The Castle

by Skye Warren

  I collapse onto the hard marble, the coolness a relief to the fire in my body.

  He leans on top of me, pressing me down harder. It’s not an accident like this. It’s no mistake that he covers my body this way. It’s an animal signal, a message that I’m his—for any other male in the vicinity. And a message to me.

  I can’t argue the point, not when he teased my fantasy from me. Not when he used it against me so ruthlessly. What other things might he get me to admit? My stomach clenches.

  He’s getting too close. Some things should never be spoken aloud.

  My mother learned that lesson.

  I’m afraid history might repeat itself.

  “Checkmate,” I say, my voice hoarse.

  He stiffens. “What?”

  “The game. I won.” I sigh, almost sorry to have won now that I know what it means to him. Not sorry enough to take it back, though. “You have to let me out.”

  Chapter Four

  It’s hard to focus on the lecture streaming on my tablet when I know I get to go out tonight. This one is about Prodicus’s “The Choice of Heracles,” where Virtue and Vice represent the two sides of a woman. The popular view of Rome includes orgies in the public baths, but women of stature covered most of their faces. The veils symbolized modesty but also appear in scenes of seduction. That dichotomy portrays women as both demure and lustful, both submissive and destructive.

  There are two pages of scrawled notes by the time the professor gives us a reading assignment. In the past week I would have immediately opened my books, eager to begin. Today I bolt upstairs for the shower, determined to make the most of my brief foray outside.

  The soaps I use are imported from France, made from roses grown by the family farm. The scent makes me feel grown-up, alluring, so different from the strawberry shampoo I used at home or the discount body wash I had at the motel. I love it, but I also hate it—the way it feels like a dream. All my clothes, all my things. All the nights in bed with Gabriel Miller.

  I could wake up tomorrow, unable to return.

  My throat feels scratchy, a physical reminder of the nightmares.

  Wrapping myself in one of the oversize white towels, I pad across the warm tile to the closet. There are more clothes than I could ever wear. Elaborate gowns and comfy leggings.

  A sound from the hallway draws my attention. I gasp, pressing the towel to my damp skin.

  It’s only Mrs. B, her eyes averted, looking flushed and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” she says, out of breath. “This came for you earlier, but you were in the shower.”

  She holds a bag from a high-end department store, black with an emblem engraved on the side. She sets it down on the carpet and flees from the room as if it contains something dangerous. Snakes. Maybe a bomb. Instead I find an emerald-green sheath that will bring out the flecks in my hazel eyes. It fits my body like a second skin, perfectly smooth over my breasts, my waist, falling above my knees.

  I feel like an old-world actress, Audrey Hepburn if she had dirty blond hair. I use the hair dryer to fold in large curls, making my hair fall in waves. I add a swipe of ruby-red lipstick to complete the look.

  Little Avery James, all grown up.

  “Gorgeous,” comes the low murmur.

  I whirl to see Gabriel standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. How long has he been there?

  His expression is severe—the way it has been every time he returns, doing whatever dark things he has to while he searches for Jonathan Scott, the things he never quite explains.

  But his eyes are bright with hunger. “I want to take it off you.”

  He crosses the room, and I back up. It’s a natural reaction, done without thought—the movement of prey away from my predator. And for once I don’t want to be devoured. The prospect of going out is too appealing. “After dinner.”

  He prowls closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Not many people tell me no.”

  “I’m not saying no. I’m saying later.”

  A low laugh. “Not many people tell me that either.”

  I raise my chin. There’s only so long I can stay inside these walls. Even he knows that. I’m desperate enough to do anything. Even defy him. “Well, I’m telling you. And that’s final.”

  He grasps my hair and pulls. “I should make you go to dinner naked for speaking to me that way.”

  My stomach clenches. The worst part is that he could probably make me like it.

  There’s no middle ground with him. No compromise. It’s all or nothing. “No.”

  His hold tightens, dragging my head back, exposing my neck. Like the animal that he is, he lowers his mouth to my throat. The edges of his teeth drag over the tender skin. A whimper escapes me.

  “We’ll wait,” he murmurs. “Though you might regret it, in the end. When you fight, it only makes me harder. Rougher. And you’ll have to take it, however much it hurts.”

  Gabriel places a soft kiss at my collarbone before releasing me, his large hands smoothing my hair. “You have five minutes,” he says. “I’m going to make a phone call. Then we’re leaving.”

  He turns toward the door, giving me privacy.

  Leaving. The word echoes in my gut, half euphoria, half dread.

  Avery! Stay there! Whatever you do, stay inside!

  “We’ll be okay, right?”

  He stops and faces me. “What?”

  “You said we’ll be safe in the Den. But what about the restaurant where we’re having dinner?”

  A strange expression flickers over his face. Uncertainty? It’s such a foreign look for him. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him less than confident, less than commanding. “I’ll be with you.”

  Words catch in my throat. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but I’ve had my protector ripped away from me before.

  My father had seemed invincible once upon a time. And it’s the man standing in front of me who tore him down. I know better than to believe in any one person.

  The world is too ruthless for that kind of faith.

  Doubt must show on my face, because Gabriel takes a step closer.

  “Do you think I would let someone hurt you?” he asks softly.

  “I think you’re human.” Unlike the gods in my mythology books.

  Even Hercules was a demigod. People had to imagine beings stronger than them to combat the frailty of the human body. Gabriel doesn’t seem weak. He radiates strength, muscles compact over his body, the white silk of his shirt stretched taut over broad shoulders. He doesn’t seem weak, but that’s the nature of being mortal. Only flesh and blood.

  Even his powerful body wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade, against a bullet.

  He reaches for me, and I’m startled at how small my hand looks between his two large ones. I don’t consider myself a small woman, but I always feel delicate when Gabriel is near me. It must be the way he tempers his force, the mighty paws of a lion with a fragile butterfly perched on top.

  His eyes meet mine. “Ask me how many women I’ve brought here.”

  My mind shies away from the question. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He pushes my hand flat to his chest. I can feel the steady beat beneath my palm, the even rise and fall of his breath. “Ask how many.”

  And I know he doesn’t only mean his mansion. He means his heart. I’m more afraid of this answer, because it has the power to break me. More than what happened with my father. The world is too cold for this kind of hope. The words are barely a breath. “How many?”

  The look in his eyes singes me, burning hot. “One, little virgin. Only one woman ever broke down my walls. Only one woman ever had that power over me.”

  Emotion expands in my chest, filling every centimeter of space between my ribs, expanding outward. He only pretended that telling him no was a rebellion. I see that now. The true power I have is to tell him yes.

  Yes, I’ll stay with you. You can wrap your chains around me. I may fight you, but you can make me like it.

  My
fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close.

  That’s all he allows—one inch. He takes over the motion, sweeping down to my mouth, an urgent press, a possessive flick of his tongue. Then he’s kissing me, opening my mouth to him, holding me still for an urgent exploration. I feel claimed. I feel trapped. I feel safe.

  Every stroke of his tongue against mine pushes me deeper. Winds me tighter. Until I’m breathing harder, leaning toward him, a flower to the sun.

  He nips my bottom lip, and I make a small sound of surprise. His head lifts, revealing bronze eyes dark with hunger. I feel ravenous myself, ready to shed this dress. “Gabriel,” I gasp. “I need you.”

  He gives an unsteady laugh. “Later, little virgin. I promised to make you regret it, and I intend to deliver.”

  Chapter Five

  Yellow light spills onto the slick streets from the vaulted windows of the Oak Room. My favorite restaurant. Excitement strums my nerves. Except that’s not possible…

  The limo slows near the crush of Bentleys and Ferraris, the valet station bustling with gentlemen in tuxes and ladies in glittering gowns. It’s a place to see and be seen. We glide past the awning, golden light glancing across our window and then going dark.

  Curiosity spikes when we turn a corner into the alley.

  I glance at Gabriel, who’s watching me with dark eyes.

  We pull behind the restaurant, where two men in suits stand on either side of an open door. The limo slows to a stop, and the driver steps out, but he doesn’t open the back door. He’s a shadow at the side of the car, as if he’s waiting for a signal from inside.

  The back entrance. “They’re expecting us.”

  “I called before we left.”

  All this from a phone call. My father was lucky to get a reservation a week in advance. That was only due to his wealth and his reputation in the city—before the scandal. Some of my friends from prep school couldn’t get in at all. “This was my favorite restaurant. I used to come here with my dad.”

  His gaze is steady. “The shrimp cocktail.”

  Unease runs through me. I loved the giant martini glass it came in. It made me feel grown-up before I could order drinks. “I never saw you.”

  “Of course not.”

  My eyes narrow. “Then how did you know what I ate?”

  A low laugh. “Are you asking if I saw you in secret? If I had an arrangement with the proprietor to let me know when you had reservations?”

  I shiver. “Did you?”

  He brushes a thumb across my cheek. “Every time you felt a tickle on the back of your neck, I was there. Every time you felt eyes on you, they were mine. I stood in the shadows and watched you laugh, your smile like goddamn sunlight on my face after being buried alive.”

  Anger rushes from me, swift and comforting. “That’s not right.”

  “What makes you think I care what’s right?”

  Of course he doesn’t. “You’re keeping me safe. Why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  His hand shifts to my neck, long fingers gentle against my skin. “So bright. So beautiful. I used to wonder if it would burn to touch you.”

  A slight squeeze and I flinch. “Now you know. It doesn’t.”

  “Oh, little virgin. You definitely make me burn. And I’m addicted to being ash.”

  For one breathless moment his fist closes on my neck. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs ache. He leans close and nips my lips. I don’t feel the sensation of his teeth until he releases me and sits back, the sting sharpened with the sudden inhalation.

  I touch my lips. My hand comes away red. Blood. He made me bleed. And while part of me doesn’t fear him, the other part knows that I should. “Do you want me to be afraid of you?”

  He cocks his head. “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s how I’m keeping you safe.”

  I raise my chin, determined not to show him I’m shaking inside. “I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s a problem,” he growls. “It would be a mistake for you to trust me.”

  “I don’t,” I say, my hand up as if to ward him off.

  He keeps coming. There’s no space in the limo, no air left. Maybe we do burn, because we’ve used up all the oxygen. I’m gasping.

  “The way you looked at me,” he says. “Like we’re on a date. Like I’m courting you. Like maybe I’ll ask Mr. James for your hand in marriage, with a big wedding and a tall white cake.”

  “That’s not what I think,” I say, but it’s a lie—a horrible lie.

  “And you’re not completely wrong. I’m keeping you happy like feeding you treats through the bars of a cage, giving you a nice swing inside. Some colorful toys to play with.”

  “Stop it. You want to push me away? Fine. Consider me pushed. You don’t have to hurt my feelings.”

  “Yes, that would be contrary to my purposes. I prefer to keep you satisfied so that you’ll smile when I fuck your tight little pussy, so that you’ll hide your face when it hurts too much, bite your lip to keep from crying out. So you’ll let me hurt you.”

  “You’re sick,” I hiss.

  “Yes,” he says, reaching for me. “Sick. Deranged. Fucked in the head.”

  Animal instinct sends me scrambling out of his grasp.

  It’s fight-or-flight, and I already know how sharp his claws are. I pull the door handle, but it’s locked. How is it locked? I don’t have time to ponder the question, because his hand lands on my shoulder. That’s the only warning I have before his body cages mine.

  My hands scrabble uselessly at the soft leather interior, knees pressed into the plush cushions of the seat. Every wrench of my muscles only pushes me deeper into his grasp.

  Gabriel is impossibly hard behind me, around me, breath harsh against my shoulder. “Tell me I’m crazy.”

  The word vibrates in my throat, almost formed, not yet sound. It would be so easy to call him that, and God, I wouldn’t be wrong. What kind of man holds a woman down in the back of a limo?

  What kind of man keeps one safe by locking her in a tower?

  “I’m crazy,” I gasp instead, because I trust him. Against reason. Against instinct. He put his hand around my throat, but I didn’t believe he would hurt me.

  He groans, his hand moving the fabric of my dress. A warm caress up my thigh. A gentle nudge at the hem of my panties. A single swipe through the slickness at my center. “So hot.”

  And it doesn’t hurt, not even when his fingers find my clit, when he pinches the sensitive skin, making my hips buck. That’s when I feel his erection, hard and irrepressible beneath the fabric of his suit. It’s a brand against my hip, marking me as his. I’m possessed by him. Owned. As much an object as any woman of ancient Greece—because nothing ever changes, not really. The societies we build, the secrets we hide. Men and women. The gods themselves.

  He thrusts two fingers inside me, sudden and blunt. I whimper at the intrusion, the stretch of my tender flesh around his unforgiving entry. He licks the side of my neck. It could be soothing, but it inflames me instead. Then he bites down on my skin, and I know that’s what he intended. He wants me to burn as much as he does. It’s a kind of retribution, a punishment for turning him to ash.

  His fingers twist inside me, finding that secret spot, and I moan.

  As if he was waiting for that, he pulls away. My inner muscles clench around nothing.

  “Please. Please, Gabriel.”

  “That’s right. Beg me. That’s all I want to hear from you. Begging. Crying. I want you broken at my feet.”

  “You’re crazy,” I finally whisper, but what I really mean is: I’m crazy.

  My reward is his cock—large and hot at my entrance. “Again,” he says.

  I push back, fighting for him to fill me. His large hands hold my hips steady, as easily as if I’m a doll. He moves me when and where he wants me. And right now he wants me to suffer.

  “You’re crazy,” I say, and this time I mean it.


  He pushes inside me with a violence that pushes me against the inside door of the car. Cool curved glass presses against my cheek. The smooth wood and leather padding the door cradle my breasts. My sex pulses around his cock, shocked anew at the size of him, the width. He never gives me time to adjust—or maybe it’s not possible. Maybe he wants me small and tight, meant to stretch on every entry, to squeeze him with every twitch. Isn’t that why men want a virgin? So they can hurt us?

  I want you broken at my feet.

  “Harder,” I whisper, and I’m not sure who I’m saying it for—him or me. I’m not sure it matters. We’re the same being when he’s inside me. Moving toward one goal.

  He pulls back. There’s a brief moment of respite, a cold reminder of the space he’s claimed. Then he’s deep inside me, his invasion thorough, his cock pulsing in cruel pleasure. I release a pent-up sound of grief, but I don’t know whether I want him to stop or start again—whether I could go back to a time when he didn’t use me this way.

  My breath leaves a cloud on the window, transient proof of what we’re doing, the only mark we’re leaving on the world outside. Through the tinted glass I can still see the men in suits, standing at attention. Waiting. Guarding. They must know what’s happening inside.

  All of them answer to me.

  Gabriel speeds up, fucking me with rough intent, every thrust pushing me against the window, marring my makeup, loosening my hair, pushing my breasts from the confines of the twisted, bunched emerald fabric. As if every sparkle, every neat line stood as a taunt to Gabriel—a threat that he needs to subdue.

  He fucks me like I’m the enemy, like he can vanquish me. And maybe he can. He can invade my slick channel, forcing me to take him, giving friction and heat, pleasure and pain. It swirls ever higher, tighter, sharper—until I’m mindless on the end of his cock.