Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

  She nods. “Consider it done.”

  When I first met Finley years ago, I didn’t expect her to accept her father’s wish that I take over his organization. But we work well together. I respect her, and as it turns out, being second-in-command is as much responsibility as she wants to have.

  Once I’m alone in my office, I run the photograph on my phone through the facial recognition software loaded onto my computer, sink into my chair and exhale a deep sigh.

  “You’re different.” Finley has followed me, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

  “I’m what?” I heard her, but the heavy frown pulling at my eyebrows dares her to repeat the observation.

  She does. “It’s her.” Her tone is curious, as if she’d like to run my emotional state through one of her computer models to figure out what’s going on inside my head. For that matter, so do I. “You’re different because of her.”

  “Are you referring to Aislinn?”

  “The woman currently in your bed, yes.”

  “The woman who also happens to be your sister.”

  “Half-sister,” she corrects.

  “Details,” I say, waving her off as I return my attention to my desktop computer screen, which is a rapid montage of criminals as the software attempts to match my image.

  But Finley doesn’t leave. “You’ve always been a stickler for details. Or do they not matter to you anymore?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you can’t pick up the slack when my attention is temporarily averted?”

  “I do more around here than just pick up your slack, Damon.” Her expression is a blend of defiance and hurt, an expression I’ve never seen her wear before.

  I sigh. “You’re right. I know.” The tension in the air decreases a bit. “Listen, things will return to normal once—”

  “When? Is Aislinn just temporary?”

  Finley’s interruption hits me like a brick to the head. Temporary.

  She’s repeating the same word I just used, but I don’t like the sound of it. And I especially don’t like it being in the same sentence as Aislinn.

  Because the way I feel about her is too big, too weighty, too damn much to feel at all temporary. She is not an accidental brush of marker I haven’t washed off yet.

  Aislinn Granville is a custom tattoo, a permanent injection of ink into my skin.

  And I like it. Whatever this thing is between us, I like it a lot.

  There’s something else, too. I thought Aislinn was safer without me. That any relationship beyond a brief fling would put her in danger.

  Clearly, that isn’t the case.

  If anything, I am the only one who can take care of her.

  This unexpected mental shift is not one I’m willing to admit to anyone else. Not yet, anyway. I turn around stiffly, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I need to get back to work.”

  Finley is silent for a moment, and my shoulders bunch beneath the cotton of my shirt, waiting for her to push the issue. Instead, she clears her throat. “Anything I can help with?”

  I think for a moment before turning around to face her again. “Actually, yes. Aislinn needs another phone. And I’d like you to arrange a workspace for her somewhere upstairs. She won’t be going anywhere for a while.” Technically Aislinn doesn’t have a job anymore, but I want her to have a dedicated space in my home that she can consider her own.

  “No problem.” Her answer is flat, and I scrutinize Finley’s features for any sign of insubordination. But I only see a wary discomfort as she shifts from one foot to the other before turning away.

  “Finley,” I call before she can get far. “Aislinn doesn’t know you share the same father, and she can’t. Not yet, anyway. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t get to know her. I think you could be friends.”

  One of her eyebrows lifts as she casts an incredulous look my way. “Friends? You want me to be friends with her?”

  I should take it back. If I am wrong, it will be one more band tying Aislinn to my life. I should say no.

  “Yes. Why not?” For as long as I’ve known her, Finley has been a loner. All business, all the time. For that matter, so have I. But don’t most women have friends? It will be good for her.

  “For starters, I’m not sure I want to. I mean, if she’s not going to stick around—why should I waste my time?”

  The question written across her face is more direct. Is Aislinn Granville here to stay?

  The answer I don’t say is just as clear.

  I sure as fuck hope so.

  33

  Aislinn

  T he first thing I think about when I wake up is my ruined phone. Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  My heartbeat escalates from a calm, sleepy beat to an angry pounding inside my eardrums. Flinging off the sheet covering my naked body, I jump out of bed. “Damon?”

  No answer.

  I try again. “Damon?”

  Still no answer.

  I curse again, vaguely acknowledging that my mouth has gotten considerably dirtier since I’ve known Damon King. After a quick shower, I dress casually and throw my wet hair into a bun on top of my head. I don’t bother with makeup.

  What I need is a phone.

  “Hello?” I open the door of Damon’s bedroom and step into the hall.

  There are two guards stationed at the elevator, but whether it’s the scowls on their faces or the guns strapped to their hips, I decide not to ask them for help.

  I haven’t spent a lot of time exploring Damon’s apartment, but I do this morning. There are bedrooms and living rooms and sitting rooms, a library and a dining room. So many rooms. So few people. Just. Me.

  And armed guards.

  I see a few more of them, like silent sentries. Their eyes track my movements but they don’t say a word to me.

  After several minutes of wandering, I finally hear voices. Thank the lord.

  Rushing toward the low murmuring, I nearly trip over the corner of a rug, just barely catching myself on the heavy arm of a couch. At my surprised squeak, two sets of eyes turn in my direction. I recognize one of them. Ms. Weathersby. “Hi,” I say, relief sloshing through my veins and overriding any lingering resentment.

  But it is the younger brunette that replies. “Damon asked me to find a workspace for you. He doesn’t really use this room as his office anymore, so I’ve set you up in here.” She steps aside and gestures at the desk behind her. “Your laptop can dock here, or you can sync between the systems. And—”

  But I’m not looking at the large flat-screen monitor or docking mechanism or hard drive. My attention is focused on the much smaller gadget almost obscured by an elaborate bouquet of flowers. “A phone!”

  The woman halts her tech tour of my new, borrowed, office. “Uh, yes. Damon mentioned that you had broken the other one.”

  I’ve already darted into the room, picking it up and immediately powering it on. The other two take it as their cue to leave and quietly exit the room. “Do I have the same number? Has my voicemail been set up?”

  I know I’m being terribly rude, but I don’t have it in me to care. Davina’s words are still swirling inside my head. Any delay could mean the difference between life and death. And my experience last night has reminded me just how easily a man with a grudge could overpower a woman. Had an abuse victim tried calling me? What if I was her only chance at escape and I didn’t answer?

  “Yes, your number is the same. And yes, your voicemail automatically transferred.”

  I swat at the tears of gratitude stinging my eyes and slant a wobbly smile her way. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She seems taken aback by my quick shift in temperament. “Ah, sure. No problem. So, if you just give me a second, I’ll finish linking everything up here and …”

  The phone is halfway to my ear already. I highly doubt she would leave a voicemail but I have to be sure. The first one is from Chad, and so is the second. I bypass them both. The third is from my father.
I ignore him, too. I don’t even know what to wish for as I hit play on the last.

  Hey. Great seeing you last night. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk more before you left. I got your number from the alumni database. Mine is on there, too. Give me a call.

  Sebastián. Sebastián Cruz.

  “You’re all set.” The brunette stands up and turns back to face me. “If you n—”

  Choosing to freak out about that voicemail later, I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and extend a hand that is still shaking from this morning’s onslaught of anxiety. “I’m Aislinn, by the way.”

  She looks at it for a moment before offering her own. Her grip is strong, but reluctant. “Finley.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. Now that my connection to the outside world has been reestablished, a curiosity about the people in Damon’s inner circle emerges. “Do you work with Damon?”

  She nods. “I do.”

  Both of us fall silent, studying each other. “You already knew my name, didn’t you?”

  One corner of her mouth lifts in a slightly sheepish grin. “Yeah.”

  “Figures.” I am careful not to inject a single note of irritation into my voice. Finley appears skittish to me, as if I make her uncomfortable. Which is unfortunate, given that I feel completely isolated and wouldn’t mind a new friend. Or even a casual acquaintance.

  Over the past few years, my girlfriends have peeled off as they’ve gotten into relationships, then engaged and married. Some even have kids already. But between my busy career and my casual relationship with Chad, I’ve never been lonely. But now my career is on hold and I want nothing to do with Chad.

  I forgo the whole Hey, let’s grab coffee and talk about boys approach with Finley. She doesn’t seem like the type. “I don’t know how to get in touch with Damon. Can you give me his number?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I can’t give out any personal information he hasn’t already.”

  “Oh.” I bristle at the immediate shutdown, although there’s nothing overtly hostile about her delivery. She’s guarded. Wary.

  “But I’m going back downstairs right now. I’ll tell him—”

  “Downstairs? Damon is here, in the building?” Finley clamps her lips shut as if to stop herself from revealing anything else, apparently deciding that even that small piece of information is too much. But I persist. “You said he doesn’t use this room as his office anymore. I take it he works downstairs?”

  “I’ll pass on the message that you’d like to speak with him. Nice meeting you.”

  Watching Finley leave, I feel frustrated and … helpless.

  Hopeless, too.

  With a groan, I sink into the desk chair, idly revolving on its swivel base like I used to do on the occasions I was allowed to visit my father’s office. The room spins around me—windows, framed photographs, bookcases.

  Something is niggling at my consciousness, too. Something that has nothing to do with a woman I’ve never met or Sebastián Cruz or last night’s attack. Or even the fact that I’m squirrelled away in Damon’s apartment, unable to get in touch with Damon himself. I spin and spin, the room a blur of light and dark and assorted shapes, all of my mental energy focused inward.

  But I haven’t eaten yet, and after a few minutes I’m feeling more nauseous than self-aware. The tips of my toes drag along the rug, slowing my progress until I’m still once more. To regroup, I focus on the photographs arranged on the wall in front of me. Black and white prints, gray matting, silver frames.

  Unfortunately, they’re not family photos. No intimate moments caught on film I can obsess over and attempt to analyze. No proof that Damon King has ever been anything other than the stoic, sexy beast he is now. No clue whether he gets his dark good looks from his mother or his father. No hint that a sweet, earnest little boy had once lived inside the man.

  The photographs are of apartment buildings.

  Hardly a peek into Damon’s psyche.

  I frown at them.

  Except … There is something familiar about one of them.

  Not just one. I recognize two … three …

  My breath catches in the back of my throat as I stand up and cross the room to take a closer look. I glance from one image to another—six in all. I recognize every one of them. All six.

  Not because they are iconic buildings in Manhattan, but because I’ve been inside them. All of them.

  Safe houses. Well, apartments. Each of the buildings contain a safe apartment.

  How many women have I picked up from parks or bus stations or subway stops? Sometimes alone, sometimes with children. All of them terrified. And I’ve brought them to apartments in these buildings.

  I never stayed. That wasn’t my job. I left them there, passing along whatever information I’d been given. Reassuring them that someone would arrive shortly to discuss next steps. And that they were safe.

  Safe.

  So much power in that one, four-letter word.

  It can’t be a coincidence that these pictures are on Damon’s wall.

  “Are you settling in all right?”

  I spin around at the sound of Damon’s deep voice, looking at him with new eyes. “You’re part of The Network.” I say it with a kind of hushed reverence, the words tumbling from my mouth.

  His expression shifts, becoming an unreadable mask only distantly related to the man I’ve shared a bed with, the man I’ve connected with on a fundamental level. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lifting a hand, I lightly tap the glass of one of the picture frames with a fingernail. “These buildings—you own them, don’t you?”

  His lips tighten. The yes is unspoken, but I hear it loud and clear.

  Davina once said to me, “No one gets involved with The Network unless they have a personal connection to domestic violence.”

  I have no way of knowing if that’s true. But it certainly makes sense. The Network operates outside the bounds of the law. I can’t imagine anyone taking on that level of risk unless they truly understand how high the stakes are.

  I cross the room slowly, maintaining eye contact as my footsteps swallow up the distance between us. “Did someone hurt you, Damon? Or someone close to you?”

  At my attempt to touch him, he physically recoils. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t try to heal me, princess.” The low tenor of his voice is icy and detached. “I assure you, my blackened soul will only stain your squeaky-clean hands. My dark will suffocate your light.”

  34

  Damon

  T hose photographs are like wallpaper to me. They are there, but I haven’t truly looked at them in years.

  It’s my fault for not giving any thought to where Finley would arrange Aislinn’s workspace. And, of course, Aislinn would connect the dots. She is as smart as she is stunning.

  I react harshly, not expecting to be faced with her questions.

  But she doesn’t turn away from me in disgust or take offense. There is a softening to her gaze that tugs at something deep inside of me. Maybe even a part of the soot-black soul I just spoke of.

  “Do you want to know why I got involved with The Network?” she asks.

  I do, actually.

  But what I say is, “Is that some kind of virtual reality video game?”

  Disappointment creeps into the tiny little lines at the edges of Aislinn’s eyes and at the corners of her mouth. I strangle the impulse to wipe them away. “Reality, yes. But a game, no.”

  She walks to the next room, sinking into one of the overstuffed couches and looking pointedly at me. “The woman who opened the door of my parent’s townhouse—you noticed the scar on her face, right?”

  Damned if I know why, but I follow Aislinn and sit down beside her. I nod, not liking the direction we’re headed in but unable to leave.

  “Marisol was my nanny, and I spent more time with her than with either of my parents. My father was always working an
d my mother, she has always been … fragile, I guess is how I would describe her. Even when I was young, before her memory lapses and—” She breaks off with a quick shake of her head. “Anyway, Marisol was married to a jealous, abusive man. Being my nanny was a live-in job, and when she moved into our home, she used the opportunity to distance herself from her husband and file for divorce. He didn’t take it well.”

  I feel my hands curl into fists, the tendons in my forearms stretched taut. “What happened?”

  “He stole a van and grabbed me as we were coming home from the park. Told Marisol if she didn’t get in with us, he would do everything he intended to do to her, to me. So she got in, begging him to leave me alone, to let me go.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. He tied us both up and drove to the site of a construction project he’d been hired to work on, then locked me in a closet while he beat and raped Marisol just outside the door.”

  My stomach churns, imagining the scene. Aislinn, young and terrified. Locked inside a—

  Bile rises up my throat, a bitter assault on my senses.

  The first thing I did when Aislinn came to my home was lock her in a room. Fuck.

  But Aislinn is still talking, her eyes focused on something over my shoulder, her voice quiet and flat—as if she can only tell her story by pretending it had happened to someone else. “It went on for two days. I think he enjoyed using a knife on Marisol. He laughed as he cut off her clothes, stabbed her in places—” Aislinn cut off abruptly, clearing her throat. “I didn’t see any of it, but she’d been with our family for almost a year by then, maybe more. I thought her accent was so pretty, I asked her to speak to me in Spanish. So, unfortunately, I understood much of what they were saying. Mostly it was just Marisol begging for mercy or offering her life to save mine. I learned more details later, when I was older.

  “I have no idea how long it lasted, but at some point Marisol either passed out or pretended to. He must have decided his fun wasn’t over yet, because he unlocked the door to the closet and stood there, his knife dripping blood, looking down on me. He grabbed for my feet, to pull me out. I started kicking at him, but he just dropped the knife and got on top of me.”