Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

Damon King has made me a promise. A promise that feels a whole lot like a threat.

  I don’t like it, and I definitely don’t like him. But what I truly hate is the scrape of interest dragging over my skin like the sharp end of a needle. No painful pricks, no spilled blood. Just an uncomfortable awareness—a sensitivity, really. And a thrumming beneath, like my blood is being drawn to the surface, its slow boil a silent message meant for King.

  Come get me.

  Clearly, I was wrong to question the man’s sanity. Because it’s beyond obvious that only my own mental health is in doubt. I should not feel even the thinnest sliver of attraction to Damon King. The man is a savage dressed in a bespoke suit.

  A sinfully sexy savage.

  But a savage nonetheless.

  What would it be like to have sex with a man like Damon King?

  My self-loathing reaches a new low as my mind dips into the gutter King dominates. Surely, it wouldn’t be the straitlaced, polite, pleasant-with-a-chance-of-orgasm variety I’m accustomed to.

  I imagine—even though I shouldn’t—that sex with Damon King would be filthy, sweaty, break the bed, multi-orgasm, no holds—or holes—barred.

  Damn him.

  The shivers I’d managed to hold back finally race across my skin, zigzagging every which way, my nerve endings twanging in warning.

  King’s touch, even over my clothes, had them clamoring for more.

  Well, they aren’t going to get any more.

  Damon King can’t have me.

  Isn’t going to tame me.

  Because I won’t let him.

  I stumble to my sofa, collapsing into the thick cushions like half-set Jell-O.

  A far cry from the confident pose I’d assumed during my recent photo shoot for New York Magazine’s Thirty Under Thirty feature. Just last month, I was a rising star at the most prestigious and powerful political strategy consulting firm in the county.

  Just last month, I hadn’t been faking the self-assured stare I directed at the camera, certain I had life by the balls.

  Just last month, I had only heard Damon King’s name in hushed whispers, never imagining I would meet the man in person.

  And I couldn’t possibly have imagined how much I would want to feel his hands—

  Knock it off, Aislinn.

  Swallowing a snarl of frustration, I heave myself up and walk back down the hall. Cowering in my apartment isn’t going to get me the answers I want.

  My bathroom mirror is still slightly foggy from my shower, but it doesn’t prevent me from glaring at my reflection as I plug in my hairdryer.

  I’d hoped that working with my father might build our relationship. Well, rebuild. He had once doted on me, a long, long time ago. Before …

  I stop myself, unwilling to go down that road. It doesn’t matter what happened to change our relationship. He’s not the man I thought he was.

  After what I heard, he doesn’t deserve to be in office.

  But with my mother’s Alzheimer’s getting worse by the day, he will soon be the only family I have in the world.

  Can I be responsible for destroying his reputation? Can I be the reason he winds up in jail?

  I drag a brush through my hair, haphazardly waving the dryer around my head.

  All the while, a riot of emotions war for space inside my chest like streetwalkers fighting over a corner on the Lower East Side. Horror. Disgust. Confusion. Shame. And, as much as I don’t want to admit it—lust.

  The emotions zinging through my body aren’t the kind that can be expelled by a long run or a deep massage or a half-hearted attempt at meditation. What I crave is connection. Skin on skin. Tongues sliding, bodies writhing. How long has it been since I’ve had sex? I can’t remember. Months, at least. Chad isn’t the most exciting lover—not that I have much to compare him to—and our on-again, off-again relationship has been more off than on lately.

  I’m reaching for lip gloss when the echo of Chad’s voice assaults my ears. Crush Los Muertos and the election is yours.

  My stomach twists. Whatever crimes my father has committed, Chad is complicit, at the very least.

  Shit. Chad.

  Knowing him, he’ll be showing up at my door any minute.

  Although … Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing. At least he could try to talk some sense into King, since it’s obvious the man won’t listen to me.

  My mind rebels against the thought immediately. To hell with that. I don’t need anyone else to speak for me. I’ll make King listen myself.

  After retrieving my purse, I pick up my phone from the table King was sitting at earlier. The glass surface looks like it’s been strewn with confetti. I lean forward. On closer inspection, I realize it is a meticulously shredded leaf.

  Asshole.

  I tap out a quick text to Chad, telling him that we’ll have to talk another time, and walk to my front door with my head held high.

  Damon King might reign over Manhattan, but I will never bow to him.

  4

  Damon

  I don’t rule my kingdom as a democracy. I am a monarch. A general. A dictator—and not the benevolent kind.

  I wasn’t born to the crown.

  Nevertheless, I wear it well.

  Aislinn Granville is more than just a tribute from one of my subjects. She is a trophy. A prize.

  A woman worthy of becoming the Crown Jewel of an empire.

  My empire.

  I first saw her face on the wall of my prison cell. In that dark, dank place that reeked of body odor and brutality, her beauty was a fucking beacon. There were days when those photographs were the only thing that got me through.

  She was a girl back then. Her smile wide and beaming. Happy.

  Those pictures belonged to my cellmate.

  But that smile, I swear it was meant just for me.

  Bringing me back to the present, the silent tick of my Girard-Perregaux watch marks the passage of time.

  I’ve always known she was destined to be mine … one day.

  That day is today.

  An hour ago, Aislinn truly had no idea that her father is one of the most corrupt men this city has ever seen—and in a city like New York, that is saying a lot.

  Especially from a dark soul like me.

  Watching her try to make sense of a situation she has only the barest understanding of, even I felt a twinge of … something. Not guilt, or even empathy—those would require a conscience that had been destroyed a long time ago. A shard of sympathy, perhaps.

  When her door opens I push off the wall I’d been leaning against, choosing not to comment on the fact that Aislinn isn’t carrying anything besides a small purse. “Let’s go. My car is waiting downstairs.”

  She turns her key in the lock. “We need to get a few things straight. First, this isn’t a date. And second, if this is some kind of dirty trick, you’re going to regret it.”

  A low chuckle vibrates through my chest. Few men in this city would dare to answer my demands with anything other than some variation of Yes, sir. But Aislinn Granville, running on little more than adrenaline and obstinance, is a fighter.

  Fierce.

  Feisty.

  I like it.

  I am honor-bound to protect her, but when I said I would enjoy our time together—I meant it.

  And when I said she would enjoy it—I meant that, too.

  I have too many yes men and even more willing women in my life. Aislinn isn’t exactly a challenge, given that the end result is inevitable. But she will be a pleasant diversion.

  I am a sinner, that much is true. But a man who profits from the vices of others cannot afford to have ones of his own.

  I don’t take drugs or drink to excess. I don’t overindulge in foods that will clog my arteries or confuse my intestines with ingredients that shouldn’t be considered edible. I don’t gamble on any outcome I’m not certain of.

  But Aislinn Granville … she will be my vice. Until I’ve had my fill, that is. I don’t expect my intere
st will last long. Her lush body and quick temper are unexpectedly intriguing. For now.

  “One—I don’t date. And two—I’m the filthiest motherfucker you’ll ever meet, in ways you’ve never even imagined.”

  5

  Aislinn

  Motherfucker.

  How appropriately vile.

  The anger that has been simmering in my belly erupts into a full boil. I don’t even know who to be most angry with right now. My father exploited his position for his own gain rather than the good of the city. Chad hid my father’s dirty dealings from me. And King has made this horrible situation immeasurably worse.

  Growing up around politics, I’ve seen many men forced to leave office in disgrace. Spitzer and Weiner are among the most infamous, though they certainly haven’t cornered the market on tawdry sex scandals.

  But this—a district attorney extorting international crime syndicates for money and votes—will be front-page news. National news. There’s no coming back from a story like this one.

  The kind of story that will end with my father in jail, our family name ruined.

  And, if I believe Damon King, I’m in danger, too.

  The man’s audacity is infuriating. Who the hell does he think he is?

  I don’t have to wonder. He was quite clear.

  The filthiest motherfucker you’ll ever meet, in ways you’ve never even imagined.

  I choke on Damon’s own words, even as I force myself to ignore the throbbing between my thighs.

  Walking through the lobby, I feel like a lamb following a wolf to his slaughterhouse. But I don’t intend to stay long.

  Once he tells me what I need to know—if I believe him—I can figure out my own security. Which is why my overnight bag is still in my closet, unpacked.

  My body might want Damon King, but I sure as hell don’t need him.

  A driver stands by the side of the waiting car. The polite smile I offer isn’t returned. Inside, Damon scrolls through his phone, not paying any attention to me. A circumstance I should appreciate. But all I can think is, Seriously? Why couldn’t I could have stayed in my own apartment and locked the door?

  I take pride in my ability to handle stress well. Publicly, I have a high-stress job. Privately, I work with domestic violence victims to escape their abusers.

  But this amount exceeds even my tolerance level. Since being summoned to my father’s office earlier, stress has painted my skin like wet clay, hardening into a plaster with each passing minute.

  “So, tell me more about this threat.”

  Damon barely looks up. “We’re just a few blocks away from my apartment. We’ll discuss it there.”

  Part of me wants a confrontation with King. An opportunity to let go of the anger and anxiety that has been building inside of me, a release valve for the pressure inside my chest.

  But is it really necessary?

  Perching at the edge of the seat, I extend my hand to the door, keeping my eyes straight ahead as I feel for the door handle. What if King is bluffing?

  I could get out of this car right now, blend into the ever-present Manhattan crowds. I’d go see my father, or maybe just Chad. We would figure a way out of this situation that didn’t involve striking a deal with a savage.

  A savage otherwise known as Damon King.

  He can’t be as powerful as rumors have led me to believe.

  Even better, I could hibernate in my apartment for a few days, let this blow over, and then update my LinkedIn profile and get a new job. Or return to my old one. My firm made it clear I would be welcomed back in a heartbeat.

  My fingers close over the handle, my heart racing as we breeze through green light after green light. All I need is one red. Just one, and I’ll open the door and dedicate my life to overthrowing the king.

  Green light. Green light. Green—

  The cab in front of us slams on his brakes to pick up a fare, our driver following suit with a muffled curse. We screech to a stop just as the light turns red.

  Mentally preparing myself for a sprint through the streets of Manhattan followed by a headfirst dive into a dumpster while I wait for King’s footsteps chasing me to blow by and then fade into the distance, I yank at the handle and throw my weight against the door.

  I can do this.

  I will do this.

  Damon King, you’ve met your match.

  In the split second before the handle engages, there is a quiet click. The door doesn’t open, and my shoulder slams into the tinted window. Hard.

  I grunt at the explosion of pain, my fingers scratching at the door, looking for a way to disengage the lock.

  There. A chrome button set into the polished wood panel. I depress it and … nothing.

  No click.

  No escape.

  The car begins moving again. I drop my hands into my lap and send an angry glare at the driver. His face remains forward, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviators, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just the slightest bit.

  From beside me, King coughs. A cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

  Damn him.

  6

  Damon

  A islinn Granville reminds me of her father, and I don’t mean the man who raised her.

  There is a fire inside of her, a passion I find both seductive and intriguing. So much energy contained within her slender curves and elegantly arranged features. So much light in the mane that flows over her shoulders, an undulating river of gold and platinum and honey and bronze.

  Aislinn strides into the elevator, her posture as regal as a queen despite eyes that bounce over every surface, as if seeking out possible avenues of escape.

  Of course, there are none.

  A fact that has a pleased smile cracking my normally stoic expression. Again.

  I lead her through my foyer and into a sitting room, her sharp heels striking marble with each step. Tap. Tap. Tap. Aislinn surveys the room quickly, then heads immediately to the bank of windows lining the far wall and stares outside.

  It’s a habit of hers, I’ve noticed. Like a princess trapped in a castle, looking down at the kingdom she reigns over but doesn’t inhabit. I want her to turn around so I can see the expression on her face. Would I see yearning? Or perhaps bitterness?

  What is she thinking?

  Shaking off the curiosity, I take a deep, satisfying inhale.

  After all these years, I finally have what I’ve wanted. What I’ve craved and coveted. Her.

  Aislinn Granville is mine.

  For now.

  I can no more keep her here than bring a lion home from the zoo. Despite sharing the same city, Aislinn and I are geographically incompatible.

  My world is an unforgiving habitat for anyone guided by a moral compass.

  I step just inside the room and Aislinn spins around as if she feels my breath on her neck. “Well, I’m here—and you have a lot of explaining to do,” she snaps, her cheeks tinged pink and her eyes blazing like twin blue flames burning into me.

  I ignore her complaint and walk to the bar in the corner, automatically listening for the muted beep of the alarm system as the door closes behind me. “Would you like a drink?” My apartment is a fortress. Aislinn will be safe here. I can finally take a deep breath and indulge in a whiskey.

  “So you can drug me and have your way with me while I’m unconscious?” A shiver of revulsion shakes her narrow frame, and she cups a hand over her right shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

  Lead crystal glasses untouched, I cross the room until I’m standing less than a foot away from Aislinn. Who needs liquor—I’m buzzed from the intensity of her indignation, intoxicated by the glossy blonde waves cascading down her back and the honeyed scent clinging to her smooth skin.

  She smells like she’s spent the morning making baklava at the Greek bakery around the corner. And I’m desperate for a taste.

  “Is that what you’re worried about? That I’d deprive you of the pleasure of my cock by knocking you out beforehand?�
� Adrenaline slicks my veins like gasoline shimmering from the surface of a puddle. Even so, my movements are smooth, controlled.

  I reach for a curled tendril that has floated over her shoulder, my knuckles grazing her breast as I pull the lock straight and release it, watching it bounce back up at the same time as Aislinn’s chest expands with a gulped inhale. An unfamiliar swell of compassion softens my stare. “Even I’m not that cruel.”

  She attempts a step back, but her heel only bangs against the baseboard, the wall of windows preventing her from increasing the distance between us.

  I extend my arms outward to grip the window molding, effectively caging her within my reach.

  Despite the tremble that shook her a moment ago, she doesn’t shrink from my stare. “Something tells me that not even you understand the depths of your cruelty. Although I didn’t expect you to be quite so smug. Are you sure you aren’t overcompensating for something?”

  I am pricked by the daggers shining from her glare, each point of inflection allowing the momentary compassion I felt earlier to drain away, making room for Aislinn’s agitation to slip beneath my skin. “Quite sure. I’ll let you be the judge.”

  “Fantastic. A not-so-subtle hint that you expect me to sleep with you.” Her words are toxic bombs of disdain, thrown at me out of fear. “Tell me, do I have a say in the matter? Or will you just take what you want from me, no consent required?”

  I should want Aislinn to be scared of me. Terrified, in fact. Fear is powerful, motivating. A weapon that prevents wars.

  But I don’t need to kiss Aislinn to know I won’t like the taste of fear on her tongue.

  I adjust my stance so that my knee prods the space between her thighs. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, but the material gives in to the pressure and I can feel her heat against my leg. “Are you trying to insult me? Unwilling women are of no interest to me. In fact, I much prefer to make them beg.”

  There’s the slightest catch in the back of her throat. “I’m not begging you for a damn thing.”

  “Why are you here, Aislinn?”

  “You gave me no choice—”

  “There is always a choice. And you chose to come.” On the last word of the double entendre, I shift my weight forward. Aislinn’s hips instinctively roll against the friction, her front teeth sinking into the perfect pout of her lower lip.