Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

  As he pulses deep within my body.

  Damon.

  My king.

  23

  Damon

  I n prison, I learned never to let my guard down. Ace was my cellmate and mentor, and there were many who wanted me out of the way in the hopes of getting closer to him. I developed a sixth sense for danger, an eerie ringing in my ears just before an attempted attack.

  It is how I survived my years of incarceration. It is why I’ve thrived in the years since my release.

  My ears are ringing now.

  As I straighten my suit.

  As Aislinn smooths her skirt back over her thighs.

  As we regard each other silently, uncertainly.

  What we just did … it felt like more than sex. More than just a physical act.

  More.

  Aislinn Granville is supposed to be an entertaining diversion. A vice that won’t corrupt my body or mind.

  I am already corrupt. In this city, I am the goddamn king of corruption.

  But she is corrupting me further—in ways I didn’t expect and don’t want.

  It is not just pheromones that fill the air of this small room. I smell danger. It rolls off Aislinn in waves.

  Her nose twitches as if she senses it, too. “I can’t believe we just did that,” she says in a choked whisper, though there’s a sex-drugged softness to her features. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

  It takes a moment before I can respond. She has no idea that I’ve been waiting years to do that. “We’re two consenting adults. Why the hell not?”

  Her eyes blaze, but not with malice. Skepticism, maybe. Or uncertainty. She ignores my question. “I’m through here. I was just about to leave.”

  My shoulders lift in an intentionally casual shrug. I don’t want to let Aislinn know that I feel just as uncertain. That I’m reeling from what just happened, too. Unsteady on my own damned feet.

  Besides, I already want her again—and this time, I want to hear her scream my name. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Leave … together?” She shakes her head. “No. I have plans.”

  I frown. “Plans?”

  “Yes. And they don’t involve you. I’m going to see my mother.”

  My facial muscles reverse course as I tuck an errant strand behind Aislinn’s ear. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  * * *

  What the fuck was I thinking? Who the hell am I?

  I am not the kind of man women bring home to their mothers.

  Nor have I ever offered.

  Today I insisted.

  Aislinn is less than thrilled about it. In fact, my insistence has wiped the sex-drugged look right off her face. And I really fucking liked that look. Wouldn’t mind seeing it again and again and again. Morning, noon, and night.

  Pulling up in front of the Granville brownstone at the corner of Seventy-Third and Park Avenue, I scan the sidewalk before stepping aside and allowing Aislinn to get out of the car. Schooling my face into an impassive mask as the sharp spikes of Aislinn’s heels pummel the sidewalk in angry beats, I steal another glance her way.

  At least now I know what set off my internal alarm. This woman is a serious danger to my reputation. She has me wanting things I just don’t do. At all. Ever. With anyone.

  I’ve started making a list in my mind.

  Smile. Laugh. Sleep.

  That third one is the most troubling. Last night, I got into bed with Aislinn. Technically, not in. I hadn’t crawled beneath the covers … even though I had wanted to. Badly.

  Instead, I lay on top of them, keeping several feet between us. And I actually fell asleep like that … wondering what it would be like to curl myself around Aislinn’s naked body. To feel the lushness of her ass nestled between my hipbones, the tops of my thighs aligned with the backs of hers, her soft skin against me, her sweet scent everywhere.

  To feel the thud of my heart beating against the wing of Aislinn’s shoulder blade.

  To feel her hair waving against my face with each breath.

  To know Aislinn trusted me to keep her safe when she was at her most vulnerable.

  Safe.

  We’re walking up the stairs to her family’s townhouse when the word explodes in my brain like a pound of C4.

  To keep Aislinn safe—to honor the promise I made to Aislinn’s father on his deathbed—I must do more than keep her from the clutches of the Los Muertos cartel.

  I must keep her firmly at arm’s length.

  Close enough to protect Aislinn from the enemies Granville and Lytton have made. Far enough not to arouse the interest of my enemies.

  Last night, only cool, filtered air from the vent above my bed whispered across my face. Only the duvet pressed against my back, down-filled pillows cushioning my head. And there was a yawning, empty space between my arm and the soft rise and fall of Aislinn’s shrouded, sleeping body.

  She slept in spite of my presence, not because of it.

  But with every minute I spend in her company, she crawls deeper beneath my skin, threatening to open my tightly closed heart.

  The door swings inward, revealing a uniformed maid whose face lights up at the sight of Aislinn, almost distracting from the scar carved into her face. A jagged arc that extends from her temple, barely missing the corner of her eye, to her jaw and into her neck, ending just shy of her carotid artery. “Miss Aislinn.” The woman’s voice is lightly accented, breathless with joy.

  Aislinn steps over the threshold, her arms already opening. The two women embrace for a long moment before Aislinn pulls back, but only to look closely at the maid. “It’s so good to see you, Marisol. How are you?”

  “Good, good.”

  I can’t see Aislinn’s expression, but her voice is warm as she responds. “How is she today?”

  The woman hesitates only slightly before lifting her hand to turn it one way than the other. “But you will make her smile.” Noticing me by Aislinn’s side, she flinches and looks away.

  Aislinn squeezes her shoulder, glancing back to me. “This is …” She lowers her voice and switches to Spanish. “Un amigo.”

  Doubt radiates from her features. “Un amigo?”

  “A ló mejor. No estoy segura.”

  Her dark eyes flick back to me for the briefest of moments. “Y parece problemas.”

  I pretend not to understand a word they’ve said—that Aislinn isn’t sure I’m a friend and the woman she called Marisol thinks I look like trouble. “Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a bland almost-smile.

  After a shallow nod, Marisol takes off in the opposite direction. Aislinn follows, and I follow Aislinn.

  Until she stops abruptly after a few feet, spinning to face me. “My mother is not well. She’s fragile and I won’t have you upsetting her. I think you should wait outside. Or in the front room.”

  I frown. “I’m not going to hurt your mother.” Pain radiates from Aislinn’s petite frame, anguish swimming in her glassy eyes. “I won’t hurt her.”

  I stop short of offering my word. It doesn’t mean anything to her. Yet.

  She hesitates. I hold her gaze as a grandfather clock chimes the hour from somewhere in the house. As the bells fade away, Aislinn turns to walk into the next room. Her posture is rigid as I keep pace with her, but she doesn’t argue further.

  I pause at the doorway of a wood-paneled room. A couch and two chairs covered in a busy floral fabric are arranged on one side, a hospital bed positioned in front of the window on the other.

  “Hi, Mom.” Aislinn walks toward the woman seated in one of the upholstered chairs, a blanket wrapped around her frail body.

  The elder Granville wears her hair short, blonde mostly overtaken by shades of platinum and white. Both share the same delicate features. I’d noted the resemblance between Shannon Granville and her daughter in the past, of course. Now, seeing mother and daughter side by side, the similarity is startling.

  Except that Shannon Granville’s eyes are a pale green, and her gaze is hazy and
unfocused. She doesn’t turn her head when Aislinn greets her.

  “Mom?” Aislinn repeats, kneeling by the side of the chair. “It’s me. I stopped by to see you.”

  There is a tremor in Aislinn’s voice, a fearful anxiety I recognize all too well. Hoping for the best but preparing herself for the worst.

  She doesn’t know who will be waiting for her. Alzheimer’s has stolen so much of her mother.

  In my case, it wasn’t a disease that turned my mother into someone I didn’t recognize. It was a man.

  I clear my throat and walk into the room, resting a hand lightly on Aislinn’s shoulder. Hoping the gesture might offer some comfort. “Hello, Mrs. Granville.”

  At the sound of my voice, the woman’s neck arches back, her eyes snapping onto mine. A sense of foreboding churns in my gut as a flicker of recognition sparks to life in her expression.

  “This is Damon King, Mom.” There is a catch in the back of Aislinn’s throat as she adds, “He wanted to come with me today.”

  For a moment, neither of us say anything else.

  Until tears begin falling down Shannon Granville’s face. One after another, like drops of rain sliding down a windshield.

  Aislinn’s head swivels back and forth between her mother and me. “I think you should go. Please.”

  Shit. The last time I saw Shannon Granville was years ago. I never even told her my name, and she barely looked at my face. I followed her into a department store to deliver a letter from Ace. He was getting out of prison and wanted to see her one last time.

  If I thought there was a chance in hell she would have recognized me, all this time later and suffering from Alzheimer’s, I never would have come. I nod at Aislinn and turn, eager to leave.

  “Wait.” Shannon Granville’s voice is surprisingly strong and I freeze. “Do you—do you have another letter for me?”

  I would have ignored the question but Granville captures my wrist with her hand. Her fingers are cool, her skin smooth and paper-thin. “Don’t leave. Take me to him. Take me to my Ace.”

  Aislinn speaks up before I can respond. “Mom, who is Ace?”

  My mouth goes dry at the spark of curiosity lighting up Aislinn’s face.

  Her mother blinks several times, the urgent intensity of her expression draining away as she looks at her daughter. She releases her grip. “Ace?”

  “Yes, Mom. Who is Ace?”

  “I—” Those same fingers that were so firmly clasped around my wrist begin to pluck at the blanket stretched over her lap. “I don’t know who that is.”

  24

  Aislinn

  I ’m quiet as I slide into the car beside Damon. It is hard to watch my mother’s mind slip away from her. Away from reality.

  Could Ace be some kind of imaginary friend? Or is he a real person, someone I’ve never met?

  Or is this just a side effect of Alzheimer’s?

  I make a mental note to call her doctor, although I can’t escape the feeling that Ace is someone my mother doesn’t want me to know about. And Damon is connected to this Ace.

  My unsettled thoughts are interrupted by the husky timbre of Damon’s voice instructing his driver.

  I blink my surroundings into focus, turning toward him. “I want to go home, back to my own apartment.” I am a strange, uncomfortable mix of exhausted and agitated. And I’m about a minute from dissolving into the ugliest of ugly cries. I can’t let Damon King witness my breakdown, or the inevitable swollen, red-rimmed eyes and snotty nose. He can’t see me as weak. Not when I already feel so powerless with him.

  “Not yet, Aislinn.”

  Agitation overtakes exhaustion, zinging through my veins. My head whips back in Damon’s direction. “You’re a real piece of work. Do you feel good about intruding on my time with my mother? Did you learn anything to use against me?”

  His dark brows wing together, digging a ditch above his strong nose. “Is that why you think I came with you—opposition research?”

  “I don’t have a clue why you came with me today. Or, frankly, why you’re in my life at all.”

  Those beautiful lips of his press together as he reaches out to push a tendril of hair behind my ear, his fingers curving around my bare neck. “I’m here because I want to be.”

  The unexpected kindness shining from Damon’s eyes reduces the urge to stab him in the neck with the heel of my Louboutin. Not that it would work. I attempted death-by-stiletto once before, last night when I arrived at his apartment. And all I got for my effort was a broken heel. My voice shakes as I ask, “What about what I want?”

  “Tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”

  I pull away from him. I will not be treated like the octogenarian from the Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up commercial. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Before he can respond, the car comes to a stop and the door opens. I fume silently as we walk through the lobby, tension coiling through me like a ripcord. I know it will snap soon—it has to—and when it does, it will be messy.

  But at least I don’t feel like I’m going to drown in a flood of my own tears anymore.

  I come to a standstill right in front of the elevator, steeling myself against the firm press of King’s palm on the small of my back.

  His apartment is enormous, but the thought of being cooped up inside right now makes me feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag.

  There’s only one place I can think of that I have a chance of being alone. “I need to go back to the office.”

  One Hogan Place, the building that houses the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, is one of the safest places in the entire city. It might be the only place King will let me go.

  He looks at me with a displeased expression. “You quit, remember?”

  “I forgot something,” I shoot back.

  I’m lying. What I need is to get away from King. There is something about the way my mother reacted to King today that isn’t sitting right with me. And I need to find out more about this Ace, too.

  I stand still as King scrutinizes my expression, silently challenging him to deny my demand. The man doesn’t just look at me, he looks inside me, as if he has the power to read my thoughts. As if he really sees me.

  Maybe he does. Maybe it’s just another skill on his résumé.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” The word resounds through the quiet lobby like the blare of a trumpet.

  King’s frown deepens.

  I am desperate to take a breath that isn’t laced with Damon King’s scent. Take a step unhindered by his shadow.

  “Please.” I inject a beseeching note into my tone.

  King holds my gaze for another moment, then nods reluctantly at the armed men who now flank me wherever I go, like I’m truly royalty and not just the kind of pampered princess Damon believes me to be. “Don’t be long.”

  “I won’t,” I say on a relieved breath, quickly pivoting to turn back the way we came. I feel his eyes on me as I walk away, the burn of his stare penetrating through the clothes on my back.

  Exiting onto the sidewalk, I narrowly miss getting tangled up in the leashes of a dog walker. But I have two guard dogs of my own, and they hustle me into the artificially ventilated cocoon of King’s car.

  Behind darkly tinted windows I watch the German shepherds strut past and wonder, not for the first time, who King’s enemies are.

  The armed guards. The tight security. The protocol and precautions.

  No one needs to protect themselves against a nonexistent foe.

  This was all in place long before I came into the picture.

  Is it paranoia on King’s part?

  Or is he really in danger?

  Which begs another question …

  Who is stupid enough to go up against a man like Damon King?

  When I get back to my office, I automatically scan the far side of the floor, checking whether the lights are on in my father’s office. They’re not.

  But Chad’s are. I
come to an abrupt stop outside his open door. He glances up, his phone in hand. “Thought you’d left.”

  “I forgot something.” I glance at the men hulking behind me. Once they back up a few steps, I turn back to Chad. “Um, do you have a minute?”

  “I was just about to make a call. Can I join you when I’m through?”

  I swallow a groan. The last thing I want is to have a conversation with Chad in a room that probably still smells of sex. Intense, illicit sex—the kind I’ve never had with Chad. Deliciously dirty sex—the kind Chad probably isn’t capable of.

  “This will only take a minute,” I repeat, jumping in before he can put me off. “I just went to check on my mom, and she mentioned someone I’ve never heard before, a man named Ace?”

  Frowning, Chad sets his phone down on the desk and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Ace …?”

  I take a small step into his office, my hand resting on the doorknob although I don’t make any attempt to close it. “I have no idea. My mom mentioned the name earlier, and I wondered if you knew him. Maybe a friend of Dad’s?” Chad can smell power like a rat in search of cheese. I add, “Or someone in politics?”

  “The only Ace I know of is a former crime boss. One of the first cases your dad prosecuted as DA.”

  “Someone my father sent to jail?”

  Chad cocks his head to the side. “Kind of. Ace Byrne was already in prison. But he was up for parole and it looked like he was going to get out. Your father brought another charge, although I don’t remember the specifics. I think I heard something about Byrne being granted compassionate release a few years back.”

  I rub at the sudden tightness in my chest. My mother was hardly the type of woman to interact with jailed criminals. “I’m sure that’s not who my mother was referring to. If you think of anyone else,” I say, turning to leave, “let me know.”

  Chad springs out of his chair. “Next time you visit your mom, let me know. I’ll go with you, put in some face time.”

  A pang of hostility twists my stomach. “Face time?”

  Chad offers a one-shouldered shrug as if using both shoulders would be too much effort. “Yeah. It’s the right thing to do, don’t you think?”