by Renee Rocco
“Nah, this is bullshit.” I slap away her hands and stalk off, putting as much distance between us as the cell allows.
“I swear to God, Wraith, it’s not.” She takes a step toward me. Stops. Raises her chin, her pride wrapped around her like a barrier between her and the world. “I am getting you home. This will happen. You can be an active participant, or I can drag you behind me as I leave. But I promise you that when I walk out of Gomorrah, you’re coming with me.”
I want to believe her. Holy fuck, I need to believe her. I’ve gone over every obstacle in my head a million times. The armed guards. The zillion friggin’ cameras. The attack dogs. There’s no way I’m getting out of here without help. That leaves me three choices. Accept dying in the cage. Dying down here in the dungeon. Or, I can take a chance on Jamie.
Worst-case scenario, I’m dead no matter how it ends.
I march toward her and invade her space, towering over her. Purposely use my size to intimidate her. “You bust me out, and it doesn’t end there. You understand what I’m telling you?”
She shakes her head, her brown hair tumbling over her shoulders in long waves. The years have been both cruel and kind to her. Her face has matured, but she hasn’t aged, as if she’s been carved from marble. Unchanged and enigmatic. But her eyes tell the story of what she’s suffered. They always have, and it’s in them that I see old pain buried beneath fresh torment.
Hunger and frenzy beat a dangerous rhythm as I mold her to chest. Feel her heat seep into me when I lower my head and kiss away her misery. God, she’s so tiny. So damn delicate. I want to be gentle. Prove to myself I’m still me. Not the monster born in the arena and nurtured in the torture room. But when she doesn’t push away, doesn’t stop me, my control slips the instant my lips touch hers.
Jamie’s my anchor in a violent sea. I force open her mouth and sweep my tongue past the barrier of her teeth. I swallow her moan and answer with a growl. She tastes of sunshine and freedom, and I drink her in even though I’m everything dirty and disgusting.
The kiss is beyond feral. Beyond savage, and when I move my hand to her breast, the nipple hardens under my rough palm. I smile against her mouth, at how she leans into my touch. At the arch of her spine and the fingers kneading my back.
My shorts are suddenly too snug, and my skin is on fire. Muscles strain, and veins pulsate under feverish flesh. Her palms graze down my sides to settle on my hips. I grind my erection against the juncture of her thighs to ease the pressure, but it only amplifies my need to plunge into her heat.
She snakes her arms around my waist and pulls me closer. Melts into me, raw and open. I’m a breath away from hiking up her dress and ripping off her panties. To take what she’s offering and ease my ache, but reality invades the edges of my mind, reminding me we’re on camera. The guards can’t hear us, but they sure as shit can see us, and I’m not too far gone that I’ll fuck Jamie with those bastards watching.
I shove her away and jerk my chin at the camera. “We have an audience.”
“No, we don’t. I had them turn off the cameras.”
“Come down here often?” I remark with a smirk.
“Don’t be an ass,” she snaps. “How am I supposed to plan an escape if I can’t move freely?”
Christ, this woman is for unreal. “You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Wraith, I’m fucking serious.”
“You get me out of Gomorrah, and I’ll get you to Mayhem.” I cradle my injured hand to my chest. “Then I’m coming back to kill your husband.”
She licks her lips. “Fair enough.”
I can’t watch when she hits the red button. Or when Lyle rushes in to return her to her to the outside world. But after she’s gone and the dungeon quiets for the night, I lay on the wet mattress, smiling up at the ceiling, left alone with the lingering scent of honeysuckle and the satisfaction of knowing I’m going to make Jamie Ellis a widow.
4
Jamie
“Jamie, are you with us today?”
Only in body. Never in spirit.
And I swear to God, if Barbara Hale snaps those pudgy fingers in my face one more time, I’m going to tell her where she can shove her whole hand.
The aging blonde, with her gravity-defying bouffant, turns to address her two minions. “I don’t believe she’s heard a word we’ve said all morning.”
No, I haven’t. That would mean I’ve been paying attention, and I try to do that as little as possible whenever I participate in what David calls “wifely activities.” Sunday brunch with the harpies has always topped the list of one of my least favorites of them.
Surrounded by extravagance feels dirty as I nurse a cappuccino and struggle to maintain a serene expression to mask the anger and disgust simmering beneath my composed exterior. Six months. For six months, David has been hiding Wraith beneath my nose under the guise of Atticus.
My God, how could I have been so blind?
So willfully ignorant?
Eleanor Raleigh gives a dramatic shiver. “I’ve heard Atticus is a beast. I’m surprised Jamie can walk.” She leans forward in the chair, her white pantsuit baggy on her frail frame. Her husband’s mistress is waif thin, so now this woman rarely eats, hoping to win her heartless husband’s affection. “Tell us, Jamie, how was it? Is he as spectacular as they say?”
Wow. It took less than twenty-four hours for my trip to the dungeon to make the rounds. News spreads fast among Marion County’s elite, but I think this sets a new record. Not that I’m surprised. Gomorrah’s champion and its queen engaging in an illicit tryst is prime fodder for the gossip mill. Communication satellites must have fallen out of the sky, burnt out from overuse due to all the cell phone activity once the guards “leaked” the word that I’d visited Wraith.
Julia Anderson sets the Wedgwood teacup on the glass-top table, her expression pinched with jealousy. “Jamie keeps her secrets close to her heart. Don’t you, dear?”
You have no idea.
Of all the women—these frenemies—Julia scares me most. She’s in love with my husband. She also happens to be married to the county’s chief financial officer. Not that David would do anything to jeopardize his relationship with Peter Anderson.
Or could, for that matter.
Oh, yes, I’ve got secrets for days.
“Hush, Julia,” Barbara chides. As the mayor’s wife, she was the reigning queen before I came along and knocked her off her pedestal. She tolerates me because she has no choice. “Give us something, Jamie.”
I press my fingertips to lips that resonate with the hum of Wraith’s kiss. His strength is as terrifying as it is thrilling and being around him made me feel sixteen all over again. Like we were back in the schoolyard and my soul was his to take, cherish, or ruin at his will.
Before I was stupid enough to destroy it for him.
I muzzle my conscience because I can’t undo the wrong choices that brought me to this moment. I’m already saturated with regret and drowning in guilt. All I can do is break the surface and do what I can to right those mistakes.
The weight of three sets of eyes has me wanting to leap up from the table, smash the solarium’s glass walls and ceiling, and run as fast and as far from this luxurious jail as my legs can carry me. But I can’t, because lives depend on me. And the harpies are waiting for an answer.
I fold my hands on my lap, my composure a shield against the world. Avocado toast sits in my stomach like a brick. “Atticus is everything they say he is.”
Saying that name tastes disgusting in my mouth.
“Honestly, Jamie.” Eleanor huffs. “Anyone with vision can see he’s an impressive specimen.”
As if she’s referring to a thing, a science experiment, rather than an actual person.
A person who comforted me a teenager when no one else gave a crap if I was hurting or lonely or afraid. A boy who broke through my defenses as if they were made of tissue rather than stone.
When I was young, I dreamed of thi
ngs other kids took for granted. Things like bedtime stories and trips to the park. Family dinners and movie nights. I imagined coming home from school to someone happy to see me. Someone who didn’t hurt me and who wasn’t drunk and angry at the world because he made lazy choices.
Someone who loved me.
During Pennsylvania’s endless winters, I took refuge inside Mayhem’s public library and lost myself in musty books no one but me had opened. I traveled everywhere through those pages. The fantastical stories brought me to the pyramids of Giza. The ruins of the Parthenon. Took me on exciting safaris and swept me away to the castles of medieval Europe. They showed me the world and lit a spark that still burns bright enough to keep the shadows at bay.
Those medieval castles left the biggest impression. I envied those majestic fortresses, with their massive walls. Impenetrable walls. Walls that became the blueprint of my survival.
Brick by brick, I built my own wall, until I constructed an indestructible barrier to protect me from hateful words and heavy fists. But a boy with a cocky grin and mischievous brown eyes put a crack in my beautiful wall.
I was supposed to fear Eric Shaw. Everyone did, including adults. But how could I be frightened of him when he became my haven? No matter how strong the winds blew, how turbulent the sea, I knew I would be safe as long as Eric was my harbor when the storm raged around me.
The day I was arrested, I left my heart with the beautiful delinquent I loved since kindergarten. And last night, when Wraith told me Eric is dead, I saw right through his lie. He could never hide himself from me. I always saw the compassionate heart hidden beneath the bad reputation.
I didn’t intended to admit my connection to David, hoping to delay the inevitable a while longer. But I’m vulnerable around Wraith, same as when we were kids. Back then, momentary bouts of recklessness resulted in beatings from my father that left scars on me I carry to this day.
Now, the stakes are higher. Carelessness can get me killed.
Get us both killed.
“We want details,” Barbara demands, her brown eyes wide, her red lips curled in a hungry grin.
Wolves are less bloodthirsty.
I remember every time Wraith had my back, and I level a glare at the harpies. I’ll give him the same loyalty he always gave me. “Atticus doesn’t like to be visited.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jamie,” Eleanor snaps. She sips her coffee. What I’d like to do is slap the cup up in the shrew’s face. “It’s what they sign up for.”
I slant a curious expression at my three guests. “What if they didn’t sign up for this?”
Barbara’s brow furrows. “For what, dear?”
“To fight and be...visited.”
Raped.
I can’t say the vile word aloud.
“But they did,” Julia Anderson says, her tone crisp.
“Even if they didn’t, what does it matter?” Barbara waves a dismissive hand. “Who are they to us?”
Loathing creates yet another layer between me and these grotesque creatures. I was happier, and safer, when I was homeless than I am sitting in this nest of vipers.
Eleanor falls right back into the conversation without missing a beat. “To hear Rebecca Mallory tell it, the man is a beast.” She lowers her voice to a loud whisper. “He had sex with her against the wall. Left bruises on her. It’s a scandal.”
Oh my, not against the wall.
I saw worse than that when I was a teenager walking home from Apple Grove Park and had to pass through Mayhem’s red-light district. And seriously, at Eleanor’s age, if she thinks sex against a wall is scandalous, maybe the woman should take a lover. One who’ll rip off those nude stockings, tie her up with them, and expand her horizons.
Oh, and according to the rumor mill, it takes more than a little rough sex to scandalize Rebecca Mallory. She and her district attorney husband are regulars in the Coliseum’s brothel, and they’re into some kinky stuff. But if everyone involved are consenting adults, to each their own.
That’s another reason why David has to die. Because some people are too evil to live.
Not everyone who works in the brothel are consenting.
Nor are they adults.
David truly is a monster.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
Speak of the devil, and he will appear.
I swivel on the plush white chair and beam a false smile at David as he enters the solarium. I’m ever the happy wife when in public. In private, he knows I’d love nothing more than to slit his throat. Guess that’s why he never insisted I move into his bedroom after the wedding.
The cut of David’s beige Tom Ford suit fits his lean frame to perfection. His blond hair, as always, is impeccable. His deceptively handsome face hides a soul black enough to blot out the sun. He comes to stand beside my chair, and the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck rise. He lifts my hand to his lips, his air of crisp arrogance enough to send a chill skittering down my spine. The hint of a frown mars his perfectly plucked eyebrows as he places a feathery kiss on my knuckles.
In my peripheral, I see Julia square her shoulders. Her cheeks flush as she smooths her hands over the floral skirt of her cotton sundress.
“You look lovely.” David drops my hand. His baritone, smooth as silk, has the desired effect. The ladies are charmed by his sickeningly charismatic grin. His veneers are a perfect shade of white and as fake as the rest of him—including his southern drawl. He’s a snake-oil salesman. A self-made multimillionaire who amassed his fortune selling a fantasy to Florida’s narcissistic aristocracy. “I’m afraid I have to borrow my wife for a moment.”
Barbara glances at the platinum and diamond Cartier watch wrapped around her wrist. “Brunch is over, ladies.” Then to me, “Jamie, as always, it’s been a pleasure.”
I force a smile. “I look forward to next week.”
No, I do not.
Eleanor follows Barbara’s lead, collecting her pocketbook before heading for the door. Julia’s in no rush, rising from the table and taking a moment to admire the backyard’s lavish flower garden. I wonder if she imagines herself as mistress of the manor. She can have the keys to the kingdom. What I wanted was a roof and a full belly. All that comes with it, including David’s master plan? It’s some sinister shit, and she can burn along with him when Wraith puts the match to the wood.
As Julia sashays past David, she brushes her shoulder against him, and I have to hold in a laugh. Good Lord, she’s a bold one. I admire her brass. But then, everyone here is open about their extracurricular affairs, bless their hearts. And David, for all his power-tripping, watches her with an unguarded longing that fills me with wicked enjoyment at their star-crossed lovers nonsense because I know what Julia doesn’t.
I know his secret.
This whole thing, the Coliseum and the arena, it’s payback against the teenagers who maimed him when he was a child. David took that trauma and turned it into this evil. He hurts others because he can’t take revenge on the boys who hurt him. And as his wife—his virgin wife—I’m the only person who knows the rape he suffered left him impotent.
As soon as everyone is gone, David returns to his usual, ruthless self. His expression goes cold, and my heart freezes as a wave of fear crashes over me.
“Why now?”
I stand because the last thing I want is my husband lording over me. Feigning amusement, I match his callousness. I hate pretending to be this character, but it’s how I survived this long in David’s world. “Because it’s time.”
He clenches his jaw, and I resist the urge to back away. To put myself out of striking distance. “Why him?”
“You can’t be serious.” I don’t know how I pull off my forced amusement.
“I’m deadly serious, my love.”
“Why not him?” My mouth is dry and my heart kick-starts, hammering a painful beat against my sternum, but I keep my expression neutral. “Don’t make a federal case out of it, David. It had to be done.”
�
�I don’t like it,” he snaps.
I shouldn’t provoke his temper, but nor can I allow this man to intimidate me. I give him that inch, he’ll take a mile, and I’ll lose what small ground I gained over the last two years. “And I don’t appreciate your tone.”
His lips thin to an angry line. “I won’t indulge in your nostalgia.”
“For Mayhem?” I laugh dismissively. “Come on, now. You know me better than that.”
And it’s true. I don’t have a single sentimental bone in my body for Mayhem. My worst memories were created there, and although I made new unpleasant ones elsewhere, nothing compares to what I suffered while living under my father’s roof.
“You could have had any of them, but you chose Atticus.”
I throw my hands in the air, affecting exasperation. “Women talk, David. You can’t blame me for wanting to finally find out, firsthand, if he’s worth the hype.”
His searching scowl unnerves me, but I don’t bristle under its weight. “And is he?”
David’s tone is laced with more than mild interest. I can’t tell if it’s because he wants to know if the rumors regarding Wraith’s sexual prowess are true, or if I, personally, enjoyed the experience.
My sly grin is practiced, and every word and gesture are an act of survival. “Yes.”
“You had them turn off the cameras.” David walks to the wall of windows and stares out over the manicured grounds.
“I won’t apologize for demanding my privacy.” I notch my chin, silently daring him to overstep his bounds. “You laid out the terms of our marriage, not me. You live your life, I live mine. Remember? Well, this is me living mine, and I didn’t want your guards jerking off to me having sex.”
The Coliseum’s cameras are always on, always recording. David can bullshit the guards into believing it’s for a client’s protection, but he can’t con me. He records visitations for blackmailing purposes.
Also, David likes to watch.
His kink and need for control are the keys to his empire’s destruction.
