by Skye Warren
Outside I find Cody and Laney waiting by the beat-up white truck, Cody looking miserable, his shoulders slumped as if perpetually protecting himself. He actually looks better than Elijah—no black eyes or visible bruises. I think they’re all on his ribs. His father hits him where it can’t be seen.
I move to hug him, but he takes a reflexive step back.
My face falls, but I struggle to act casual. “I heard we’re going for a drive.”
“Happy birthday,” he says, apology in his voice. “I got you a present, but it’s… I lost it.”
More likely his father found it, whatever it was, and beat him for it. Acid rises in my throat. I hate not being able to do anything about it.
Maybe on the drive I can convince him Liam can help.
“The only thing I want for my birthday is hanging out with you,” I say, climbing into the truck. I don’t know how much a normal high school experience really helped me. The endless classes and exams when all I really wanted to do was play the violin. Having Laney and Cody as friends is different. If this is what normal means, I understand why it’s so important.
I know without asking that we’re heading to the lake, where trails lead to a rocky swimming hole. We go there a lot to hang out. Except we barely get ten minutes from home before headlights appear behind us, way too close to the truck. Cody swears in surprise. “What the hell?”
“Oh my God,” I moan. “He said he would be discreet.”
Laney turns in her seat. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s not anyone from North Security. It’s a Crown Victoria, late nineties model.”
She has that kind of detailed knowledge of random things, so I trust her. The North Security vehicles are all black Explorers designed to hold a maximum number of people, and a couple large trucks for hauling supplies.
“Then who is it?” Cody says as the car behind us speeds up.
Impact. We’re jolted forward as the car slams into the truck. Cody swerves hard but manages to keep the truck on the road.
“No one we want to meet,” I say, gripping the leather seat. “Keep going.”
It comes to me with calm certainty—this is about my father.
A child who might remember something from when she was hiding under her father’s desk. Not only from the day he died. From before that. A phone call. A conversation.
I still don’t remember anything. There were diplomats and formal dinners where I would be forced to wear itchy dresses. Endless phone calls where I would play with my doll underneath his desk. What could I have heard that’s dangerous? Maybe Liam is right. It doesn’t matter what I’ve heard. It only matters that someone thinks I might know something.
The car behind us speeds up, pulling alongside. “Oh shit,” Laney says.
They’re trying to run us off the road. The crunch of metal. Cody fights to keep the truck straight. If we go off the road right now, we’ll head straight into a ditch—and then be sitting ducks. Elijah taught me self-defense, but I have a feeling the man in that car has a gun.
A burst of light as a large black SUV jumps onto the road, headlights overbright, engine smooth and loud. It must be Liam in one of the Explorers. He slams into the Crown Vic, pushing it into the embankment instead of us.
Cody fights the steering, but we’re going too fast. There’s a loud pop as the ancient white pickup truck is pushed one mile past its endurance. The truck swerves hard, almost flipping over, before it rocks back onto four wheels.
There’s a shout. A wild cry.
The whole world shakes as we leave the pavement and hit sliding rocks.
A tree looms ahead in the windshield. We’re slowing down, but not fast enough. We slam into the trunk with a loud thunk and the punch of a half-inflated, ancient, yellowed airbag.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The London Symphony Orchestra was booked to travel on the Titanic’s maiden voyage, but they changed boats at the last minute.
LIAM
The man driving the Crown Victoria has pale eyes and a scar across his left eye. I put a bullet in the middle of his forehead before he can talk. There’s a half second of regret about that. He could have had useful information, though probably not. And he deserved a painful death. But I can’t risk the fucker hurting anyone while I’m losing my mind with worry. I sprint across the road to the white truck, which smokes from its rumpled hood. By the time I get there Cody is helping Laney out. Samantha pushes her way out from the other side, in time for me to catch her in my arms.
“Are you okay? Talk to me.” I run my hands over her body, searching for injuries. The whole chase probably lasted two and a half seconds, but it’s more than enough for someone to be hurt. For someone to be killed. The human body is so fucking fragile.
She pushes at my hands. “I’m fine. Liam, I’m fine.”
I hold myself back long enough to study her face. Her brown eyes are wide with worry. Tear tracks glisten down her cheeks. “I’m not,” I say hoarsely. “I’m not fucking fine.”
Then I clutch her to my chest, trying in vain to control the wild beat of my heart. I feel like some kind of feral creature. I want to beat the earth and howl at the moon. I want to find the fuckers who sent an assassin after Samantha and rip them apart with my bare hands.
All I can do is stand here and hold her—and hold her. And hold her. It’s woefully inadequate, but the alternative is to lose my fucking mind, and she needs me right now.
It feels like an eternity, the perfect clock in my head gone haywire. Three Explorers pull up, my brothers descending with harsh efficiency to handle the body, to check on Laney and Cody, to get the local law enforcement involved. That last one is a courtesy. We all know with grim and silent communication that we’ll find the fuckers behind this and dispose of them ourselves.
Josh tries to take her from me. “I’m not sure she can breathe,” he says.
Of course she can breathe. I have my hand on her back, feeling her lungs move. I’ve touched her pulse. Even the tears that dampen her lashes. I need to feel those signs of life.
Elijah shows up with a grim face. “No ID on the body. The tags are cut off his clothes. The VIN number filed off the car. The sheriff’s going to call in the FBI on this.”
Christ, this place was going to be a circus in a matter of minutes.
“I’m taking her back to the house. They can question us there once they’ve processed the scene.”
“They aren’t going to like the shooter leaving,” Josh says, rueful.
“Wait,” Samantha says, struggling to step back. “I’m not going to leave Laney and Cody here.”
“They’ll be safe,” I say, lifting her body into the air and hauling her to the nearest company car. She gasps in shock, fighting me before I click the seat belt into place and shut the door. Her loyalty to her friends is admirable, but they have a goddamn army to protect them in case there are any more mercenaries lurking in these woods.
And I’m not going to leave Samantha exposed out here for one more second, not for anything, not when I feel her trembling in my arms.
When we get home, I carry her upstairs, even though she protests she can walk. I consider taking her to my room—I want her in my bed, where she’ll be safe. And never leave.
Instead I force myself to carry her to her bedroom. I set her down on the warm tile of her bathroom floor as I turn the water to hot and fill the tub.
She works at the hem of her shirt, getting herself caught in the fabric. She’s too worked up to undress herself—and so I’ll do it for her. I unveil each inch of skin with undue care, mindful of bruises that might form in the next few hours, even days. Small quivers take her muscles, a reminder that she isn’t as composed as she wants me to think.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen her fully naked.
Even with danger so nearby, my body reacts to hers with intense arousal. As I pull her panties down her legs, exposing her slender thighs and the dark curls between them, my cock reacts with a throb. I want
the ultimate sign of life, her cunt pulsing around me, slick and warm and soft. She looks like a dream, full of rosy peach hues and creamy vanilla. There is no end to the places I want to taste her. I could make her stand in the foyer as a living statue. It’s sick, the ways I want to see her, use her, the ideas her bare body gives me. Depraved.
Instead I help her into the bathtub, where I wash her with soap. Everywhere. Even when she blushes and murmurs in embarrassment, I slide the soap over her nipples and between her legs. Between the firm cheeks of her ass. There is a primal need inside me, to serve her, to care for her, and I’m as helpless to the urge as she is. She’s Venus with her upturned breasts and demure pose. Her hair falling around her in erotic abandon. There’s never been anything more beautiful than this. Enough to bring a man to his knees. Enough to make me wish I was anything other than her former guardian.
I use the peach-scented bottles to wash and shampoo her hair, my rough hands working carefully through the strands, making them lather and then cream and then clean again.
When she’s dry, I tuck her into bed with its pale pink sheets and white lace coverlet, with the cream-colored throw pillow with a brown violin embroidered on it. God, she looks so vulnerable in that bed. So vulnerable and impossibly strong. The urge to hold her runs through me, a physical sensation that makes me tremble.
I turn to leave her, forcing myself to let her rest. She deserves that much.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
The bed is twin-size, which isn’t enough for the both of us. And it highlights how young she is, how wrong I was to ever let her climb into my king-size bed down the hall.
Shivers run through her, and I climb in behind her, pulling her close into the fortress of my body. My eyes are wide. Sleep will be impossible tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe ever. All I can do is watch over her. No one will touch her.
She drifts into a restless slumber, her body warm but still shivering.
SAMANTHA
Liam wakes me up just before midnight, nudging me gently out of the hazy, dark sinkhole of dreams. It takes me a moment to remember that the crash wasn’t only in my imagination. New twinges wake up throughout my body as I move to stand, and I can’t hide a wince.
“Dr. Foster’s downstairs,” he says, a knowing sympathy in his eyes. “And the police want to ask some questions. I’ve given them fifteen minutes. They know you need to sleep.”
I manage a wry smile. “If a question gets too personal, you’ll step in?”
He raises an eyebrow, bemused by my mood. I’m bemused, too. It’s a strange thing to realize I miss his overprotective tendencies. Maybe that’s how I truly know I’ve grown up—that I can long for the relative safety of my childhood with Liam North.
But the detectives are courteous and professional. Unlike the reporter, they haven’t been digging into my personal background before they show up. They aren’t aware there’s any connection between my father and what happened tonight. Did the driver interact with you before he rammed from behind? Do you know why he was chasing you?
They show me a photo of him, leaning back in the driver’s seat, a neat hole in the center of his forehead. I shiver, and Liam rubs slow circles on my back. Have you seen him before?
No, no, and no.
The doctor looks me over and declares me healthy—some bruising, he says, offering a prescription that is guaranteed to numb the pain.
“No,” I say because I think the nightmares may be worse.
Liam accepts the bottle with a grim nod, keeping it safe in case I need it.
Then he takes me back upstairs and tucks me into bed. “What about Laney?” I ask, pain and adrenaline making me jittery. “What about Cody’s truck? His dad—”
“I know,” Liam says, his green eyes fathomless. “I’ll take care of them.”
“You said he’s not your business.”
“I was wrong, Samantha.”
I clasp his wrist in a wordless plea, feeling the interplay of tendon and muscle, a silent string instrument in the form of a man.
He climbs into the bed behind me, his warmth an immediate comfort.
“You don’t have to stay.” I close my hand around his arm, pressing my fingers along the strings as if it were the neck of a violin—G4, D4, A4, E5.
He doesn’t move, but I feel his gentle amusement ripple the air. “Let me,” he murmurs. “After seeing the truck go off the road, I’m definitely going to have nightmares.”
And I sink back into the murky sleep, the one with my father shouting, pleading, cursing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In addition to being a composer and talented violinist, Vivaldi was ordained by the Catholic Church. He was given the nickname The Red Priest in reference to his hair color.
LIAM
In my dream there are soft hands exploring me.
These are the hands of a violinist, incredibly swift and strong and sure. I suck in a breath when they find a decades-old cut on my side. It feels like a lance, the gentle fingertip tracing the scar. They move lower, lower, lower. The backs of delicate knuckles brush against stiff denim, a butterfly beating its wings against a boulder—and breaking it apart.
I roll the warm weight of her beneath me, determined to extract payment. My dick throbs with years of unspent desire. My hands aren’t nearly so soft. I’m going to rip her silk-flutter skin the way I’m grabbing her, holding her, using her, but I can’t make myself stop.
It’s a dream; I don’t have to stop.
I press my face into her hair, breathing in the sun-drenched strands. Her skin feels impossibly smooth against my cheek, beneath my lips. I lick her to see if she tastes as sweet. Like the velvet skin of a peach, holding such treasure inside.
The curve of her neck and the place it joins her shoulder. That’s where I bite down, reveling in the squeak of sound she makes, the way she stiffens beneath my thighs. Afraid. Afraid. Afraid. She should be scared of me. It would take so little force to break the skin. I must be careful. Even in my dream, I can’t hurt her.
I turn my attention lower, to the slope of her breast. The faint memory of black ruffles threatens the edges of my mind… but there is no silk here. There’s only a thin T-shirt, and the warning bells recede. My tongue finds her nipple, teasing until it becomes hard enough to bite through the fabric. I’ve never been tame.
Even when I stand in a suit, in a roomful of a hundred other people, I’m a wild animal wearing clothes. The fact that I choose not to rage and rip and roar does not change who I am.
During sex my base nature reveals fully.
I close my lips around her breast, sucking her through the cotton. My hand plays with her other nipple, which is already hard; it wants my attention there, my mouth.
“Oh God,” someone moans, but I must have imagined that.
I find the hem of her shirt and lift until her breasts are exposed to the cool night air. I nuzzle them from underneath, where a deep warmth permeates her skin. And then higher, to her nipple. This is her punishment for touching me, from waking me from hibernation.
She tastes so goddamn sweet. Like sunshine made flesh.
One of my knees nudges her legs apart. My hips settle against hers in an ages-old formation. There’s a warm notch for my cock. Even through her panties and my jeans, I can feel the cradle of her body. It’s the perfect place to settle while I kiss her breasts.
Forever. That’s how long I could remain here, feeling her warmth, petting her softness while she writhes in helpless welcome. While she makes little sounds.
Her hips move against me, hesitant and hungry.
“That’s right,” I mutter against her nipple, licking in approval. “Make yourself ready for me. I’m so fucking hard right now. I need you soft and ready.”
If she isn’t, I could hurt her—bruise her secret muscles or tear her tender folds. I clasp her hip and hitch her against me to show her the rhythm. When she comes, her tight little body will clench and release liquid that will ease the way.
Those inquisitive little hands grasp my side, my back, struggling to hold on as the climax rises up. My cock throbs in desperation, feeling the gush of liquid heat. She cries out, and I capture the sound in my mouth, sliding my tongue against hers.
She comes in exquisite little pulses, legs clamping around my body, moaning into my mouth, vibrations I can feel down to my soul. Her body collapses back against the sheets, legs splayed open, arms beside her head. She’s never been more beautiful.
“Don’t stop now,” Dream Samantha says.
Why does she think I would stop? My cock is hard enough to split in half, made of marble, brought to the breaking point. She’s soft and ready for me.
I reach to shove down my jeans. There’s no time for anything else; I push aside the wet fabric of her panties. A small pile of curls and slick flesh. Heat races chills along my spine. I press the head of my cock to her—and push push push.
A short, muffled scream of pain pierces the air.
SAMANTHA
Liam stops moving, but it does not quiet the chaos. The pulse beating in my ears, the ache in my breasts. The throbbing between my legs. I shouldn’t have made a sound. I tried to be quiet. Everyone knows the first time will hurt, but it took me by surprise—both the flash of pain and the fullness. God, the fullness. It’s like having a club inside me. Or maybe the curved head of a violin. Something that most definitely does not fit.
“You’re not a dream,” Liam says, his voice thick as honey.
“A dream?” I say faintly. My legs are spread wide, his body shoving inside me, and he thinks I might not be real. I have the sudden wild urge to giggle—wholly inappropriate. The words a condom is mandatory float through my mind. Preposterous, things like practicality, in the face of his wild animal need.