The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  “You’re no good at this game, Ena,” he makes a tsk-tsk noise with his tongue that instantly makes me yearn for that same tongue to delve down between my thighs again.

  “Who says I don’t really want to be caught,” I whisper then lick my lips remembering how he tasted in my mouth this morning in his shower. He paces around one edge of the kitchen island forcing me one direction then he switches direction forcing me back the other way. The whole time he’s casually stalking me, he’s unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugs the fabric from his shoulders making the ink emblazoned across his skin seem to come alive. My mouth waters and my heart skitters around in my chest, uneven under the influence of adrenaline lust and... whatever it is growing between us.

  “You’re already caged, Ena. Nowhere to run. There’s no escaping me,” he says grimly. At that I turn and sprint for the stairs. Why the stairs? I’m the token dumb white chick in the horror flick. The chick that willingly walks into the haunted house then goes upstairs, to certain entrapment and death. Of course, the one difference between me and that token white chick in the horror flick is that I enjoy being preyed upon by this particular monster. That dark little part of my heart where I’ve permitted myself to feel more than lust for him, aches, reminding me he’s chasing, sure, but he’s already captured me. At least part of me.

  The most delicate part of me.

  I screech sprinting up the stairs two at a time with Beast hot on my heels. I barely make it down the hall, into his room and around the foot of his bed when one strong arm grips me around my waist, hauling me to crash backward against the muscled wall that is his chest. His mouth comes down on my shoulder, nipping and kissing his way to my neck. One hand slips up my side to my neck where he grips me firmly but loosely and I freeze with his lips still against the nape of my neck. A moment of panic surges through me remembering the feel of these same hands choking the air and life from my body. I try to regain my composure but it’s too late. He’s dropped me on his bed, and is walking backward with his arms hanging heavily at his sides. The look on his face is indiscernible to me.

  “I’m sorry. I,” I laugh weakly not really knowing how to explain my little panic attack that was the wet blanket on the moment. Truth is, I don’t know that he wouldn’t choke the life right out of me, permanently next time. He hasn’t put his hands on me in that way since that day in his office. Would he do it again?

  He’ll tire of you at some point.

  No. No way. He wouldn’t. Would he?

  I get to my feet, smoothing my tee shirt and spandex leggings. “I didn’t really think you were going to—do—anything,” I shake my head.

  “Go to your room,” he says coldly with his eyes askance, his expression void. I huff and grasp at straws. The last thing I want to do is piss off my captor. Especially when Lan is still in his care as far as I know. Last I’d heard, Murphy was taking care of her until she was ready to surface with an apology for running away, which is a blatant lie of course, but it was the only thing we could collectively think of. The cops had said she fit the bill for a runaway. It was our best shot at an explanation. Lan isn’t cooperating so we have been waiting for a sign from her that it’s time to bring her back to the land of the living.

  “Hey,” I begin, with my hand outstretched, as I step closer to him. He turns his head further to the side, refusing to look at me.

  “Go. To. Your. Room.” He growls, baring his teeth slightly.

  “I thought you said I was to be in your bed,” I say haughtily instantly reminding me of that bitch Kate. It sounds like a woman like her talking not me. This isn’t me. Not even close.

  “I said,” he growls, seizing my upper arm in a bruising grip. “To. Your. Room.” He repeats, dragging me down the hall to my cage. He shoves me in, and locks the door behind me. I cradle my head in my hands wondering what the fuck I’m going to do. He’s goddamn bipolar.

  One thing is utterly and absolutely clear. If I intend on surviving and maybe even thriving while I’m stuck here—however long that may be for—I’ve got to figure out how to handle the Beast down the hall and save my heart at the same time.

  Three days later…

  The first day slipped into the second, which has now faded into the third. I began texting him yesterday. Pride be damned. I’ve texted him repeatedly. He won’t respond. Frieda let me escape my cage yesterday and today for multiple hours. I had hope that I’d find he was here but he wasn’t. I knew it the minute I entered the space beyond my cage. I couldn’t feel him. Couldn’t smell the scent of him lingering in the air. Did he leave me here? Is he coming back?

  I pick at the hamburger and fries that Frieda ordered in for me. Citing a headache on her part but she simply hates me. It’s obvious. Whatever. I don’t give a fuck what Orin’s part time girlfriend thinks of me. She’s the help that thinks she’s somehow more integral than she is.

  Lying on the floor beside my bed, I trace the glittering lights on the horizon with my index finger pressed to the floor to ceiling glass of the windows. I find myself tracing the line of the thin bangle at my wrist, the same one I have never really needed since Carrick never sent me to a real rendezvous with a real client. It’s been him. Only him. I briefly toy with the idea of tampering with the bracelet hoping maybe it would alert him and he will come himself to check that I am still his property in his home, locked away from him to toy with as he pleases.

  Rotten, awful, terrible man.

  My phone chimes and I lazily roll to my back and check the screen. It’s Mom checking in.

  Me: Hey! Grabbing some food. Can I call you tomorrow? I fire away my off the cuff response. She immediately responds.

  Mom: Okay baby. Hope all is well. Talk tomorrow. Love you!

  I read the message respond with an I love you, too! then toss my phone aside.

  I hear Frieda unlock my door and enter my room. I can’t imagine what in the fuck has her coming in here again. A thud and a grunt coming from the other side of the space has me shooting to my feet to see Carrick stumbling into the room completely blown, drunk from the looks of it. I frown, wondering what’s happened for him to be in this state. I saw him distraught after Will’s death but this is different.

  Three days of marinating in my own misery and longing for the man I should hate hasn’t lessened my desire for him. I hate me right now.

  “Ena Devlin,” he rasps drunkenly, pointing his finger at me. “Unlucky little fire,” he says coming further into my cage.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I stand my ground.

  “Oh, drunk s’all,” he waves his big hand dismissively and my eyes hone in on the dark red stain on his shirt near his ribs. I gasp and cross the room, jerking his shirt up. It’s not difficult given the state he’s in. His tie is gone, assuming he wore one today. His shirttails are hanging out, crumpled. The top few buttons of his shirt are hanging open.

  “What’s happened,” I ask tugging his shirt up to see if he’s shot or stabbed or otherwise bleeding to death. A sickly-sweet fruity fragrance that I’ve smelled before tangles with the scent of his blood and I clench my jaw, hating the wave of jealousy gathering in my gut.

  He was with her!

  “Oh man,” he slurs. “Fucked up my shirt. Don’t worry tha’s not my blood,” he slurs looking at the stain. “Bratva fuck’s.” He declares swaying. I lift his shirt further inspecting him. “Carrick,” I sigh. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding,” I chide him hating how my heart begins hammering away more with worry than with jealousy over the fact that bitch Kate has left her stink all over him.

  “Oh that? Tha’ one’s my blood,” he nods twisting his torso in an effort to see the wound on his back where normal non-perfect human beings would have a love handle. Not Beast. He’s all lean, trim, muscle, and sinew.

  I tug him to the bathroom attached to my cage and walk him into the shower, peeling his shirt off as we shuffle in. He is a lot less graceful this drunk. He stubs his toes against the edge of the shower, stepping in. I grab a washcl
oth and run it under cold water from the sink and go back to where he’s swaying in the stall.

  “Let me see,” I order, moving his big frame so that I can wash away sticky half dried blood. He doesn’t even wince as I poke at what appears to be a shallow slash. A knife wound. “Knife?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugs, lifting his muscular shoulder nonchalantly. “Should see the other guy,” he laughs darkly. I purse my lips refusing to laugh at any of this. I dab at the wound and fish my hand inside Carrick’s pocket for the cell phone that he may have there though he usually keeps it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. No phone. “Stay here,” I order as I clinically undress him, and grip his shoulders encouraging him to sit on the bench at the rear of the huge shower stall. He doesn’t struggle with me or argue. He just flops down. “Be right back,” I say before jogging to the room for my cell phone.

  Me: Need Doc’s #. Now. Please.

  Mercedes: Calling u in 1 min.

  As promised, about exactly one minute later Mercedes name is lighting the screen of my cell phone.

  “Hey, sorry I was—uh—with a client. What’s wrong? Who needs Doc?”

  “Shit. Sorry. Um…” I trail off looking back at the entrance to the bathroom where Beast is, unsure of how much to say.

  “Ah. Okay,” she says fully understanding. “Want me to send Doc to you?”

  “Please. I’m at Carrick’s penthouse,” I say in a hurry.

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up with Mercedes and find Carrick cradling his head in his hands in the shower looking either extraordinarily drunk or defeated or both. Oddly, it’s a beautiful sight. He looks like some kind of statue depicting a Greek tragedy. The battle wounded, bloodied antihero, defeated and profoundly beautiful in spite of it all.

  I hesitate for a moment, wondering if he’d even want me to help, wondering if he’s been with Kate for these three days. I wonder why the fuck I should care. I shouldn’t. But I do. My heart screams at me, oh how I care. I set aside all thought of what I do or don’t feel inside and I strip myself bare, stepping into the shower. I kneel in front of him and look into his turbulent gray eyes. “What’s going on with you?” I whisper, allowing concern to supersede all the other fucked up shit between us. Bipolar asshole or not, he’s the man who saved my sister, who I feel inexplicably linked to for so many reasons, some nameless and others clear as day.

  “You,” he croaks clumsily tucking my hair behind my ear. “I can’t let you leave. Doesn’t matter. You can’t go.”

  I swallow hard, force a smile and drop a peck against his knuckles. “Lets get you rinsed off. Doc is coming to check that wound out,” I say still holding onto his hands while simultaneously losing all remaining grip of my own feelings. I can’t handle the emotion in his eyes. The depth of regret and sorrow I see there.

  Maybe he’s just an emotional drunk?

  “Superficial,” Doc announces from behind Beast. He’s crouched down, his brow crinkled in the middle as he peers through the black rimmed reading glasses hanging perilously on the tip of his nose. “I’ll have to suture it but it’s not too serious.” Doc says rummaging through his canvas duffel bag that reminds me very much of something a paramedic would carry.

  “See? It’s all good?” Carrick says before sealing his lips over the bottle of water I insisted he drink.

  “This is a liquid suture glue. I’ll leave you tape to put on when these start to lift. Clean the wound daily. Antibiotics,” he rattles on, depositing supplies and medication on the counter in front of me. “Keep an eye out for infection. Redness, warmth, swelling and weeping at the site.” I try to keep up, making mental notes. Carrick couldn’t possibly look more bored. I imagine he’s endured worse and if the scars riddled across his body are any indication, he’s definitely lived through much worse. “You’re all set.” Doc gently pats the fresh dressing on Carrick’s back. “You call me if you have any problems or you need me to walk you through something.”

  “Thanks Doc,” I say. He leaves us alone in Beast’s bedroom and not sure what else to say or do I busy myself by cleaning up. I fling his covers back for him. Grab plastic and paper trash from the bed where Doc dropped them and begin wadding them up into my hands, collecting piece by piece.

  “Is there anything else you need before I go to bed? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “No. Ena,” he says holding out his hand, awareness finally peeking through the fog of alcohol. “Stay with me,” he demands but it’s soft—softer than anything I’ve ever heard from him. I slip my hand in his and allow him to draw me in. Though a voice deep inside says to not allow him any more real estate in my heart, I shut the voice down, lending him more room in my dark, miserable little heart to call his own. I refuse to tell him though.

  “Stay with me,” he repeats, pressing his face to my stomach. I nod which is dumb because he isn’t looking at me. But the knot in my throat makes speaking difficult. His eyes are closed and his face is against my abdomen. I drift my fingers through his light ash brown hair causing him to sigh and nuzzle closer. “Okay,” I concede to him. Again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Beast

  I wake up with a dull headache but it’s nothing a couple aspirin won’t cure. It’s a lot less than I deserve. The knife wound low on my back isn’t extremely sore but it’s definitely there. My skin feels tight and brittle from the glue and tape covering the area. I roll closer to Ena and breathe her in, savoring every bit of her. The soft, generous curve of her body, her scent, lightly sweet—vanilla maybe—and soap and something else I can’t figure out. Smells amazing, and the pathetic part of me that has been obsessing over her for weeks on end knows that I’m fully addicted to that scent drifting in the air in this place. Ena sighs in her sleep nestling further into me and it makes me want to jump off the goddamn terrace balcony. With the pad of my shaking index finger, I gently move her hair aside, sweeping it from her neck, hoping I’d been hallucinating what I believed I had seen days ago. But no.

  There it is.

  The port wine stain birthmark situated at her hairline. The one that sent chills through me when I’d seen it more than three days ago. I came home in a good mood. I’d heard her quietly pad into the kitchen and I’d given chase, wanting nothing more than to lay her down and slide between those delectable thighs. I wanted to celebrate the deal I’d struck with old Capo. I wanted to celebrate the recent successes while drowning the recent failures and I couldn’t think of another person I wanted more to share it all with.

  She’d assumed that her flinching at my touch against her neck as though she was fearful of me hurting her again was why I sent her to her room and me being the piece of shit that I am, I allowed her to believe it. I had yelled at her, and ultimately dragged her by her arm to her room. Guilt is such a foreign sensation to me but in recent weeks I’ve become acquainted with the unpleasant emotion thanks to my personal … my…

  What is she? Is she yours? Your woman? Your heart if you had one?

  The voice inside me taunts me at every turn and I’m beginning to feel dizzy with the weight of her in my world. In truth, when I’d chased her and grabbed her from behind. I brought my mouth down on her neck. Never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d be faced with the subtle, light red birthmark at her hairline. It’s unmistakable. Alarm bells didn’t just ring, they clanged violently, reverberating through my head, my body, and my very core. My universe shifted in that moment. I knew.

  The baby in the picture on Orin McCrae’s coffee table had an oblong heart shaped port wine stain birthmark smack in the middle of her neck. Ena… Ena’s is right at her hairline and thanks to the fact that she had her hair up working out, I spotted it. My blood ran cold. I didn’t have to have her DNA compared with Orin’s. I knew. The more I’ve studied her, the more time I’ve spent with her, I knew something was off. Off in that she was so perfect in my world oddly familiar for being a stranger. She’s unflinching, strong, clever, u
nwavering. The fact that her red hair and the green eyes I’m still getting used to distantly reminded me of someone else’s also had me scratching my head with knowing. In my gut, I knew. As far as I can tell, Orin’s baby daughter has accidentally returned twenty-two years later and a whole lot wiser. She was not dead and the rumors that swirled about her being murdered were indeed a fucking lie designed to hurt the man that she belonged to as far as I can tell. She isn’t mine. She isn’t her adopted father’s either. No. Ena Devlin is a McCrae and she belongs to the only person on this planet that I have ultimate love and loyalty to, Orin McRae.

  And I must betray him.

  I could call him now, and deliver the news. I could explain it all and arrange a miraculous reunion. I could return to him what had been heartlessly stolen away.

  But I won’t.

  It would be a betrayal of historic proportions for me to keep this to myself. It would be a betrayal to the man who has given me so much, who saved me from my pathetic life in Southie, from doing time for murder.

  But Ena? If she doesn’t know what I have discovered, she can go back to her life safe and sound. Back to her mom and sister. Back to beginning her career as a cop—a career that will officially set her across the line—out of reach from me and my entire life, away from High Knoll. She could slip back into her life across town. It may as well be on the dark side of the moon though. I could send her away like none of this happened. I could set her free, neatly remove her and pretend to go about my day to day life as though she never came along and eroded and reshaped the geography of my life and heart.