Chapter Twenty-Two
M athias sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the sitting room, his wrists zip-tied to the armrests.
Once they’d picked themselves off the floor, the two Albanian half-wits had restrained him at Marsela’s instruction.
They weren’t taking any more chances. Mathias tested the tautness of the restraints to find there was no give.
Marsela waited by the door to the room, his gun held loosely in her manicured hand.
She’d kept it leveled at his head while her lackeys wrestled him into the chair, and it served as enough of an incentive for Mathias to play nice.
With brute force off the table, he was going to have to get creative.
She said something in Albanian, and the two men slipped quietly into the entranceway, closing the door behind them. Marsela locked it with a flourish and walked over to place his gun down on the table by the wall. She stood before Mathias, studying him curiously.
“You must have really scared those boys. I gave them clear instructions to keep their hands to themselves.” She let out a laugh. “But then, here I was thinking you’d come easy. I guess it can’t be helped.”
Marsela reached into the purse looped over her shoulder and pulled out a pack of clove cigarettes and a silver lighter.
“Do you like it?” she asked, gesturing at the cavernous room.
“There are so many beautiful summer homes in the area. Used for only a few months, and then the rest of the year, they sit empty. The owner of this one was overjoyed to find someone willing to rent it out of season. And so quiet. No one for miles.” She lit the cigarette and took a delicate draw through her pursed red lips.
“As you’ve probably gathered, I have no interest in antiques.
But I would very much like to know what you’ve done with our merchandise. ”
“I thought we’d already established what I knew.”
“You’re lying.” She exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “The group I represent has a great deal of interest in where that product ends up.”
“And what group would that be? It’s hard to keep track of the Albanian mafia.”
Marsela’s expression flattened. “It would be unfortunate to involve an innocent man like yourself in something so unsavory.”
“You already involved me by attempting to smuggle your narcotics through my business.”
Marsela gave him a knowing look. “That’s not really why you’re here though, is it?
” She moved toward him with an easy smile.
“See, I know men like you, Mr. Beauvais. Men who go out looking for excitement. A beautiful woman takes an interest, and you think you can play on her level, dabble in things above your pay grade.” Marsela reached out to brush the tips of her fingers across his bruised cheek and made a low tutting sound.
“What a shame to mess up such a handsome face. They’re a bunch of apes. There’s a far cleaner way to do this.”
She took one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it with the toe of her boot.
She withdrew a small syringe from her purse and uncapped the end.
“I thought you’d like to sample the merchandise you’ve so brazenly stolen from us.
It’s very popular on both sides of the channel.
It has a way of making people more cooperative.
That’s what I feel we’ve been missing from you, Mathias—a little cooperation. ”
He felt a sharp sting as she plunged the needle into his neck and released the contents of the syringe into his veins.
Mathias gave a grunt when she pulled out the needle and tossed it to the floor.
Despite his proximity to the stuff, Mathias had never been tempted to dabble.
He knew a thing or two about the various highs and lows the family peddled, but he despised the humiliation that accompanied the drugs—how they rendered users sloppy, caricature-like.
The loss of control alone was enough to put him off.
There was a slight tingle in his fingers.
He clenched one fist and then the other, yet his head remained clear.
Either the shit she’d injected him with was slow release, or he had a greater tolerance than she realized.
But the woman didn’t need to know that. Mathias relaxed his shoulders and sank lower into the chair.
Marsela’s face lit up with amusement. “Look at you. Not a tiger anymore—just a tomcat. I bet if I scratched behind your ears, I could make you purr.” She grazed his shoulder with the palm of her hand, her voice lowering.
“Now that we’re getting to know each other, I’ll confess I enjoyed our first meeting.
Your defiance was… unexpected. It made me want to see you again.
That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Hiding what’s mine in some elaborate attempt to capture my attention. Well, you have it.”
Mathias almost snorted in disbelief. He remembered the way her hand had lingered on his chest at the warehouse and the look she’d flashed him. He’d assumed she was toying with him—a classic flex of soft intimidation. Yet it appeared she was completely serious.
Women like Marsela—bold, attractive, imperious—seemed to think they were entitled to whatever they wanted.
He knew then the reason behind her puzzling pursuit—why she hadn’t simply arrived with muscle and strong-armed him into returning what was hers.
She’d drawn it out, a lioness playing with her food, because it wasn’t just the drugs she was after.
There was a time when Mathias had made a game of picking up women. He discovered he could pull as easily as ordering a drink. While the encounters had left him cold, they’d aided him in his denial and bolstered the lies he told himself. For if this was true, surely the other thing wasn’t.
Mathias cocked his head with a slow smile. “Was it that obvious?”
A pleased flush rose to Marsela’s cheeks. She leaned in, her fingers at the nape of his neck. “You like to play with fire, don’t you? You’re not the first. I’ve fucked many men who want to see how close to the flame they can get.”
His eyes locked on hers. “Close enough to touch.”
Marsela let out a murmur of pleasure. “I thought so.” She lifted her knee and pressed it between his legs. “I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”
“I didn’t come here for gentle.”
“But you’re forgetting,” she whispered, teasing, drawing her lips along his jaw. “Your hands are tied.”
He angled his chin to press his mouth to her ear and felt her shiver beneath his touch. “I only need the one.”
Then he felt it, a rush like he was falling forward headfirst. A liquid warmth spread through his limbs, expanding him. His body spilled outside the lines, feeling everything—the rub of the ties around his wrists, the chair pressing into his back, the brush of air against his skin.
Fuck.
Marsela straddled his lap and reached down to pull a small knife from her heeled boot. She used it to slice through the tie restraining his right wrist. “You’d better be right-handed,” she said and crushed her mouth against his.
Despite the drug-induced euphoria, Mathias fought the immediate recoil.
His head spun as the cloying scent of her perfume filled his nostrils.
Through the haze, he became aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, her hand trailing down to the buckle of his belt.
He pushed back against the demanding buck of her hips and returned the kiss with a leaden automation as he raised his hand to her neck and slid it beneath the silk scarf.
She gave a mewling moan and thrust her tongue into his mouth, wet and probing.
Mathias curled his fingers around the scarf and pulled taut.
Marsela’s head snapped back, and her hands scrabbled at her neck, gagging as Mathias held firm.
She slipped from his lap to her knees before him, the blood rising to her face as her eyes bulged.
Mathias waited, an almost hypnotic calm coming over him.
He knew how long to hold until her eyes rolled back into her head—knew how easy it would be to wait her out, listen for the last ragged breath before the silence that followed.
He was outside himself, watching his movements like a character on a screen.
It was unfortunate that she hadn’t seen it—the darkness in him.
She’d gravely underestimated his true nature.
Then, amid the addled mess inside his mind, an image arose from earlier that morning—Rayan splayed out in their bed, bathed in sunlight, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
… exactly as you are.
Mathias was no longer observing himself but was back in his body, and the strength in his fingers slackened.
He released his grip, and Marsela fell backward onto the floor, coughing.
He reached for the fallen knife with his free hand and cut through the remaining tie, his actions sluggish and clumsy.
Marsela lay on the floor, sucking in jagged breaths.
She held one hand protectively over her throat as the blood slowly retreated from her face.
He crouched and unknotted the scarf from her neck, seeing where the fabric had cut into her skin, then used it to tie her hands behind her back.
A strangled sound escaped her mouth, but whatever she was trying to communicate was unintelligible.
He thought about the two lackeys waiting outside the door.
She must have had a history of these kinds of encounters if the thumps and gasps that had accompanied their little scuffle hadn’t been concerning enough for the thugs to make an appearance.
The noises had probably matched what they were expecting.
Mathias retrieved his gun from the table. It was clunky and unfamiliar in his hand. Another wave cascaded over his body, and it felt as though he’d been submerged in warm water.
“What the…?” His voice sounded different, not his own.
He’d come here with a plan, but the particulars had gotten lost in the swirl of sensation.
His thoughts kept slipping as he tried to determine what to do next.
He couldn’t just stroll through the front door.
He’d had enough trouble with Marsela’s men while not doped out of his brain.
He didn’t trust himself with a gun, let alone behind the wheel, and commandeering the car he’d arrived in was the only way out of this godforsaken place.
His eyes traveled to Marsela on the floor.
Her oxygen-deprived stupor wouldn’t last much longer.
As if to prove his point, she let out a hoarse laugh. “You’re a big man, Mr. Beauvais. I may have been a little liberal with the dose.”
Suddenly, there came a startled yelp from the entranceway followed by a flurry of thuds.
Mathias heard a loud crack as something or someone struck the locked door.
There was another crack, and the wood splintered, dislodging the handle.
The door swung open, and Rayan appeared in the frame, his gun raised and his eyes dark with fury as he advanced into the room.
For a moment, Mathias wondered if he’d conjured him with his mind.
He felt that powerful. He’d never doubted that Rayan would come for him.
The idea that no one could be trusted—not even those whose job it was to care for him—had been instilled from a young age, but Rayan had proven, over and over, the exception to that rule.
For years the man had been chipping away at the barrier Mathias had built between himself and the world.
Even when they were still only boss and subordinate, Rayan was the person he’d kept closest, granted access to the private workings of his life.
After his resolve finally buckled, all Rayan had to do was press against the cracks he’d already made in Mathias’s defenses to send the walls crashing down.
And Mathias had let him walk right through the opening he’d created.
He stared at Rayan and felt a churn of something both light and heavy.
He owed him so much at this point. His life for one—all those times Rayan had stood between him and a bullet.
Then there were the more perplexing things—the simple peace he felt upon waking, the absence of that cold core of loneliness he’d carried for so long he thought it was part of him.
“Took you long enough.”
“Consider your favor repaid,” Rayan returned stonily. His eyes darted to Mathias’s face, and his forehead furrowed in concern.
“Who is this?” Marsela asked, attempting to pick herself up from the floor. She began screeching at the men on the other side of the door, who were clearly incapacitated.
Rayan walked over to him. “Mathias?”
Mathias loved how he said his name and even more when he whispered it, his voice catching on the last syllable. What he wouldn’t fucking do for this man, and here he was, right in front of him.
Rayan’s frown deepened, and a grim recognition flickered across his face. Of course, for him, this was well-worn territory. “You’re high.”
This time when Mathias spoke, he wasn’t sure if the words made it past his lips or if they were swallowed by the roll of thoughts in his head. “That appears to be the case.”