by Skye Warren
I don’t know how long we ride, but I never want it to end. When it stops, the clock will start ticking again. Ticking down the time I have with him, another grain of sand dropped. But while we’re on the bike, racing down a street I don’t even recognize, headed nowhere and everywhere, I feel the freedom I’ve been searching for.
I look to the side, but the buildings are gone. In their place are streaks of rust and gray. Brushstrokes in every drab color, made mysterious by night. This is the way he sees the world every day, I realize. As art.
The painting turns to green and brown, and I know we’ve left the city.
Anxiety shivers through me. What if he’s taking me out here for some darker purpose? What if he doesn’t bring me back? I almost laugh, though it’s a macabre amusement. What if I’ve escaped one monster only to find another?
But then I realize Clara will run if I don’t come back. She promised.
She’ll be safe. Alive. Not like my mother.
Not like me.
And I let my worries go. I paint them on the canvas we make, like bread crumbs I could use to find my way home.
Chapter Thirteen
The sky has turned a muted blue by the time we arrive. I look around. There are only trees and grass and a winding road that led us here. I don’t know why he’s brought me to this place. There is a reason, though. I read the secret in the tension of his body. He’s got a little half smile too, the kind that hides a surprise. It makes my heart thump a little too hard, that smile—sexy and impossibly sweet.
“Where are we?” I ask, musing. I don’t think he’ll tell me.
And he doesn’t. “Nowhere that’s on a map.”
He’s really too pleased with himself. I think of Peter Pan flying off into Neverland, taking Wendy with him. I think of sword fights and fairies. That’s how it feels in the clearing—like magic.
Only magic isn’t real. Flying isn’t real either, even if it felt like that on the back of his bike.
“You know, if I were another girl, I might be worried about all this secrecy. You might have dug a ditch out here for all I know.”
His smile slips away, and I regret my words. Why can’t I just accept this moment for what it is? Why can’t I trust anyone? My insides churn, faster and harder. How did I get so broken?
His hand takes mine, warm and dry and comforting. “If that’s what you think, why did you come with me?”
His words are soft, more curious than accusing.
“I’m not some other girl,” I tell him. I’ve looked death in the face my whole life. My father is a murderer. My fiancé is a monster. “I’m afraid of dying, but I’m more afraid of never living.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes. He knows I mean more than just drawing breath. More than just running. I dream of the day I can be safe enough to really enjoy life. To do more than survive.
It’s why I came with him. He’s a breath of life.
“It’s nothing scary,” he assures me. “It’s…like a present.”
My heart skips. “A present? Because your presents have a tendency to be scary.”
That makes him laugh. “Not this one.”
“What is it?” I tease him. “A battle ax? A sword?”
He just smiles mysteriously and leads me into the grass.
There is no path here. We follow the tree line, walking through lush grass already damp with dew. Then the trees break, revealing a structure standing at the top of a hill. Is it a house? But no, it is made entirely of windows. Or at least, there used to be windows. Now there are tall empty spaces where glass would go. It could almost pass for an old greenhouse except for the elaborate dome on the top.
And the turrets.
It reminds me of a woman. An old stately woman with gray hair and a serenity that only comes from experience. I don’t look at her and think, she once was beautiful. I think, she is beautiful. Every wrinkle in her skin, every crack in the stone, stands for a secret she kept.
“What is this place?” I breathe.
He is quiet a moment. I look over to find him studying me, an uncertain light in his eyes. He’s studying me, I realize, and that both unnerves and charms me, that he would be that interested in me, that he wants to see beneath the smooth, waxed surface of my skin.
“I’m not sure. The house is two klicks south of here. Or what’s left of it. This was… a detached ballroom? An observatory? Maybe both.”
A ballroom. That sounds right.
I’m too excited now. I let go of his hand and run ahead, finding the door even though every window is open. There is no actual door either, just an empty frame. I step inside and look up. The ceiling is faded, scrubbed from the inside each time a storm rages. But I can still see the painting of cherubic angels.
I can’t even begin to guess when this place was built or how long it has lain abandoned, but somehow, a few panes of window have survived, mostly near the ceiling or the base, where they were partially protected by a turret outside. I couldn’t see them from outside because they were too murky, too muted to reflect the moonlight. The gloom of them matched the gloom inside, camouflaged.
But here, I can see the windows clearly, blocking the sight of the trees. From inside I can see everything.
He is standing by the door when I look back. His arms are folded. He leans against the empty doorframe, his face shrouded in shadow. Somehow I’m in the middle of the room. I forgot myself for a moment, forgot to be worried. Forgot to be afraid.
I approach him slowly, feeling somehow shy. He’s done filthy things to my body, and I’ve done them to him. But now I am just a girl who’s been given a present by a boy.
I look down for a moment at my shoes and the marble floor beneath, made murky with time. “Not that I don’t appreciate you bringing me here. But why?”
Of all the things he could have given me. He could have taken me to see a movie. He could have brought me a flower. Instead he took me here, knowing this would mean more than anything.
Not just why. How?
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t take payment from my body, not yet. “I thought you might want to dance here.” He nods toward the floor. “Like the roof.”
Oh, but this isn’t like the roof. It isn’t uneven, with rusted metal bars jutting up from the concrete. It isn’t covered in tiny pebbles, pieces of the structure itself crumbling away under the elements. Instead there is smooth marble—almost unbreakable, this floor. The wind has swept away any leaves. The rain has washed away any dirt. It almost gleams. Not like the roof at all.
I can’t see him clearly. It is still too dark for that, but I can almost swear he’s blushing. I’m surprised he even knows how to. It’s not even a color, it’s a feeling. Maybe it can only ever be something to feel, his generosity. His quiet acceptance of who and what I am.
My chest is too full, and my eyes are too wet. I consider dropping to my knees to thank him. I could make it so good.
Instead I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. The growth of whiskers is scratchy against my lips, his skin warm under that.
“Thank you.”
Then I leave him by the door, to watch me and wait as I dance like I’m alone. I start off slowly, plié, grand plié. And this time when I stretch my body in a grand arabesque, I am not wringing myself clean of unwanted hands—I am reaching. For him. For the sky beyond the painted ceiling and through the open window frames. I am reaching for a time and a place when I won’t have to hide anymore.
My skin is slick with sweat by the time I have finished. Even then I don’t want to be finished, but the tops of the trees are pink with pre-dawn light. I should go back.
I don’t want to.
He meets me in the middle of the ballroom.
“I have time for one more dance,” I tell him, suggestive.
“I can’t dance.”
That makes me laugh. “That isn’t what I meant.”
He doesn’t smile. His face is more severe than ever—a rejection. “I
know what you meant.”
I frown, confused. “Kip?”
His face is like a stone wall. I wait for the branches to rise up, guarding their fortress. I wait for the sting of the thorns. He wants to hate me. He doesn’t want to get close.
This time the brambles don’t come.
This time he bends his head. I am too shocked to tilt my head. Too surprised to kiss him back. I stand there, passive, letting his lips press against mine, feeling his tongue slide along my lower lip. I have enough frame of mind to open, and he groans softly, taking the invitation and demanding more.
His hands curve around my hips, cupping my ass. I’m sweaty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. No, he presses me flush against him, taking each of my panting breaths into his mouth, sipping the salt from my skin.
I rub my body against him, feeling his erection thick and stone hard in his jeans. I rock my hips against it, promising relief.
All at once he releases me. He turns away. I stare at the tall, broad line of his shoulders—moving up and down with his heavy, aroused breathing.
What the hell? Why did he stop?
Hesitantly I place a hand on his arm. He pulls away.
Dread fills me. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says. But I can hear the lie in his voice.
“Kip?” I hate how timid I sound, how afraid. I never let my father or Byron see me like this. With them I always put up a strong front. They might hurt me and humiliate me, but they would never see me cry. But with Kip it feels inevitable. He tears down my bravery, leaving only hope.
“I’m not who you think I am.”
* * *
No. I want to rewind the past five seconds and pretend he never said that.
“I’m not just a customer,” he says, and I wish that were a lie. Maybe a random guy at a strip club isn’t good relationship material to other women. But to me he’s everything I could want. I hadn’t worked out how we might be together beyond this night or the next. But I’d hoped.
And now he’s telling me something serious, something dark, his voice so solemn I know it must be bad.
“What are you then?” I say, only because he expects me to ask. I don’t want to know.
He shakes his head, and just that—I know he’s about to tell me the truth. Maybe that’s the worst, because I can’t reciprocate.
He turns to me and fingers a lock of my hair. “Honey.”
I swallow, ashamed. “That’s not my real name. It’s a lie.”
“It’s who you are to me,” he murmurs, and in that one sentence I hear everything I am to him—someone to fuck, someone to protect. Someone to care for. His isn’t the expression of a man who wants to convince me of something. His jaw is tense, eyes dark with regret. He’d rather be telling me anything but this—anything but the truth.
I remember what Candy said to me. Dangerous. Yes, he’s dangerous. You only have to look at him to know. He’s lethal energy in leather boots. He’s a force of nature on a goddamn motorcycle. The question isn’t whether he’s dangerous. It’s whether he’s dangerous to me. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“No,” he says, absolutely sure. Sure enough that it slaps me. Sure enough that I know he’s considered doing it. “I’m going to help you through this.”
Suspicion is acid down my throat. “Help me through what?”
His expression darkens. “I know who you’re running from.”
“Excuse me?” I laugh, unsteady. I don’t want to believe him. “And anyway, it’s not one person I’m running from. It’s an army of them.”
“Even better,” he says. “I’m a soldier.”
Two klicks to the south, he said when we got here. That’s military terminology. I imagine him with his hair less scruffy, his mouth clean shaven. I imagine him without the leather jacket or the bike, but instead in a uniform. He’d look good like that.
I’m guessing he did look good like that. I feel sick. “You used to be in the military?”
“Army,” he confirms.
I remember the feeling I had that first night, that a cop was in the building. A man with military training. Exactly the kind of men my father and Byron hired as muscle.
The dangerous kind.
I take a step back. “Are you a cop?”
“No,” he says grimly. “I have other things in common with Byron, but not that.”
It’s a slap to hear him say the name. It’s real now.
I stare at him. A man with military training who shows up at the club. The first thing he does is ask for me. A private dance. He doesn’t just watch me or fuck me. He wants to talk. He wants to know me. I’d thought it was sweet. Instead it was a lie. Like my name.
Like my whole fucking life.
I take another step back. I’m running away again, in slow motion this time. Part of me doesn’t want to leave. I remember what Blue said about him—the killing game. “You’re…what? A bounty hunter? A hired gun?”
“Something like that.”
Sent to find me, to capture me. To hunt me down like an animal. “Is that why you stood up to Ivan? You didn’t want someone else to get your prize?”
“No.” His eyes are tortured.
“Tell me you didn’t fuck me to get close.” My throat is raw. My whole body is raw. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” he says, his voice hoarse.
God. It makes me want to lash out. Push him away. How did he get so close?
“Is this what you always do?” My voice is thin, like a whip. I throw all my weight behind it, however little it may be. “Do you fuck every girl before you fuck her over? Maybe if the orgasm is good enough, they’re more likely to go with you when you drag them back.”
“I’ve never gone after a woman before. I never would have.”
“Then why did you?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are narrow, lips press together.
“Why me?” I’m shouting now. Hysterical. “How did I get so lucky?”
“Because of Byron,” he says roughly. “I knew he was after you. And I had to see for myself. I had to… Not for any kind of fucking bounty. He’s my brother. That’s fucking why.”
My heart is beating out of my chest, a wild thing. No.
Of course. Kip’s mother, the incurable romantic. The lover of poetry. She named one son after Lord Byron and the other after Rudyard Kipling. The man who hurt me, abused me. And the man who helped me.
Or so I thought. But actually Kip is just part of the family business—fucking me over.
“Your last name,” I say, my voice raw.
“Adams.”
Of course. That’s what my last name would have been if I’d married Byron.
Now it’s suddenly clear why I never got close to Kip. Never close enough to learn his last name. He never would have let me. He had to push me away. All those times he turned hot to cold, all those times the brambles and thorns pushed me out, he had a purpose.
“Any sisters I should know about?” I ask, the reality still sinking in. Kip and Byron. Brothers. “Any Emilys or Sylvias I should know about?”
He turns away, but not before I see him flinch. Then there is only his profile, stony and silhouetted by the pale light behind him.
When he faces me again, he has himself under control. Packed tightly under a veneer of determination and devil-may-care. Under raw power and lust. Deep down, there is some part of him that feels pain. Some part of him like me. That’s not the part who’s staring back at me now.
“Did he send you?” I ask, my voice small.
“Not exactly.”
“But you’re going to take me to him.”
He pauses. “Yes.”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. I don’t hide my face though, don’t look away. I let him see how it makes me feel—cheap and hollow. I am a doll, with plastic makeup and real hair, made for men to play with. It hurts more than I could have thought. I’d imagined being caught by Byron. Or by one of his men. It had never been
like this. It had never been betrayal.
“So what happens now?” I ask, empty. “You bring me to Byron and what? You both fuck me at the same time? Is that the endgame?”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says with such quiet determination I almost believe him.
“You already are.”
That’s when the shooting starts.
Chapter Fourteen
Glass shatters.
I almost don’t register what’s happening, but Kip shouts at me. “Get down.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I obey. He pushes me down onto the floor, covering me with his body. I press my face into the floor. My brain is in a state of shock. All I can feel is the heaviness of his body, the heat of him. The grit on the floor. It shouldn’t even matter now, but I can’t help but wonder about that. Wasn’t the floor smooth before? I was dancing just two minutes ago. It feels surreal. I was happy two minutes ago.
I believed that Kip would protect me—two minutes ago.
Then I realize this isn’t grit, isn’t bits of concrete crumbled off the ground. It’s tiny shards of glass, and they’re cutting into my cheek.
That’s enough to snap me back into reality. I’m in danger. Someone is shooting at us.
“Who are they?” I ask even though it seems fairly obvious. More bounty hunters. More mercenaries. More killers. But why would they be shooting at Kip? He’s one of them.
“We have to get out of here,” Kip yells. “There’s no cover.”
He’s right. The thin columns are no protection at all. He pulls me out of the ballroom. I stumble, but he catches me, shielding me with his body as grass explodes in fireworks at our feet.
He’s holding something. What is it? Moonlight glints off a smooth black barrel.
A gun.
Why does he have a gun? Was he planning on shooting me? But no, then he couldn’t bring me back to his brother—a living prize. I force down a sob. I have to run now. I have to survive. Like walking onto a blinding stage. Like running through gunfire.
Kip shoots back and that gives us a chance to get to the bike. I don’t have time to think.
