Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Raven
Declan unties me, finally.
My legs refuse to work. I can barely move. I’m sore everywhere.
Most of it a good sore, damn him.
He carries me out of the room, cradled against his chest. My head rests on his shoulder, and I look away from his skull tattoo. I’m really not sure I like that thing, even though it’s great work.
Suits him though. More than it should.
There’s a flight of stairs leading up into a house. It’s dark outside through the windows. A simple living space, under-equipped kitchen. He takes me upstairs. Two bedrooms, and a bathroom that he carries me into, sitting me down on the closed toilet while he runs a bath.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“San Francisco.” Declan leans against the counter while the bath runs, arms folded over his chest.
“You have a house here?” Why does he have a house here? That he never, ever mentioned, even when we frigging stayed here?
He goes still, just for a fleeting second. Short enough that I could’ve imagined it. “Not really mine,” he mutters. “Just borrowing it.”
Yeah, okay. That makes sense. Everyone borrows a house when they want a basement they can use as a bondage dungeon to torture someone. There’s probably a filter on Airbnb that I’ve somehow missed.
I’m tempted to ask him more, but after that deflection, I know he won’t answer.
But there are other pressing matters that maybe he will.
“Do you know what happened to the rest of the crew? Is Cole okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s in a hospital. Renner set it up.”
“No trouble from the police?”
“No. Renner covered that too.”
“And Kurt’s out?” It doesn’t escape my attention that Declan rarely calls him by his first name, except when he’s actually here.
Again with that fleeting stillness. “Yes.”
“Who picked him up? It wasn’t the police, was it?” I know it wasn’t. Dario said enough for that.
“FBI,” Declan says.
“What?” I’d wondered, but to hear him say it… “Yet he’s out? How?”
“Good lawyers, no evidence… that’s what he said.”
“You spoke to him?”
Declan straightens, stepping toward me. “Yes, I spoke to him. I’m not answering any more questions right now.”
“But what about the others?”
He nods, conceding that one. “They’re all good. I think most of them have gone back to LA.” He takes my hand, helping me up. “No more discussions. It’s late, you need a bath, and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
That’s his take-no-shit voice. The roof could collapse right now and he still wouldn’t change his mind.
Declan helps me into the bath. The hot water is soothing, and I lie back and sigh. It’s big enough for me, but I’m not sure it would be for him. There’s a shower over it, which he probably uses.
“We got away with it, didn’t we?” I say quietly.
“Yeah, we did.” He takes a loofah, lifts my hand, and runs it down my arm.
First he drugs and kidnaps me, then he interrogates and tortures me. Then he makes me come, harder than should be possible. And now he’s bathing me, like I’m fragile and precious.
I don’t understand him.
This is nice, though.
I bite at my lip, wondering if he’s distracted enough for me to get another question in. “Why is that box so important to you?”
He lowers my arm and leans across me to reach for the other one. “Options,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t like to be forced into things.”
Vague, yet understandable. Hypocritical, too. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the irony of the moment.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Sore.” Replete. Content. Confused.
His lips twitch. “Just sore?”
“Among other things.”
“Did I go too hard?”
He asks me that now?
But it doesn’t change the answer. “No, you didn’t.” Not really.
“Could I have gone harder?”
Jesus. Could he have gone harder? “I’m not sure I want to imagine that.” I can’t help but imagine it anyway, and the shiver is real, despite the warmth of the water.
He gives a soft chuckle, falling quiet. The loofah runs over my shoulders, then gently down my chest, over my breasts. In many ways, it’s more intimate than tying me naked to a vault horse.
“Did Tasha do that?”
“Do what?” It takes me a moment to notice the direction of his gaze. “Oh, my tattoo? Yes.” He does seem to like it. He touches it often.
“And the one on your shoulder, too?”
“My stooping raven? She did them both.”
“It’s good work.”
“Yeah.”
Our conversation dies again. It’s me, I think. I’m too pent up. This should be relaxing, but it isn’t. My thoughts are spiraling. How I came to be here. Wherever the hell here is. Who Declan is. Really is. Because if I’m certain of one thing, it’s that there’s a lot more to him than he lets on.
Why is he so interested in the ‘package’?
Where is that little black box now? The one I promised Kurt I wouldn’t let out of my sight.
Chances of it still being in my jacket pocket, the diamonds untouched in the other?
Zero. Of that, I’m certain.
Declan’s taken it, when Kurt explicitly told me not to give it to him.
I suppose I could ask him. Watch him go still. Watch him deflect.
But I don’t want to.
He finishes bathing me, then holds a towel for me.
I step out by myself, feeling stronger. The water has soothed my skin and tired muscles, but I know I’ll be sore tomorrow.
And have bruises on my hips from where his fingers dug in.
Some marks on my wrist from his ropes. That’s to be expected, I suppose.
Worth it?
Not sure. Maybe… if he hadn’t drugged me first.
“Can I call Kurt?” I ask.
He wraps the towel around me, drying me. Like I can’t do that myself. “What happened to your phone?”
“Oh. I dropped it in the escape. Smashed it.”
“That explains it.” He rubs the towel down my back, paying lots of attention to my ass. “We’ll call him when we wake up. It’s too late now.”
“What time is it?”
“About one in the morning.”
I couldn’t have guessed that. But then, I suppose being drugged in Salt Lake City and waking up in San Francisco can have that effect on a girl.
“Still Tuesday?” I ask. But no, it can’t be. It’s a twelve-hour drive, plus everything we’ve done.
“Wednesday.” A pause. “Thursday, technically, I suppose.”
I’ve lost a day.
“I can’t believe you drugged me,” I mutter.
“I can’t believe you didn’t come and find me. Or that you went home to your family without calling me.”
That’s so not a justification. Is that all the answer I get?
My anger flares again, but I tap it down. Declan’s off-guard, and I want him to stay that way.
“I’d have come if you’d asked,” I lie instead.
“And let me tie you up?”
Like that? Never. “Sure.” I try for a playful smile. “Probably.”
“Did you like it?”
What kind of a question is that? Did I like being flogged? Face-fucked? Not allowed to orgasm, then forced to until I saw stars? Tied immobile and…
I swallow hard. “Uh… bits of it?” Almost all of it.
He chuckles that aggravating, sadistic chuckle he has. “Come on. Let’s feed you. It’s late, and you must be hungry. Then bed.”
Yes, bed. Because that’s what I need: Declan asleep.
But I am hungry. Starving, now that he’s mentioned it.
He gives me his T-shirt to wear, and I sit at the kitchen table while he makes an omelet. Declan cooking in just a pair of jeans, the top button still undone. Distracting as fuck, even after what we’ve just spent hours doing.
“Not much here, I’m afraid. Cheese, mushrooms, or both?”
“Both.” I’ll eat anything right now. I’m so hungry, and I’ll need my strength.
There’s a bit of salad to go on the side, and he serves me the lion’s share. We eat in silence, while I try to figure out how much I can push without alerting him to my intent.
But to not push at all might be more of a tell.
“You drugged me just to get that box, didn’t you?”
“Not just, no.”
I’m certain he means yes. “But it’s the box you want?”
He sets down his fork, plate already clean. “You already asked me; I already answered.”
Crap. “It’s not like you said much,” I mutter. “‘Options’?”
“Leverage.”
I stare at him. “On Kurt?”
“Trust that I have your interests front-of-mind,” he says, like he genuinely expects me to trust him after all that’s happened.
“Okay…” I can’t push again. And as for trust? That went out the window the same moment his needle went into my arm.
He nods to my plate. “Was that enough?”
For now, yes. “To be honest, I’m just ready for bed.”
He gives me a gentle smile. Endearing, if he wasn’t such a lying psycho. “Then let’s go.”
We walk back up, his hand playfully cupping my ass beneath the shirt.
“I’m so ready to snuggle with you,” I tell him. Playing hard on the role of willingness that he puts so much stock in. Hoping against hope that he won’t tie me up. Or even sleep between me and the door.
The bedroom is small, but functional. My side, as it turns out, is closest to freedom, and I slip beneath the duvet, still in his T-shirt. He watches me, heat in his eyes.
Surely he can’t be expecting anything else tonight?
Will he take no for an answer?
I’m so goddamn sore. Every muscle. My pussy too. In a good way… mostly.
How can he still look at me like that? Hasn’t he had enough?
“I just want to sleep,” I murmur, cutting that off early. I hope. “Hold me?” Not too tight.
“I will.” He unbuttons his jeans, and the noise pulls at me. Like I’ve developed a Pavlovian reaction after only one day. Evening. Night. Whatever.
Declan pads around to the other side of the bed, and it shifts as he gets in. He flicks the light off, then his arm slips around my waist, pulling me back against him.
The bath didn’t relax me, and I’m not tired. Or I am, but it’s muscular, not general fatigue. I guess spending a day out of it works, even if it was drugged sleep.
I still have to focus hard not to fall asleep. Especially when I’m faking it for his benefit. His hand cups my breast through his shirt, his hips press into my ass, and his breathing becomes regular.
And I lie there for another hour, or as best I can judge another hour. Counting minutes. Making plans. Trying to figure out who the hell Declan Hale is.
Where he might’ve put Kurt’s black box.
When I’m certain he’s deeply asleep, I shift. Inch by inch. Slowly. Pausing now and then. Letting him get used to me being farther away.
Hoping and praying he doesn’t wake up.
Finally sliding out from under his arm, and lowering it carefully back onto the bed.
Then I slip away, tiptoe to the door, and let myself out.
Simple, so far. If he wakes now, I’ll just tell him I was going to the bathroom. That’ll be a lot harder to sell when I have my bike leathers on.
No bike of course, damn it, but it’s the only clothing I have.
No phone and no wallet either. Getting anywhere is going to be a monumental pain in the ass.
It must be about three in the morning. I’m really hoping Declan is going to sleep for a good few hours, and I only need about ten minutes… if my plan holds.
I pad back down to the basement, checking my jacket immediately.
My keys are there, much good will they do me, but just as I suspected, the diamonds and black box have gone.
I’ve already made the decision not to search; the risk of being discovered is too high, and he could literally have put it anywhere.
It’s more important to get out, tell Kurt.
For that, I need to get back to LA. Find one of the crew.
I pull on my leathers over Declan’s shirt and slip into my boots. The front door is at the bottom of the stairs, up one floor. I give the basement the finger as I walk out. Maybe I did like what happened in there—some of it—but that doesn’t mean I have to admit it.
This is the dangerous moment. Walking back up, my boots a lot louder than my bare feet. I should’ve waited until I was out before pulling them on. Too late now. Instead, I creep. Step by careful step.
One of the floorboards creaks loudly, sending my heartrate spiking. I listen hard, but there’s no movement from upstairs. Another minute of sneaking, and I reach the door. It’s a simple matter of unlatching it, stepping out. It’s not locked beyond that.
Declan’s truck is parked on a ramp before the garage door.
And my bike is beside it. Beautiful, sleek, red, and mine.
I stare at it. That was unexpected.
How the hell did he get it here? Why is it here? Did he really intend for me to have it back? Or did he just take it so that it wasn’t a clue I’d gone missing?
My keys are in my pocket. My helmet’s in the back of his pickup, the gloves stuffed inside, where I always leave them. I’ve got everything I need, and in a moment, I’m back on my bike. Wincing as my sore body protests.
He’ll probably wake as soon as I start the engine, but that doesn’t matter. He can’t stop me now. Nothing will catch me.
I glance up at the window. I think that’s the other bedroom; ours was at the back of the house. But I imagine him lying there, sound asleep, thinking I’m… what, willing?
No, Declan. I was not willing to be drugged and kidnapped. Fucked against my protests, no matter how good it was.
Lied to, over and over and over again.
Screw you.
I turn away, start the bike, and ride.
Free and alone, untouchable.
There’s enough gas in the tank for a hundred miles. After that, I’ll need to find a bank. Answer enough questions to draw some cash from my account. That’ll mean waiting until morning, but I don’t care. I’ll be gone, on my way to LA.
And I’ll never let Declan fucking Hale near me ever again.