by Rina Kent
“Stop it.”
“That’s why you failed your rebirth, Aurora,” he continues as if I haven’t said a word. “You can’t be reborn if you still can’t get out of his shadow.”
“I am not in his shadow.”
“It looks that way, though. What did I tell you about how he’ll reappear? That he doesn’t like being forgotten. Are you that surprised he’s dragging you with him? It’s his way to retaliate for what you did eleven years ago, and if you keep giving him leverage, he won’t hesitate to use it against you.”
His words have the impact of a natural disaster. Sudden and wreaking. It’s not that I haven’t thought of it that way before, it’s that I always thought I’d escape my dad. That I don’t live in the shadow he cast over my life.
That’s why I changed everything we used to do together. I even dyed my hair blonde at some point, and I hate the blonde me. She was a coward and a thief who jumped from motel rooms.
“How about you?” My voice is steady but low in volume.
He pauses cutting an avocado. It’s been secretly becoming my favourite new food. “Me?”
“If I keep giving you leverage, won’t you also use it against me?”
“I don’t want to, but I will if you force me.”
“Me? Force you? You’re the one who’s forcing me right now.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” He shoves a piece of avocado in my mouth, shutting down my protest. “And I’m not forcing you. If I did, you wouldn’t have a choice, but you do.”
I swallow the piece, commemorating its taste to memory. Who knows if he’ll take this small luxury away? Jonathan enforces the most sadistic type of cruelty. He makes you get used to things, then snatches them away as if they never existed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night?”
“I’m well aware of who and what I am. I don’t have to delude myself, Aurora. You do.”
“W-what?”
“You’ve been squirming and rubbing your thighs since I sat beside you. It doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you don’t want me or you don’t want to get out of this situation. You and I both know your body doesn’t lie.”
“That is not true.” I’m thankful my voice doesn’t betray me.
Jonathan tilts his head, and I expect him to try and prove me wrong like he always does.
Pushing my buttons and cementing his supremacy is one of his control-freak methods that he doesn’t hesitate to use.
So I’m surprised when he stands. “Follow me.”
“To where?”
“Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again?”
I jerk up, not wanting to feel whatever the hell I did when he spanked my arse earlier.
He steps into the bathroom, and I stop at the threshold.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks in a clipped voice, his nostrils flaring.
“Why are we here?”
He reaches into the cabinet and retrieves another first aid kit. Now that I think about it, he seems to have those everywhere. Almost like he’s expecting to injure himself in every room he walks in. Which is weird, considering that Jonathan is far from being the clumsy type.
He retrieves something from the box and closes it. “You need to shower.”
“I can do that on my own.”
“Not with your injuries.”
Before I can protest, he appears in front of me and wraps what seems like a plastic waterproof bandage around both my palms.
He then kneels and I’m momentarily stunned by the fact that Jonathan is willingly kneeling at my feet. It’s a sight I never thought I’d witness in my lifetime.
His fingers strap a similar plastic thingie around my knee. I resist the urge to close my eyes as his skin lingers on mine for a second too long.
Then he runs the water in the bath, and I remain there, torn between escaping back to the room and having him chase me — and inevitably ruining whatever gentle side he’s showing — and staying there.
He pours the bath product, the apple-scented one, and the smell fills the bathroom’s space.
When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he lets the water run. He faces me as he removes his jacket and tie, hangs them on the towel hanger, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt to above his elbows.
He’s barely showing any skin, but watching him revealing his arms is like a porn show all on its own. The only reason I don’t look away is because I refuse to lose my ground.
Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
“Remove the nightgown.”
I lift my chin up and don’t comply. If I follow his order, it’ll feel like I’m agreeing to whatever madness he’s planning.
“If you want something done, do it yourself.”
“What did I say about that attitude, Aurora?”
I huff, but the sound soon vanishes when he grabs the straps, his fingers gliding over my skin along with them as he lowers them down my body.
Staring at a fixed point in the bathroom, I pretend my flesh isn’t tingling and my face isn’t heating with the mere effect of his presence.
Soon enough, the nightgown pools at my feet. His gaze slides down my nakedness as if it’s the first time he’s seen me.
His fingers stroke over my scar and the tattoo, and something in his eyes and the way his lashes flutter against his cheek tells me he knows exactly how I got it.
The weight of his attention on that part of me is like reliving the time when I struggled to move from one corner to the other to get to the pharmacy, buy medicine, and suture the wound.
It was a mess, but I managed to close it. However, when it became worse, not better, I didn’t have someone like him to tend to it, and I was so clueless about self-care back then.
“You closed it yourself.” His thumb slides across the skin with a deceptive tenderness. “You had an infection, too. It must’ve hurt. You must’ve been feverish.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“It’s the same attacker, isn’t it?” His attention drifts from my scar to my face.
The way he’s looking at me, that focus, and the anger that…somehow doesn’t seem to be directed at me, overthrows me.
I push him away and storm to the tub. In my haste to get inside and hide my scar and the tattoo, I slip.
My shriek fills the bathroom, but instead of hitting my head against the edge, I’m held steady by a strong hand.
“Easy.” The tenor of his voice is that of care.
No. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.
I flop under the bubbles, hiding my nakedness from sight. The water is cool on my skin, not too hot and not too cold. It’s the perfect temperature — as usual.
Jonathan is silent as he retrieves the apple-scented shampoo and pours it on my head.
I try to zone out, but the way his fingers glide through my hair in slow, measured strokes robs me of my breath.
He doesn’t even seem bothered by the stubborn knots at the back of my head. Since my hair is long, I always have the hardest time washing it.
Yet he takes his time with the knots, one by one, until my hair falls smoothly to my back. He holds it above the water as he rinses it, then ties it at the top.
Jonathan isn’t the type to show tenderness, so it’s definitely not to be taken for granted when he does.
But now that he’s doing this under these circumstances, I don’t know how to react. Is this a ploy? A game?
He grabs the sponge and uses it to lather my body. He doesn’t linger on my nipples and barely touches me between my legs. His only intent seems to be to bathe me. That’s all. I’m the one who struggles not to close my thighs when his fingers trail down my stomach.
The bath is finished way too soon, and he rinses me, stands me up, then wraps me in a fresh, soft towel.
It’s too harsh against my heated skin. He might’ve not touched me in a sexual way, but my
body has already gotten the signals. My nipples are hard and pointy, and my core keeps freaking pulsing.
Stop it, damn you.
As he dries me, Jonathan takes his time running the towel against my aching nipples. I nearly topple over as I swallow the moans trying to slip through.
The spark in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is doing it on purpose.
“You’ll talk, Aurora. If I have to use your body against you, I will.”
9
Jonathan
If you want something done, you should get your hands dirty.
I don’t do that — usually. I have no problem crushing people with lawful methods. I even like seeing them struggle to turn the law to their favour and fail.
The law stands with the strongest. And in this world, that’s me.
However, when lawful methods don’t work, it’s time to go to the other side of the wall.
Harris has been coming up blank with the identity of Aurora’s attacker, even by using the intel given to him by our top-notch security company.
Since the law-abiding security team didn’t bring anything, I find myself at the Rhodes estate.
The duke of the house, Tristan Rhodes, has agreed to my offer, as he should, considering I gave him a discount I wouldn’t present to anyone else. His family is returning to business in the near future and he needs any push he can get in the right direction.
I’m willing to enter a profitable partnership with him for what he’ll give me in return.
As Moses drives down the long, undulated road, Harris watches out the window, his calculative gaze lingering on the countless security guards stationed in each corner covering almost every surface of the property. Their grim faces and the metal glinting from their sides hint at the damage they can cause if they choose to attack.
“This is like a crime lord’s house, not a duke’s.” Harris faces me, his tablet lying on his lap for the first time in…well, ever. “Maybe we should consider other ways.”
“Its similarity with a crime lord’s residence is what makes it useful. I will not waste more time.”
The man who fucking stabbed Aurora will be brought to his knees in front of her sooner rather than later.
Harris scrolls through his tablet. “Okay, let’s go through the information we have one more time. Tristan and his cousin, Aaron Rhodes, are the only remaining members of the once-powerful Rhodes family. They spent most of their childhood and teenage years in a boarding school after a fire that wiped out the rest of their family, but there are rumours.”
“That they were betrayed and the fire was instigated. That information is going viral in the aristocratic community. Many say that Tristan and Aaron are back for revenge.”
“Correct, but I’ve been doing some more digging and…” He lifts his head and readjusts his glasses with his index and middle finger. “It’s rumoured that they’re trained in combat, which shouldn’t be the case since they’ve never been in the military.”
“Perfect. That means Tristan knows the people I need and won’t waste my time.”
“It means they’re dangerous, sir. Doing business with them is one thing, but getting involved in their secret lives is an entirely different territory.”
“If it gets me what I want, I don’t mind.”
“How about your principle of not taking risky decisions?”
“Risky decisions need to be made sometimes for better opportunities. Besides, Tristan is a businessman before anything else. He knows how to speak the language of profit.”
The car comes to a halt, and I step out, buttoning my jacket.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been here, but I usually come to the Rhodes estate with either guests or Ethan’s unwelcome presence to conclude business deals.
A security man motions at me to go into the northern wing. There are four wings in the estate, and Tristan always welcomes his guests in this one.
The other wings sit majestically in the distance — eastern, western, and southern — forming a massive rectangular shape. Despite the effort Tristan and Aaron have spent in turning this place into what resembles a palace, there’s a certain haunting quality to the Rhodes estate.
It’s probably because of the fire and the number of people who lost their lives in it.
It reeks of death; I can smell it no matter how many flowers and perfumes are used to mask it.
A statue of a knight on a black horse sits majestically in the middle of the reception hall. Another statue, a black jaguar with blue gems as eyes, stares down his nose at me.
That’s another weird quirk of the Rhodes’. They actually raise live jaguars as pets.
I follow the security man up the sweeping marble stairs until we reach Tristan’s office. He stops, straightening as if he needs to be presentable for the task, before he knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Tristan’s levelled voice reaches us from the inside.
The buff man opens the door and nods at me to go in. As soon as I enter, the door closes. I have no doubt the security team member will stay in front of the office in case I pose a threat to his employer.
Not that I would. He’s an ally, and I take good care of my allies.
Tristan isn’t behind his large desk. He’s casually sitting in the lounge area, reading from a newspaper. He’s wearing a dark blue striped suit. Italian. Interesting. Nobles usually prefer English cut suits, but Tristan is an exception to his title in many ways.
He and his cousin have black hair and dark eyes that differentiates them in a crowd. Although Tristan is in his mid-thirties, he has the mind of someone much older. The most fascinating part is that he doesn’t like to show it — almost as if he’s living a secret life, as Harris suggested.
Upon my arrival, he neatly folds the newspaper and slides it onto the table, showcasing his family crest ring that rests on his index finger. Taking his time, he stands up and buttons his jacket. “Jonathan, welcome.”
I take his hand in a firm handshake. “Your Grace.”
“We’re past the titles’ nonsense. Tristan is enough.” He motions at the chesterfield sofa across from him. “Please.”
I unbutton my jacket and sit down, acutely noticing that the contact he said would be waiting for me isn’t here.
“Do you want anything to drink?”
My gaze discreetly takes in my surroundings, so I commemorate details in case there’s a need for an escape plan. I might consider Tristan an ally, but I never allow myself to get too comfortable. “I’ll take cognac on ice.”
“Excellent choice.” He strides across to his minibar and pours us both a drink. And while I know he prefers scotch, he returns with two cognacs.
That’s a good tactic to show how open-minded he is, and to put me at ease in return. Only, I never leave myself unprotected.
He pauses near the open balcony that’s directly opposite me before he settles across from me. Well, well…
“Have I shown up early?” I take a sip of my drink.
“No, not at all. Perfect timing as usual, Jonathan.” Cradling the drink in his hand, he leans his elbows on his knees. “I just thought we could talk about your needs before I put you in contact with my man.”
“I need someone to be found.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I sense how his mind is calculating. He’s a bit like me in how he masters which emotions to show and which to keep buried. “We’ll need more than that. Background?”
“Not much, except that he must’ve lived in Leeds or North Yorkshire for a while, or he could’ve visited them often.” After all, Moses lost all trace of him because he knew the area more than Moses did.
“How about your reason for wanting to find him?” He motions at my neck. “Does it have to do with that?”
The scratch Aurora left on my neck. It was like a cornered kitten trying to find a way out.
“Could be.”
“And?”
“Is knowing the reason necessary?”
“I’m afraid, yes, Jonathan. Let’s just say my man doesn’t like —” he makes air quotes “— ‘boring’ missions.
“It’s related to Maxim Griffin’s murders.” That’s all he needs to know.
Tristan raises a brow, appearing impressed. “That’s certainly not boring.”
“I assume you’ve heard about Maxim.”
“Who hasn’t? Let’s just say he’s weak for choosing helpless victims.”
“I’m in.” The voice reaches me before a man saunters in from the balcony. I figured someone was out there, but I thought it could be one of Tristan’s endless security folk.
The man standing in front of me has a sophisticated aura about him. He’s wearing a designer shirt and trousers. No jacket or tie — which means he’s not a businessman but likes elegance. His hair is styled, and his features are sharp but not in a criminal kind of way, more like how models look. He’s certainly not what I expected from what Tristan said about him.
According to the duke, this man was a key player in the Russian mafia in New York. What I found impressive about his background is the fact that he killed for a living for a long time and his speciality is tracking and finding.
His face is definitely not what I had in mind. I thought I would find a buff man with mean, angular features.
He’s certainly not that. Moreover, he appears to be younger than Tristan, barely in his early thirties. The only thing that hints at his true nature is the sparkling in his light blue eyes. Mentioning Maxim’s name is a deal sealer for him.
Killers and their need to outsmart each other is a translation of their egos. They like knowing they’re the smartest and strongest alive.
It’s something I’ll use to my complete advantage.
“Jonathan, this is Kyle.” Tristan motions at him. “An old associate of mine.”
“Associate?” Kyle scoffs. His accent is standard English, but there’s something in its undertone that I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s like he learnt to speak that way but had to shed another accent. A northerner, perhaps? Scottish? Irish? “Stop the nonsense and tell him we used to kill together.”
