by Skye Warren
A low growling sound comes from Will’s direction.
And a face appears amid the swirling smoke. Dark bronze eyes dancing with firelight. Gabriel.
Chapter Fifteen
“I don’t understand why you carried me. I can walk.”
Gabriel sits me down on the edge of the bed, his careful movement at odds with the harsh set of his mouth. “You’re high enough you’d jump off a bridge if I let you. How much weed did you smoke?”
“Barely any!” I’m indignant, even though he might be right. Has the ceiling always been spinning? It’s not a troublesome dizziness, more of a pleasant whirl. The teacup ride at the carnival, lights blurred all around me. “But then Harper did the cleanse.”
“The cleanse?”
“So you’d be out of my life.” I frown at him. “I don’t think it worked.”
“What a surprise,” he says drily.
“How did you find me, anyway? Outside the motel room?”
“I heard the bleating of an innocent little lamb in a den of wolves.”
“Will is a nice guy,” I say defensively.
He came to stand between me and Gabriel, protecting me. I don’t want Gabriel to do anything as retribution.
“I was talking about your friend.”
That makes me smile. “No one else thinks she’s dangerous.”
“I’m good at reading people. It helps with business.”
Part of me wants to know why he made a deal with my father. Did he suspect my father would cheat him? I’m afraid to hear the answers, the fallout still too fresh.
“What would you say about me?” I ask instead. “Besides being an innocent little lamb.”
He sets my shoes aside and tugs my socks off, his manner brusque. “Naive. Young. Trusting.”
I open my mouth to object and then see the glint in his eyes. He’s teasing me, though you wouldn’t know it to hear him. “I’m serious.”
“You’re stoned.”
“Fine,” I say, lying back on the bed. “I’m going to read you.”
He gives a short laugh. “Sure.”
“Asshole.”
His hands work at my jeans, touch impersonal.
I slap his hands away. It’s one thing for him to touch me when he’s giving me pleasure, when he’s taking his own. Another entirely for him to help me like I’m an invalid. I’m high, not paralyzed.
He brushes my hands aside. “Stay still.”
My eyes narrow. “Controlling.”
The look he gives me is pointed. “Someone has to take care of you.”
“Maybe my father would do that if he wasn’t in a hospital bed.”
He tugs down my jeans, leaving my panties in place. “He failed you.”
Anger beats against my ribs, rhythmic and ancient. How dare he? “Dangerous.”
Reaching behind me, he pulls aside the covers. White sheets swirl almost psychedelic in the light from the bathroom. Maybe the smoke from the cleanse was too much.
I don’t fight him as he tucks me into bed, hands gentle but firm, expression implacable. Did I hurt his feelings with what I said about him? Sometimes I wonder if he has any feelings. Maybe he’s just a wild animal, acting on instinct and aggression.
Other times I think he hurts too deeply to ever let himself be vulnerable.
Reaching up, I trace my finger along his eyebrow. It feels more bushy now that I’m high, as if everything is exaggerated. Gabriel is larger and stronger. Bigger in every way.
“Read me,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, almost swirling with molten gold. “Loyal.”
That’s nicer than I expected. “What else?”
He touches his square-tipped forefinger to the inside of my brow, smoothing the curve to my temple, reflecting my movement back to me. “Beautiful.”
A flush heats my cheeks. I didn’t think he would compliment me. It’s shocking, embarrassing. It makes me crave even more. “One more.”
His head tips forward. I only have seconds to register his intent, seconds of breathless panic and overwhelming desire, before his lips touch mine. His tongue sweeps across my lips with startling immediacy. And then he licks inside my mouth, possessive and sure. There’s no hesitation with him, no question as he forces my body into full arousal.
The marijuana heightens all my senses, and with sex it’s even worse. My body is on fire, burning from the inside out, a need raging so fast and so far that I don’t know how he can put me out. All I know is that I need him inside me, desperately, hips rocking into the air with humiliating urgency.
“Please,” I whisper.
Instead of touching me, he gives me one final word. “Mine.”
It should be a shock of cold water. He doesn’t have any right to me. One month. My body. That small strip of skin that he took between my legs. That’s all he gets. He doesn’t own me.
Except my thighs clench in helpless response, a betrayal to every fierce instinct.
“Gabriel,” I whisper.
He pulls the covers over me, tucking them around my body. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t. I’m too…” The flush threatens to scorch my skin, burning a path from my breasts to my neck to my cheeks. “I’m too turned on.”
Any other time his expression would be priceless. This man who faces million-dollar business deals with cool efficiency, who ruthlessly destroys those who cheat him, looks worried. “You’re what?”
I wriggle against the cool sheets, seeking respite and finding none. “I’m so warm. Down there. I need you to help me.”
“Christ,” he breathes.
There’s awe in his eyes. And anger too. He’s a contradiction wrapped up in one hard-packed masculine package, layers of secrets and armor. What would it be like to reach the center of him? What would I find?
“Please,” I beg, reaching for his hand, moving it to the place between my legs over the covers.
“It’s the pot,” he says, almost to himself. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me.”
Except I do want him. I know it’s wrong to want a man who ruined my family, wrong to desire a man who purchased my body. He humiliates me just to prove a point. How can that be sexy? Except he does so with such skill that I can’t help but respond, such power that my body falls under his thrall in some evolutionary equation.
He’s right about one thing—my father did fail me. And Gabriel would defend his domain with a ferocity I find seductive, the sweet ache of a barbed-wire embrace.
My body presses against him, my clit throbbing with the blunt pressure of his hand. Too light. Too indistinct. I could press a pillow between my legs after he leaves, but I don’t want that. Coarse fabric and a cold room. “I want you.”
He thrums with tension, held frozen by invisible chains. “You’re under the influence.”
I always want him. In my dreams, in the dark. A secret desire I’m afraid to admit to myself. Maybe the pot loosened my control, but the feelings were always there. “It hurts.”
Finally he snaps from his self-imposed restraint. “Show me.”
My cheeks are burning with shame, but not enough to stop me from pushing down the blanket. My legs are bare, only the thin fabric of my panties to shield me.
His eyes blaze. “All the way, little virgin. Let me see that pretty cunt.”
Shaking hands push down my panties. I press my legs together, but he shakes his head slowly. Every part of me, exposed. His. I belong to him, and that knowledge gives me the strength to spread my knees.
A shudder runs through his large frame. “God, Avery. That pussy. So pink. So fucking wet. It haunts me, the memory of you. I think I’d spend every second inside you if you were with me.”
“You said you were done with me.”
“Never. I’d never let you out of bed.”
In my high state that strikes me as funny and I giggle. “Even to shower?”
“I’d shower with you. Press you up against the glass, run my hands over your skin with soap, push
my cock into your heat. Hear your cries echo on the tile.”
My breath catches. “Do it.”
“In this place? No, I want you in my bathroom. In my bed.”
Anger rises up in me, that he’s toying with me. That he would send me away only to lure me back. The auction for my virginity may have been dirty, but at least it was honest.
“Tell me the real reason you sent me away. Not so I would run.”
He smiles slightly, looking sinister. “You think I don’t enjoy the chase?”
“You do, but that’s not why you sent me away.”
His hand trails down my arm, light and teasing. “Touch yourself, little virgin. Touch yourself, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
I shudder at the tickle of his touch, the temptation of denial. Then I smooth my hand across my tummy and down, down, down. Where I’m already wet and hot. Ready for him.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
His eyes are trained on mine. “Your clit.”
I touch the small bundle of nerves, and pleasure courses through me. “God.”
Without looking down, his eyes darken with satisfaction. Whatever he sees, it’s in my eyes. “You won’t remember this. Not anything that I say.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he says softly. “It matters that you broke down my defenses when no one else could. When I swore that I’d never let anyone close to me. Especially you.”
The final words strike against my clit, rougher than my fingertip. My hips push into my hand, desperate even while my mind struggles to make sense of him. “Why me?”
He leans close. “Faster, beautiful. Harder. The way I touch you.”
My hand moves without conscious thought, obeying him without question. I rub in harsh circles, building the pleasure higher, fighting an ache I can’t contain.
“Why?” The word comes out as a whisper.
Then his lips are inches from my ear, breath a warm caress against my cheek. “Your father did more than fail you, little virgin. He sold you. Before you ever set foot in the Den, you were already mine.”
Confusion and sensation collide, spinning wildly like a carousel, blinding, dizzy, my body out of my control, my hands, his words, before I crash in a rainbow of blissful oblivion.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up to midafternoon light and the soft hint of music. Harper sits at the table with a textbook and a latte, earphones plugged in. And beside the textbook, a chess set. A familiar one.
I sit up, wondering how much of what I remember is a dream. The auction yesterday, the barrel of sweet-smelling fire. Strange colors lighting up the sky.
Harper pulls out her headphones. “Hello, sleepyhead.”
“What’s going on?”
She laughs. “I got you a chai tea.”
There’s a white paper cup beside me on the nightstand, and I take a fortifying sip. “God, what exactly happened last night?”
“I can’t remember,” she says cheerfully. “Which is really the best kind of night.”
I groan. “Speak for yourself.”
“Don’t worry. You had a good time.”
“How do you know?”
“You aren’t wearing pants, for one thing.”
With horror I realize that I only have panties on. When did my jeans come off? Did I take them off to sleep? Gabriel’s eyes flash across my memories, and I shiver. “Oh my God.”
Harper scrunches her nose. “You remember?”
“Gabriel Miller was here.”
“Yeah,” she says, clearly trying not to look amused. “He left a calling card.”
The chess set. Not just any chess set. The chess set that he had custom carved for my arrival, the one we played with in the library. The one he used during sex.
Dread sinks in my stomach. I climb out of bed and walk closer, a heavy certainty slowing me down. I know what I’ll find. Or rather, what I won’t find. The pawn he used to circle my clit, faster and faster, until I came in harsh spasms.
The last I saw, that pawn lay discarded on his bedroom floor. Where was it now? On his nightstand, some kind of perverted trophy? Or thrown away, something he no longer wanted to use?
“I feel sick,” I whisper.
“I did notice there’s a piece missing,” she says, studying the set. The pieces have been lined up on their places, as if someone is ready to play. “It’s not very useful like this.”
There’s no way I’m going to tell her what the missing pawn means.
“Did he leave anything else?”
“Not that I know of.” She shrugs. “I guess the cleansing ritual didn’t work.”
“The what?”
“Nothing.”
I close my eyes, wishing I could remember. A little relieved that I can’t. “I need to find out who bought the house. A diary won’t be worth anything to them. Maybe they’ll give it to me. Or I can use the trust to buy it.”
“Okay,” she says. “How will you find out?”
Unfortunately there’s only one person who might tell me. “The same person who left this chess set.”
“Can I watch?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t enjoy this so much. One little phone call and your big bad stepbrother would know where you’re hiding.”
A gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
I really wouldn’t, but I just give her a serene smile. If that makes her a little less gleeful about my predicament, then it’s worth it. I already have to face down a lion. And I can’t count on Charlotte to sneak me into his office again.
There’s one place I know I can find him. The Den.
Chapter Seventeen
It’s only been three weeks since I walked down these low steps, since I stood on this rain-slicked stoop. Behind me is a dark city, the air electric with the promise of danger. Crime and sex. Mainstays of downtown Tanglewood. But I know the true risk lies in front of me. The brass ring in the lion’s mouth may as well be a loaded gun. I grasp the cold metal and knock it against the base.
The heavy door nudges open an inch. My heart thuds against my chest, echoing the single knock.
The men who frequent the Den are the most powerful in the city. A thief from the street wouldn’t steal from them unless they wanted swift retribution, even if the door is unlocked. But powerful men make powerful enemies, and leaving the door open feels reckless.
Unless they’re expecting someone.
I hold my breath, listening intently for voices inside. All I hear is the low buzz of traffic from behind me, the distant whine of a siren.
“Hello,” I call through the slim opening.
No response.
It could be suicide to enter their space uninvited, an aggressive move to a wild animal.
What if one of those powerful enemies already forced their way inside? Someone could be hurt, bleeding, dying. I know it’s an overactive imagination. No one would catch Gabriel Miller unaware. No one can touch him.
And still I don’t walk away. Something draws me inside. The force of Gabriel himself, maybe, the magnetic attraction of him. My opposite. My downfall.
I step into the dark hallway, my heart beating a hundred times a minute. And with every rapid tick I’m counting down the seconds until someone discovers me. Will they pull a gun on me? Will they shoot first and ask questions later?
It’s not only Gabriel who might find me. Any one of the dangerous men who visit might discover me. Any one of the ex-con security guards they employ might confront me.
“Gabriel?” I ask, my voice wavering. “Mr. Miller?”
He isn’t the man I came to see that first time. I had come to ask for a loan from Damon Scott. But I didn’t have anything for collateral, so he said no. The auction was my only choice.
The silence seems to echo in my eardrums, as if I’m in a giant seashell.
Leather armchairs and ornate wooden tables stand silent witness from the spacious sitting room. A grandfather clock ticks from the end of the hall, pointing
out the evening hour. Someone would be here, having a drink. Smoking a cigar. Purchasing a virgin. That’s what they do here. That’s what this place is for. So why is it empty?
“Mr. Scott?”
Before the auction Damon Scott had a photographer take pictures of me. Not naked, but almost. Wearing only my white panties and white bra, hiding my face with my hair. They were meant to generate interest in the auction among the wealthy, perverted men of the city.
Damon had only told me later that the pictures had never been circulated. Of the men at the auction, only Gabriel Miller had ever seen them.
On the first step from the bottom, something small and wooden rests.
Without touching it, I bend down to look at it. The missing pawn from the chess set. A breadcrumb to where Gabriel wants to lead me. And I know now, with this one small token, that this was all intentional. What his end goal is, I don’t know. But he planned this. He plans everything.
This pawn once touched me in my most intimate place. It was once slick with my arousal.
And Gabriel Miller sucked the wetness from the curved head.
Sidestepping the pawn, I climb the steps with increasing anxiety. What does he want from me? How does he know I’ll be here? But of course there’s no one else I can turn to, not when I need my mother’s diary.
At the top of the stairs I hesitate. I can still turn around. Back down the stairs. Out into the city. I can leave this behind—Gabriel Miller and the shameful auction. And the key to unlock my family’s history.
Lifting my chin, I walk down the narrow hallway. I might as well be facing a guillotine. A firing squad. The death of any pride I have left.
The room where the photographer took my pictures has the same surreal, wavy light from my dreams. Some trick of the old windows, bubbles in the glass and ripples in the surface. The light changes color with every blink, dancing over my skin.
Except the room is empty. I take two steps inside. Where is he?
“Kneel,” comes a low voice from behind me.
My breath catches. This is how it feels to be the fly in a web. Anything I do will only bind me tighter. Will you fight me? he asked. Because he wants to tie me down.
