Cruel Captivation: A Dark Romance (Underground Kings Book 5)

by Kelli Callahan

  I stand there in the hot water for a few minutes, then run my hand over my hair to slick it over my skull. Water gets into my mouth and I spit it out, then fall against the wall, letting my hand catch me. I can barely hold myself up. How the hell am I going to do a job? I know it’s what I need to do. I need to push myself again.

  How am I this man?

  Am I depressed because I miss her, or am I depressed because the woman I love is the one that turned her back on me all those years ago?

  It’s because I miss her.

  Hell, the past is the past. I was mad about her truth, but I’m not anymore. I served six years, which is cake to Owen, who served twenty years for killing his pregnant wife. He didn’t kill her, but he acted like he did because it was the punishment he thought he deserved.

  I didn’t kill Grace, but maybe if I was a better friend and not so busy chasing tail, I would have been there for her. It’s pointless to guilt myself now because what is done, is done.

  I need to let go of the past in order to grab ahold of my future.

  “Stop it. Now is not the time,” I say to my very hard cock, who hasn’t gotten attention in a month and a half.

  It has been the longest time I have ever gone without sex or masturbating since I was sixteen. Yeah, case in point, I was a slut.

  I’m not now.

  Just the thought of being with anyone else besides Heather sends disgust up my spine. I only want her.

  “Sorry, buddy. We are on a break,” I say, turning off the shower and stepping onto the heated tile floor. I don’t bother brushing my hair, I towel dry it, then run my fingers through it. Next, I swipe deodorant on, throw on a fresh T-shirt and jeans, boots, toss my towel in the laundry, and walk out the door.

  My room smells better, that’s a plus.

  As I stroll down the hall, whistling, I pass the room she stayed in and I run my fingers across the closed door, and I swear I can smell her. Her scent is light, just like the air flowing into my room, breathing life back into me and my space.

  When I walk into the kitchen, it’s just the guys. The girls must be in their rooms or out doing what girls do. I don’t know, but they are never around on the days we leave. I think it’s because they say their goodbye’s the previous night and leave us to plan the day we leave.

  “Think fast,” Owen says, and I barely have time to look before he is throwing a muffin at me. It hits me in the face and falls to the floor. “I told you to think fast.”

  “Well, you gotta give me a minute, man. Jesus.”

  “I thought you could smell the muffins,” he says.

  Damn. I really couldn’t smell them. My mind was so preoccupied with Heather, that I didn’t even want muffins.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess the muffin man is on a break.”

  “Okay, muffin man, we have plans we need to catch you up on. We let you wallow, but Sebastian got a hit on his search for Ricardo and he called Zeke.”

  Owen and I groan at the same time. “Why would you call him? Why do we need a lawyer?”

  “He didn’t call Zeke the lawyer. He called Zeke ‘the right-hand-man of the mafia boss’ in New York City.”

  My lips form an O. “Oh, that Zeke.” It’s the same man living two different lives, but when we call for different reasons, the one we need always shows. “Why? What’s going on?” I pour myself a cup of coffee, add a shit ton of cream because I don’t know how the guys drink it black. I might as well chew a damn coffee bean right out of the bag if I want to drink it straight.

  “So, you are aware of fancy charity events and stuff, right?”

  If words could taste like black coffee, they would be those words right there. “Yes,” I grumble, not wanting to show that I’m happy I know what they are talking about.

  “Well, I started thinking about how dirty politicians are, right? So I got to snooping because I’m nosey,” Sebastian says, pausing to take a drink of his nasty green health smoothie. I don’t know why he has been so keen on ‘getting fit’ when he has more abs than a washboard. “I found out that Zeke’s boss just got invited to the Governor’s Ball here in California, along with your father, and obviously Heather’s father since he is the Governor.”

  “I mean, it’s weird sure. I don’t know why a mafia boss needs to go to a charity event, but I don’t care. Rich people sling coke left and right and if they are about that then who are we to stop them?”

  Sebastian smiles, shaking a finger at me. “Well, it made me dig a little deeper. Our friend, Richard? He goes to the Governor’s ball every year. Including the year you were arrested, Heaven.”

  I almost drop my coffee cup, but I manage to tighten my fingers around the handle, so it doesn’t fall. “What? No, that’s impossible. Her dad wouldn’t get involved in something like this. You guys are wrong.”

  Sebastian shakes his head, then nods, confusing me. “No, you’re right. I dove deeper into Tim Thomas to see if there is anything sketchy about him, but he is clean, minus a few bar fights when he was in his teens, he seems like the all around traditional American man. He seems like a good guy. He doesn’t have any scandals, he makes donations to charity every month, he sends flowers to Grace’s grave every Sunday. He takes his wife out on a date every Wednesday. He seems oblivious. I think this run for Governor was him being convinced by your father. I think he is being set up because a guy this straight and narrow randomly going into politics blind, it can’t be a good thing.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say, trying to process the information Sebastian told me. I pour the coffee out in the sink, then turn on the faucet to wash the brown liquid away. Then the way they are talking about the Governor’s Ball clicks and I toss my head back on my shoulders when the realization hits. “You want to go to the Ball. That’s why you’re asking me.”

  “It’s our only lead for Richard,” Jaxon says.

  “But what’s all this have to do with what was behind the vault?” I ask. “Wasn’t it just money?”

  “Yeah, but what kind of money? Dirty money? Bribe money? What if the money is linked to your father? Didn’t you say you slept with Richard’s daughter and that’s why he hates you? What if this is all linked back to you?”

  “I have slept with a lot of people, but I am telling you, I didn’t know a mafia boss or his daughter.” I rub my temples and run through all the women I’ve been with. “Do you have a picture of Richard’s daughter?”

  Sebastian clears his throat and becomes awkward. Everyone shares a glance, and my hackles rise. “What?”

  “So, we got her name wrong before when we asked you if you slept with his daughter in college.” Sebastian slides his phone toward me, and I pick it up to get a closer look.

  I lay a hand over my mouth and stare in disbelief at the image in front of me. “This can’t be right. That’s impossible. This can’t be happening. This can’t be right.”

  “It’s possible if Heather’s parents met right after,” Sebastian informs me.

  I stare at the senior picture of Grace staring directly into the camera. Her smile is big and bright, her eyes are shining with life, and she looks happy. This isn’t the daughter of a mafia boss.

  “I never had sex with Grace. We kissed, but we decided we were better off as friends. How do you know this is his daughter? What makes you so sure?”

  “There are deposits to Grace’s mom, Heather’s mom, and I don’t know if it was hush money or what, but her mom put it into an account for Grace. The money has stopped. It stopped when Grace died.”

  I sway when the information crashes down on me and Owen grabs me before I tip over and sets me in the chair. “You okay?” he asks. “Do you need some water?”

  “No, I…uh…I’m wondering how one of my only friends growing up became a victim of her father’s rage. A father I bet she didn’t even know about.” The damn emotions tickle my eyes again, and I cover my face with my hands to hide. “Her being my friend killed her, didn’t it? Because of my father. He is involved in this
fucking mess somehow, isn’t he?”

  “It looks like he is in the middle, yes,” Sebastian confirms.

  Eleven

  Heather

  I don’t want to go to the ball. Nothing about this sounds appealing to me. Nothing about this life is appealing. We live in a bigger house, the kind of house my parents like to avoid because they believed the bigger the house, the more rooms that had to be cleaned. We don’t have to worry about that now, do we? We have a cleaning staff, butlers, drivers, and stylists.

  What happened while I was away? My parents suddenly stopped their morals and beliefs? For what? A home we can get lost in? I can guarantee I’m not going to explore half of this mansion. I’m disappointed and I shouldn’t be. My parents have worked hard for this kind of life. My dad has a successful chain of restaurants that made millions, what happened to those? I guess this is something I’ll never understand.

  I glance around my new bedroom and it’s bigger than our old living room, kitchen, and dining room combined. There are snow white beams connecting to the floor and ceiling. My bed is sitting in the middle of the room. A four-post canopy bed with a lilac canopy covering it and a down feather comforter.

  Next there is a vanity in the corner, nearly taking up the entire wall, and the mirror shows every angle, which is a girl’s worst nightmare. Combs, makeup, and perfumes galore. It’s overwhelming. I was taught we didn’t need this stuff, but now, it’s what my life revolves around. I walk toward the window, the only window in the room because apparently my parents think someone is going to climb the side of the house and break in to take me.

  If they had it their way, I bet I wouldn’t have windows at all so I can be safe in a cave. It isn’t a way to live.

  I don’t think this window opens now that I’m really looking at it. I run my fingers along the edges, seeking knobs, locks, or whatever else that can be considered an unlocking mechanism. My fingers rub along something circular and hard, metal maybe. I tug the curtain back so I can get a better view and notice that they are nails.

  My window is nailed shut.

  I lean my forehead against the cool glass and tap my fingers against it. I was kidnapped and taken prisoner, but did I leave one cell for another? Granted, one had ill intentions and I know my parents want what is best for me because they are worried, but I want to have a normal life again. I don’t want to feel trapped.

  “Ms. Thomas?” a woman with short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes tinged with silver opens the door with a soft knock.

  I don’t look away from the window. I stare out onto the gardens— yes, we have gardens now— and wish the sea roared in front of me. I miss the sound of the ocean churning, the seagulls chirping, and even Quinn’s babies crying at the top of their lungs. I miss Asher too, his kindness, the way the room’s energy changed whenever he was in it. I miss how I felt when he was near me. It was like he gave me strength to heal and gain perspective on life. I didn’t feel fear, I wanted to conquer the hurt inflicted upon me and hurt it in return.

  I felt strong, capable, and indestructible in the short amount of time I was with him.

  Now, I just feel useless.

  It’s been an entire month and all I can think about are the chances I didn’t take with him, the what ifs. All I had to do was hold back the truth and I think we would have been okay, but that isn’t fair to him.

  “Yes?” I answer her finally.

  “I have the gowns your mother ordered for the ball. She wanted you to try them on and see which one you like the most.”

  “Do I have to go?” I mumble so low that I know she can’t hear me.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas? I didn’t catch that,” she says.

  I turn around and give her the best, genuine smile I can. “I said, well, let’s go, then!”

  She reflects my grin, and she has adorable dimples on either side of her cheeks, giving her a young, innocent appearance. “Excellent.” She swings the French doors open as wide as the hinges allow and three carts of gowns are rolled into my room. All the stylists are women and drop dead gorgeous.

  I bet Asher would like them.

  They all have blonde hair tied into a high ponytail with long extensions. They are dressed in black pantsuits and stand on the right side of the cart, waiting for me to pick through the gowns. The blonde woman with cropped hair closes the doors and I sit on the bed, staring at the luxurious gowns. How the hell am I supposed to choose? There are too many. I don’t know. Hand me a black dress and let’s call it a day.

  I couldn’t care less about this right now, but the Ball is tonight.

  The first woman pulls out a few options for me. An emerald green dress, a navy blue, and a purple, but they are very ‘prom’ looking and I couldn’t stand my prom. “Do you have anything more elegant and less teenager? Sorry if that’s insulting,” I say, not wanting to get a hanger thrown at me for my honesty.

  “Of course, one moment.” She must be in charge because she catwalks to the last wrack with her long legs and stiletto heels. She pulls out a beautiful red and black gown. It has material of silk and a small train flowing in the back. The neckline is what I love. The lapels surrounding the breasts fan out in a beautiful bright cherry red then there is a black silk wrap that ties right underneath the cups.

  It’s beautiful, striking, and intense.

  The dress is almost rebellious which is exactly what I feel on the inside.

  “I would love to try that on. You’re good,” I praise her and stand, wanting to get a closer look at the material.

  “Well, it’s why I always bring options to my clients. Everyone’s taste is different,” she informs me, holding out the gown to me to examine.

  I can imagine being wrapped up in Asher’s arms in the middle of the ballroom floor, dancing to some stupid string quartet, but I bet I’d feel like I was dancing in the galaxy with how weightless he would make me feel.

  Empowerment surges in my veins as I slide my finger along the neckline. It won’t show my cleavage, which I like. I don’t want anyone to see my body.

  Unless it’s Asher.

  He’s the only one I can trust not to take advantage. He’s already proven that to me once when he took me out of the shower, naked, dripping wet, and he even tossed a towel over me.

  “Ms. Thomas, are you okay?” the runway model asks.

  “Sorry, I got lost in thought. Can I please try this on?”

  She beams, showing straight white teeth that are perfect just like the rest of her.

  Must be nice.

  “Matilda, Ariel, stay with me. Everyone else, please leave,” she orders and like good little foot soldiers, they exit in a single file line like robots.

  Well, they are trained, I’ll give her that.

  I don’t know which one is Matilda or Ariel since they both look so much alike. One slips off my shirt, and I was not ready for the quick move. I take a step back, my heart thumping, and the woman in charge holds up her hand, presses her lips in a firm line, and points to the door. “Matilda, out. I thought you could be trusted with the information I related to you about Ms. Thomas. Please, leave. Ariel and I can take it from here.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I forgot. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “Clearly,” the stylist says, cold as ice.

  Matilda hurries out the door, crying if I’m not mistaken, and I feel bad. Is she without a job?

  “I apologize for her thoughtlessness. Ariel and I will give you our backs to get undressed. Next, please, slip on the silk slip. When you are ready, just tell us, and we will assist you with the gown.”

  All of this for little old me? I feel guilty. “Thank you,” I tell them, and they spin around like they said they would, giving me the privacy I need.

  I’m healed now. The bruises are gone, the scratches are healed, and the only proof of my ordeal left are a few faint lines along my inner thigh and the emotional, mental trauma, but I’m getting through it. A therapist comes every other day, a woman of course, and helps me
through the nightmares I’ve been having.

  I’m not allowed to leave the house yet. My parents say it is for my best interest, but I know it is for theirs. What they don’t understand though, is I can’t heal if I’m not allowed space to regain my humanity.

  I’m getting better, slowly, but surely. The only thing I can’t stand is touch from someone I don’t know. A don’t shake hands, I don’t hug in greeting, I don’t like pats on the shoulder.

  Slipping off my jeans, I reach for the black slip hanging on the cart and step into the tight bodice. It sucks everything in, that’s for sure. Holy hell, how do they expect me to breathe?

  “Okay, I’m ready,” I say, sliding my arms through the skinny straps.

  When they turn around, Ariel unzips the gown delicately and the stylist, whose name I do not know, carefully lifts and slides it on over my head. Gravity takes its turn and the gown cascades down my body until it hits the floor. Ariel tugs the zipper up and the dress becomes snug, as if it was made just for me.

  Ariel and her boss walk around me and stand in the same stance, hands folded behind their backs and professional expressions on their faces. After sliding her eyes up and down my body, the runway model grins, pleased. “Oh, this dress is perfect for you. Come. You have to see,” she says, guiding me toward the full-length mirror on the right side of my bed.

  I gasp when I see myself. I run my hands down my waist and take a step closer to my reflection. I can’t believe what I see. The dress is prettier than I could have ever hoped for. It hugs me like a second skin, but it doesn’t reveal too much either. My legs are covered, besides the slit that comes right below the knee, it’s elegant, yet gives a dangerous vibe. The red flare of the lapels takes this gown to another level.

  “Are you okay? Is the dress not to your liking?” Ariel asks, fanning out the train more so I can get the full effect.

  That’s when I notice I’m crying, but these are tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of freedom. I feel beautiful again. I feel like a woman. “It’s everything,” I whisper. “You don’t understand how this makes me feel. Thank you,” I say, unable to look away from myself.