by Rie Warren
I wondered what she—he—looked like without the complete colorful regalia.
As if reading my mind, Bunny popped a pose with one hand perched on a hip and sassed, “Oh, honey. Put me in a three-piece suit with French cuffs, and I can still turn heads.”
Her exclamation brought a gurgle of laughter from me.
“Well, that sounds a might bit better.” She smiled. “The real name’s Paul, by the way.” She swanned toward the fridge. “But I don’t know why my momma insisted on such a god-awful boring name. Why couldn’t I have been a Demitri or Zander? Oooh, just something exotic instead of plain old Paul. Damn travesty if you ask me.”
I watched as . . . she . . . puttered around, the picture of domesticity . . . in a long sequined dress.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to think of you as Bunny or Paul right now.”
“You mean as a she or a he?”
I nodded.
“Oh, hon. I ain’t that fussy. But I will cut a judgy bastard.” She delivered the sinister comment with a sly grin. “Anywho, I’m not here to edumacate you. Just want to feed you up some.”
She poured a tall glass of milk, wrinkling her nose, and then a tall glass of wine, which she quickly polished off.
“And what have we here? Girl, I know all about your penchant for chocolate. I think we have a winner.” Swinging from the fridge, she held two Saran Wrap covered plates of dark chocolate cake.
She delivered a bottle of wine, the two portions of cake, and a glass of milk to the table. Plunking across from me, she slid the milk toward me and cut into her cake.
She took one mouthful and made a swooning gesture.
I hesitantly brought a forkful to my mouth, and had to agree.
“Chocolate just makes everything better.” With an arched brow, she added, “And wine.” Wagging a finger at me, she admonished, “But only milk for the momma-to-be. And please promise me the kid won’t be called Paul or—lord—Bobby. Gag.”
“And definitely not John,” I added to which she barked a husky laugh.
“No, no Johns. And not Roark either. The pig.” Her eyes hardened to chips of diamond, and I stared with a forkful half raised to my mouth.
Using one dainty fingertip, she wiped a nonexistent smudge of wine from her glossy lips.
Then she shoved her plate aside and leaned on both elbows toward me. “Listen, sugar, I’m not as vacuous as I make it seem.”
I was beginning to find out.
“And I’m not strictly hanging around here for the money.” She rested her hand on mine, garish orange acrylic nails and all. “I’m going to help any way I can.”
Those damnable tears made spikes of my eyelashes again and, without skipping a beat, Bunny pushed a napkin at me.
“Now get the rest of that cake in your mouth and keep your head up. One way or t’other we’re gonna get this baby born healthy.”
With an appreciative murmur, she sat back as I drank the milk and finished my cake.
“Mistress Bunny reckons that gawgeous Killian Slade of yours is in your corner too.”
So perhaps she was another unlikely ally.
Or a spy.
At least there were no recriminations from Roark. Not that night, anyway.
****
Nearly a week had passed, bringing the usual nights with Roark as always, but he was done with trying to cajole any sort of arousal from me.
He didn’t seek further retribution for my bad behavior in front of his wife, and that alone should’ve made me suspicious.
Then one day, he just showed up midmorning while I was dressing, and I hurried into the rest of my clothes.
The very few times he’d come to me during the day hadn’t been for sex.
And I dreaded another episode with his wife, the Doctor Frankenstein of OBs.
“Get a move on, Gracie. We’re going out.” Continually raking his hands through his rooster-hair and tugging on his shirt cuffs, he wore an impatient scowl.
Exasperation whirled off him like frosty flurries in a snowstorm.
He hustled me down the stairs, practically bounding off the last step and yanking me along.
When Bunny—Paul—looked up from her propped fist, Roark stopped just long enough to fire off a curt, cryptic command:
“You don’t let anybody in here until opening time. You understand me?”
Outside, he didn’t let up. “Hurry the hell up.”
His grasp on my wrist bit into my skin.
I’d never seen him so frazzled before, which was unsettling to say the least, but I couldn’t hold the spite from my tongue.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m almost five months pregnant. I’m not exactly light on my feet,” I scathed.
“Believe me. I’m well aware.”
Then I thought I heard him mutter beneath his breath something along the lines of, “Not for much longer though.”
His gaze skimmed up and down the street.
I thought I heard sirens wailing in the distance.
Nothing unusual about that in New Orleans, though.
Whisking me to his car, he sort of policeman-pushed my head down and forced me inside. Once behind the wheel, Roark peeled away from The House of Midnight as if it were the scene of a crime. Which, actually, it was.
“Where to this time?” I rubbed my bruised wrist. “Another trip to your wife, Doctor OB Bitch?”
I knew I’d promised I’d go along, play my role, but this was so out of the norm, and my fight or flight response had kicked in.
Killian wouldn’t want me to take any shit. I knew that much.
But he also wouldn’t want me to put my baby or my life in danger.
"Not quite." Roark slanted a cold cruel smile at me.
And as soon as he stopped at a junction, he snaked toward me.
He pinched my cheeks so hard the insides cut against my teeth from the pressure of his fingers. “You’ll keep that mouth of yours shut, or so help me god . . .”
The light turned green.
Someone honked behind him.
He threw the luxury vehicle into gear and pressed his foot down on the gas.
A barrage of dark-tinted SUVs passed us, blue and white lights spinning, heading . . . in the direction of the whorehouse?
True fear made a nauseated roll inside my stomach.
I craned around to watch the cavalcade of SUVs hurtle down the street, pulling in and out of traffic. A SWAT van followed.
No, two of them.
Then they disappeared from sight, and Roark’s car barreled on.
Days had passed.
Killian had come just once.
He didn’t tell me what was happening, or if anything was.
I didn’t know if his lack of information was meant to safeguard me, or if he’d just given up.
Killian will never give up.
I held that kernel of hope inside my heart while Roark squealed to a halt in front of a large modern house I didn’t recognize, had never seen before.
Manhandling me, he marched me toward the entrance.
“What are you doing? Where are we?” I struggled against his hold, my belly unsteadying me and making it impossible to fight with any real strength.
Hand clamped over my mouth, he hissed in my ear. “One more word, and I’ll dash your brains out on the pavement right here, and baby won’t last long then, will he? Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Swallowing my rising gorge, I suddenly thought: this then is when I’ll die.
But it didn’t matter about me.
The only thing that mattered in all this hatefulness was the baby.
Cupping a hand below my belly, I breathed in staggered breaths when Roark freed my mouth to unlock the front door.
“In.” Pushing me sharply, he knocked my feet over the threshold.
I almost went sprawling.
He hauled me back to him by the scuff of my neck.
Door kicked closed, he poked me forward.
Inward.
> Oh, no.
Framed photos of him and that bitch wife of his lined the walls.
His home?
Their home?
Why?
Prodding me until we entered a dark-paneled den, Roark stopped me in the middle of the room.
He faced me and dropped his overcoat.
For once he didn’t seem to care that the expensive coat slipped to the floor in a heap of wool.
In fact, his eyes held absolutely devilish flames.
And his smile—utterly fiendish—crawled into a sinister grin.
“You’re the goddamn leg-spreading cunt who got me into this mess, so I’m going to take it out on you, Gracie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I tried to back away, but he leashed a hand around my neck and squeezed until I saw white dots.
I clawed.
He squeezed harder.
“Please!” I gasped out.
Only then did he release me, chuckling when I buckled over to catch my breath.
“Please. I like that.” He drew me back upright and caressed the side of my face before making a fist of his hand. “It’s about time you fucking begged me.”
I’d beg.
I’d do anything to save my baby. My baby.
“What’s going on, Roark?” I tried to soften my tone, and he dropped his fist.
He ranged around the room in a wide path, hair standing up in crazy crests on his head. “What’s going on? You tell me. I brought you into my place of business. I made you part of my family. And you”—his finger shook in my direction—“you goddamned Jezebel. I should’ve let that Nazi Ned plug a bullet into your head instead of shelling out good money for your used-up twat.”
He spoke frenetically, like I’d never heard him before.
Unhinged.
Oh god.
This was worse. This was a million times worse than his cold and calculating attempts to master me.
“Killian. Fucking. Slade. That’s what this is about.” He cocked his head, and his rambling ceased.
Then Roark was on me!
With no regard for the baby, he slammed me against a wall. His mouth covered mine in a frenzied attack, his tongue trying to spear inside. I clamped my teeth closed until he pulled back with a nasty gleam in his eyes.
“You open that cock-holster I’m so fond of or I’m going to kick you right in the stomach.”
With that he drove down onto me, and I screamed into his widened mouth. Slavering over me, he sucked and bit at my neck while his hands crushed my breasts . . . and my breath clawed up in more yells.
He ripped my clothes off. All the way off until nothing was left but shreds of material.
Latching onto a nipple, he bit so hard he broke flesh.
Then he smiled at me with blood-tinged lips as he spread the gory mess across my breasts.
His hand stole down to the juncture of my thighs, and I squeezed them as tightly together as he’d squeezed my throat just minutes before.
Again with the feral grin, he just shrugged.
“I don’t need you wet this time, although it would be nicer for you.”
Tugging me after him with an unforgiving clasp on my wrists and threats menacing from his mouth, he pushed me down onto his desk. I landed on my back, a sharp jolt of pain lancing through me.
My belly rolled like a big bowl, and then Roark spat onto the globe of flesh. His fingers smeared his saliva around before drawing between my legs again.
“I’m beginning to like it when you fight me, Gracie.” With that, he hauled off his tie and his belt.
Swifter than I could react, he lashed my calves to the legs of the desk, leaving me spread and lying lengthwise on my back.
Distraught beyond mere terror, I looked for something—anything—I could get my hands on to use as a weapon.
“I don’t want this!” My shout howled up as I tried to rise.
“Well, you never really wanted it all those other times either, did you?” Hauling his trouser pants to his thighs, he revealed the repellant hardness of his prick. “Played me like a fool. No more, Gracie.”
He slapped a hand against my unguarded slit. “You either take my cock and pretend you enjoy it one last time or—”
“Or what? You’ll rape me again?” I hissed.
If I could just reach the paperweight by the top of my head, the crystal thing that had read Businessman of the Year.
But he grabbed the obelisk and threw it forcefully against the wall. The award smashed to smithereens just like all my hopes.
“Hmm.” He stood over me, stroking his cock. “Well, far be it for me to force a lady.”
Wait? What?
Roark tugged up his pants and closed the zipper.
Relief soared through me so fast and so sweetly I almost thanked him.
Thanked my captor.
Thanked my rapist.
He stood staring at me. Inspecting me. Sweating and breathing hard, he looked like a maniac.
Then he calmly smoothed down his hair so the crest of auburn almost resembled the usual shape. Until he almost looked sane.
Then he yanked down on the cuffs of his shirt.
And he said, “You don’t want to fuck this time? Fine. We’ll play it your way.”
With economical movements, he squatted down beside the desk.
When he rose again, he held a black medical bag.
He walked around me—surveying his property—to stop between my pinned-open thighs. Then he set the bag right there, opened the medical kit, and withdrew a scalpel.
You’re pregnant, but not for much longer.
Chapter Thirteen
SLADE
IT WAS FINALLY FUCKING D-Day.
Doomsday. For Roark Finnegan and a handful more flesh-traders, including the freak’s obstetrician wife.
Storm’s final words over the phone before go-time weren’t exactly heartening though.
He dropped his voice. “Oh, and Slade? Justice wanted me to warn you. You’ll probably find more pregnant women. Part of a whole underground adoption syndicate.”
Dread seized up my shoulders.
All the warrants had been filed care of Ambassador Lawless and Blaize. Justice, Storm, Walker . . . shit, the entire Force-Reckon crew had come solidly through. Hell, after today, I might even call those rogue operatives the dream team.
I’d barely had a chance to breathe let alone see Grace while prepping the takedown.
I’d hardly had a moment to sleep, but fuck sleep.
Didn’t need it anyway.
Just wished I’d been able to get a message to Grace.
Help is on the way.
Accompanied by Feds—not Staties or the local po-po because that fink Finnegan did have too many local connections within his political reach—I gripped the oh-shit bar of the blacked-out SUV in the lead. First stop: The House of Midnight.
Angel had wanted to accompany.
Lennox, Revenge, Saint, and Chase too.
But I’d been adamant.
This was a legal operation.
No stray bullets allowed.
Unless they came from my weapon and splintered straight into Roark’s T-zone.
It was fuck-this-shit-up time.
But the damn bulletproof vest itched, and I gained a lot of sideways glances regarding my KA-BAR AKA Veronica.
We hauled ass in a convoy, blazing sirens leading the way.
Cars swerved to avoid being plowed into, and those that didn’t move out of the way fast enough got a stiff middle finger from me.
“You okay, Slade?” Drake, the leader of the Feeb pack, laid a hand on my shoulder from the backseat.
“Fucking grand.” I pitted a toothpick between my lips, gnawing the end until the slim sliver frayed.
Just wanted Grace back in my arms.
Needed her safe.
Her and the baby.
“How long have you been on this op?” Drake asked.
“Wasn’t an op so much as a lone
mission ’til Lawless got all the puckered assholes in Washington to bend over and take one.”
“Lone wolf.”
“Somethin’ like that.” And I was done talking.
A car squealed past us, taking up half the road and heading in the opposite direction.
Asshole in a Bentley.
We stopped in a long line of black vehicles—SUVs, not the Harleys I was used to—right outside the cathouse.
As one, doors opened, shut, and we shuttled forward. Dressed in black from head to toe, we advanced with rifles punched to our shoulders.
“A lot of innocents in here. So don’t shoot shit up like it’s a carnival game, yeah?” I muttered into the mic attached to my ear and mouth.
“Roger.”
I took the lead, busting in through the door just as Mistress Bunny hopped back.
“Get the hell back and stay out of the way.” I spared her a cursory glance.
“Killian?” Her hands rose to the air, and she dropped down beside her podium.
Justice had emailed the entire layout of the building, including a basement I hadn’t known about, and we’d memorized the blueprints.
Spreading out in pairs, the rest silently searched the premises, which were quiet and restful midmorning.
I was the only one who went alone.
Lone wolf.
In search of one woman.
Taking the stairs stealthily—the steps I’d stomped up dozens of times before—I kept hearing call-backs over my earpiece.
“Clear.”
“Got one.”
“A few in the basement.”
“Scoping out the second floor.”
“First floor good. Slade, what you want done with . . .”
There was a break in the transmission while I waited.
Then the deep-voiced caller finished: “A certain Mistress Bunny? Should we put her in custody?”
I nearly snorted, imagining Bunny’s reply.
Pressing the button to cut over static, I said, “Keep her in the foyer. And don’t fucking insult her.”
I swung through the halls on the balls of my feet, opening doors, shuttling barely-clothed girls out and down the staircase.
How many times had I been here?
Seen them?
Done nothing?
Too many times to count.
At Grace’s room, I bent my ear against the door.
