldn't have anything to worry about. As long as no one knows I exist, no one will come looking for me.

  But if they come looking for him? What if they show up here, and Keane is willing to sacrifice me to save himself?

  It's not like that's such an impossible thing to imagine.

  I want to believe him, though. I want to trust him. I don't know what his plan is, but everything he told me lines up perfectly with his actions so far.

  He never shot me on purpose. He took me to safety. He took care of me. He makes sure I'm getting better, and he doesn't leave my side because he wants to protect me.

  I'm allowed a fraction of privacy to freshen up by myself in the bathroom. Just like the rest of the house, it looks new and unused, containing a big bathtub that I would love to use but can't because of my wounds. My left arm is still in a splint, forcing it in place close to my body while my shoulder is still covered in thick and heavy bandages. The graze shot wound at my hip is doing a lot better and healing nicely, but even that would probably not react well to a long, hot bath.

  I'm forced to keep things down to a cat lick, but at least I can do it on my own now. For the past few days, it was always the doctor who awkwardly helped me with cleaning, displaying just as much discomfort as I was experiencing. It's a small step, but being able to wash myself all on my own feels like a massive victory tonight.

  When I walk out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a loose
shirt and jogging pants that are a few sizes too big, I find Keane standing in front of the door.

  "These are your clothes, aren't they?" I ask, feeling a blush of shame travel across my cheeks.

  He nods. "I didn't expect to have any company up here. You'll have to excuse the limited choice in outfits."

  We exchange a look heavy with questions.

  "So were you planning to take a little vacation up here by yourself?" I give voice to one of them. "After the job was done?"

  He presses his lips together and crosses his strong arms in front of his chest. "Something like that."

  He offers his hand for support, but I refuse it. I can feel myself getting stronger with every single step I take on my own, and the sooner I regain my strength and health, the better.

  There's only one bedroom upstairs, right next to the bathroom. It's just as simple and clean as the living room, equipped with only the most basic furniture: a king-size bed with white linen, dark wooden nightstands on each side, and a matching dresser pushed against the wall to my left. White curtains are closed in front of the windows to the right of the bed and along the wall at the foot of the bed.

  The room has everything one needs but not a single item more than that.

  "You'll sleep here," he announces, standing next to me after I enter the room. "Wearing these."

  He holds up a pair of handcuffs, the same ones used to tie me to the compensatory hospital bed.

  I shake my head. "No. Please. I don't want to be cuffed to the bed!"

  He frowns at me. "That's not up for debate. It's for your own sa—"

  "How is being tied down for my own safety?" I cut him off, relishing the fact that he takes a step back when I approach him, my chin raised defiantly.

  "You might get some stupid ideas," he says, raising an eyebrow at me. "Run off in the middle of the night, jump out the window. I can't trust you to be reasonable."

  I furrow my eyebrows as I look up at him. "Where would I even go in the middle of the night? As you said, I don't even know where we are."

  He shakes his head. "You'll wear the cuffs, whether you like it or not."

  "Where will you sleep?" I bark another question him.

  "Downstairs. On the sofa."

  I don't like that. I don't like any of this.

  "So you say you can't trust me, but I'm supposed to trust you? What if you decide to run off tonight, leaving me all by myself up here, handcuffed to a bed in the middle of nowhere? Excuse me, but I've read enough Stephen King to know that's not a good idea!"

  The look on his face is an amusing blend of confusion and anger. He may not know the book I'm referring to, but he knows I have a valid point, coming from my perspective. Even a professional killer like him must be capable of enough empathy to see where I'm coming from.

  "What do you suggest then?" he asks.

  I bite my lower lip as my eyes dart back and forth between him and the bed. It's a king size with two pillows on each side and one big blanket.

  Enough room for two.

  "Sleep up here with me," I say, avoiding his curious gaze while my cheeks once again glow with treacherous heat. "That way, you can keep an eye on me without having to cuff me to the bed. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to sneak out the room without you noticing. And I don't have to feel quite as extradited and at your mercy."

  "You are at my mercy," he points out. "And I'm not sure that's such a great idea."

  "Why not?"

  I turn to look up at him, feeling hurt as if he'd just rejected me. It's silly, but I can't help it.

  "Because I can't guarantee your safety then, either," he replies, throwing me an ominous side glance.

  I'm sure the blush on my face must have darkened a few shades. Is he really saying what I think he's saying? That he couldn't keep his hands off me?

  Why does that make my heart flutter with such excitement? How can I even think of such things?

  How can he?

  "I'm badly wounded," I add for consideration. "Is that a turn on for you?"

  His eyes flicker with a sinister promise, a fiery need sparking across his expression as he leans down to me. His lips are so close to my ears that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he whispers the words that make my core flutter with desire.

  "No, but you are."

  Chapter 14

  Libby

  My lips find his on instinct. He wasn't the one to initiate the kiss, but when our lips clash onto each other, he's the one to take without restraint.

  He places his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to tilt my head back as his tongue invades my mouth with unexpected greed. I'm stunned for just a split second before I respond in the only way that comes to me naturally.

  We intertwine with hungry proficiency, the craving obvious in both of us. It's a breathless kiss that speaks of the strong yearning we share. A yearning for intimacy, for connection.

  I've never had a first kiss like this. So passionate, so eager, rapacious. Almost selfish, both of us. Neither one of us giving, we're both taking from each other.

  My heart hammers against my weak chest with rapid urgency, excited for more. I'm not even surprised that our hands find each other with the same implicitness guiding our lips. Our fingers intertwine, clasping onto each other and pulling tightly. He overpowers me with ease, pulling me closer to him so that our bodies are pushed against each other—with my splinted arm between.

  A sharp pain travels up through my shoulder, causing me to interrupt our kiss with an exclamation of pain. I moan, grimacing as I try to ignore the fiery ache radiating from my wounded shoulder.

  He stops immediately, his lips leaving mine as he takes a step back.

  "You okay?" he asks, his handsome features twisted with worry. "Your shoulder? Did that hurt?"

  I nod, biting my lower lip. "I'm sorry, I—"

  "No, I am," he cuts me off, raking his hand across his short buzz cut while he lets out a heated sigh. "I should've known."

  My heart sinks, and I curse my crippled body for this unwanted interruption. My heart is still racing, still yearning, and my body burns with lust.

  I wanted to forget, just for a few minutes, moments even. I wanted to forget about everything that has happened and just indulge myself in this man who has turned my head upside down ever since I first saw him.

  Is that really too much ask?

  Apparently, it is when you're still suffering from a pretty serious gunshot wound in your useless left shoulder.

  "Didn't you say you have something you can give me?" I remind him. "Some pain meds?"

  Keane nods. "Yes, sure. Hold on."

  My eyes follow him as he rushes out of the room, leaving me standing next to the bed with my cheeks flushed and my core still throbbing with need for more.

  I wonder if he's a gentle lover or a rough one. My hope that it's the latter is probably not unwarranted, judging from what little I've experienced with him so far.

  I wonder if I will ever find out for sure.

  Or ever.

  He returns with a surprisingly large bottle, holding it up to my face.

  "These are pretty strong," he informs me. "Prescription opioids. They'll work wonders, but we'll have to be careful with them."

  I hold out my right hand, casting him an expectant look while he opens the bottle to fetch a tablet for me. Much to my surprise, he doesn't give it to me right away, but arches his eyebrows in a warning look.

  "Don't be reckless," he warns. "You may not feel the pain anymore, but your shoulder is still damaged and—"

  "Yes," I interrupt him, playfully rolling my eyes. "All I want right now is for the pain to be gone."

  I reach for the tablet he's holding out to me, and my eyes fall onto the visible bulge under his jeans. A coy smile spreads across my face, and when he turns around to reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand, I'm lucky enough to get an even better view of his considerable size. It flatters and excites me to see him like this. He's hard because of me, yearnin
g for me, despite the terrible state I'm in. I haven't worn any makeup since the day of the event and have only been dressed in hospital gowns and men's clothes. Tonight was the first time in days I had a chance to take care of myself, wash up, brush my hair properly, and even shave my legs. It took forever, and my shoulder hurt all the way through, but it felt like a spa treatment nonetheless.

  He watches me as I swallow the tablet, ignoring the cheeky smirk I throw at him.

  "You should lie down," he suggests after taking the bottle of water from me. "Wait for the painkiller to work and get some sleep."

  "Only if you stay with me," I tell him. "Please."

  He sighs. "Didn't you see what just happened?"

  "Yes, and I liked it. Didn't you?"

  He growls angrily, answering through gritted teeth.

  "Yes, obviously I did. But I don't want to hurt you."

  "I won't let you," I say, reaching for his hand. "Please. I'd feel so much safer if you stay with me."

  He doesn't fight me off when I lead him to the bed with my heart fluttering so wildly that I almost fear he could sense it.

  He watches as I step out of the jogging pants, leaving me with nothing but the oversized sweatshirt. I stand before him, feeling exposed and protected at the same time.

  "We're going to bed," I say in a low voice, stepping closer to him. "Don't you think you should take these off?"

  He sucks in a sharp breath when I reach forward, fiddling with his belt. I only have one hand at my disposal, making it all the harder to open the buckle. Despite my clumsy efforts, I make sure to grace his hard bulge beneath the belt, seemingly by accident but with full intent.

  He's breathing heavily, and I can see his strong hands twitching, unsure whether to stop me or to help me.

  "Are you sure you want this?" he breathes, fixating me with his hazel eyes. "I can't promise I won't—"

  "I want this," I whisper back, meeting his gaze with mine, a hint of pleading reflected in the way I look at him. "I want to feel good. I want to forget. That's all."