Chapter 3
MAE
“I don’t like to be fucked up the ass. Especially not on the first date.”
Peter’s atrocities continue spewing from his loose, red, wine-stained lips long after the last guest has left. He moved himself to the other side of the table where Frank and Carmen were sitting, the position perfect for his loaded scowls and dead-eye warnings.
“Peter, let’s—”
My husband turns on me with a spite I’m accustomed to. “I told you to stay the fuck out of it, Mae.” He misinterprets my attempt to leave as interfering in ‘business’ discussions.
Damon takes a moment to gauge my reaction. If he’s surprised by Peter’s behavior, he hides it well. If he’s waiting to see how I defend myself, he passes no judgment.
Contempt and fear are a brutal combination, but I’d rather deal with it at home than be further humiliated in front of others. “Peter, if you want to stay, fine! But I’m—”
“ You’re not going anywhere, Mae. So watch your damn manners.”
Blind with panic, I realize there will be no making it out of this unscathed. Peter has the house keys in his pocket with no intention of handing them over, and with my credit cards in my regular handbag at home, I can’t even entertain the idea of staying at a hotel.
“She gets like this…” he continues, “… because the last time she drove me home when I was drunk, I punched out the windshield. Now she fucking crumbles the minute I have one drink too many.” My husband, who finds his horror tales deeply hilarious, slaps his open palm on the table, causing everything on top to rattle and bounce.
Damon’s stony face says it all, his thumb tapping the armrest in agitation. A disbelieving Jason laughs, raking a hand over his face. At least they have the courtesy not to laugh with him.
Peter’s abridged version of that night shortly after our wedding not only marked the beginning of the end, but it also lacked context and sugarcoated the destructive role he played.
I’d been driving us home from a party at Carlson’s, Peter’s brother’s house, after they’d gotten into a physical altercation, arguing over something cryptic that incensed them both. It was just after midnight when he told me to pull the car over into a deserted industrial estate off the main road.
I knew what he wanted, and I wasn’t prepared to give it to him.
He was wasted and still strung out from the fight with his brother. On top of all that, my refusal was enough for him to become completely unhinged and forever change the course of our marriage.
“You don’t understand just how easy it would be right now for me to destroy your life,” he’d said, deceptively calm as if it were already in the works.
This wasn’t the man I married, and yet, drunk or not, he seemed completely at peace with the monster he was morphing into. And all it had taken was me saying no to sex in the isolated streets where one could simply disappear.
Once back on the highway and anxious to get home, my silence incited his wrath.
Peter lashed out, yanking the steering wheel from my grasp, sending us careering across three lanes. Horns blared, and angry motorists flashed their lights while we came within inches of multiple collisions. I fought for the wheel because my life and that of others literally depended on it. I’d needed to vomit—the near-death experience mixed with his explosive volatility was too much to stomach.
But Peter wasn’t finished.
Not by a long shot.
He punched the dash first. It made a sickening thud but didn’t reward him with signs of damage. So, he punched his fist straight into the windshield. Four cracks appeared like a hand-sized crucifix.
“Is this what you want?” he roared, spittle hitting my cheek.
Silence.
If I uttered a single word, I feared my face would be next to meet his fist. His nostrils flared like a raging bull, the demon in his head providing all the incentive he needed to fly into his frenzy.
Punch.
Punch.
Punch.
Each impact was fueled by more white-hot anger than the last. Hundreds of sinister cracks webbed like a disease from the pressure point, fracturing across the entire width of the windshield.
Blinking tears free, I gripped the wheel tighter with my trembling hands, praying it wasn’t going to be me next.
We arrived home shortly after, and I remained in the car, my tense grip still holding tight. I was so paralyzed with fear I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
Peter still wasn’t done.
Hurling abuse from the garage, he woke the neighbors.
He stalked forward, the headlights illuminating and shadowing parts of his twisted, scornful face, fragmented by the broken windshield to reveal the maniac he was. Slamming both hands on the hood, he leaned forward and bellowed, “ Get the fuck inside.”
After ten minutes, I woke myself out of the stupor, wiped my tears, and walked into the house. The wooden floor had piles of snow-like glass because Peter had shattered the French doors and smashed the glass out of every picture frame on the wall.
Then he’d passed out.
When the sheriff came knocking, called by an anonymous neighbor, I told him the truth because he could see for himself the damage to the car, and after glancing over my shoulder, he also observed the broken French doors. When asked if Peter had laid a hand on me, I replied, “No.”
Then the sheriff gave a nothing-to-see-here smile and left.
When morning came, there was no profound apology despite the evidence of his destruction serving as what should have been a shocking reminder. To this day, Peter will still make light of the traumatic situation. He continues to make a mockery of me .
And now, here I find myself in a situation that’s destined to see me travel down the same dangerous path. Except there exists a new threat—one that will make any form of retreat nearly impossible.
Damon and Jason.
They hold each other’s stare, their silent communication a declaration of war.
~
DAMON
Stay the fucking course.
My brother may as well bellow it across the table, his silent directive speaking volumes.
My lips upturn the slightest degree while his eyes narrow in warning.
Oh, I’m staying the course and taking a slight, but necessary detour.
The end result will remain the same, but this way, I get to kill two birds with one stone.
Because drunk words are sober thoughts, and that fucking moron, Peter , certainly has a lot on his mind. The more he talks and makes a catastrophic fool of himself, the more he pushes his wife away. And while she’s too loyal to merely fall into my arms, I sure as fuck will enjoy getting under her pale, blushing pink skin until she does.
A young redhead server, no older than twenty-two, circles the table to collect empty wine bottles.
Unwittingly, she catches Peter’s attention.
I know he has a thing for redheads. In fact, it seems he has a thing for anyone who isn’t his wife.
He leers at the young woman and the way her white blouse pulls tight over her small breasts. Peter positions his hand down low, and when she leans in to collect used glasses and cutlery, his opportunistic fingers sneak up her inner thigh.
I glance at Mae.
She’s watching the interaction without an ounce of care.
How many times has she endured Peter’s drunken abuse and outright cruelty? Too much that betrayal has become a friend of convenience—a toxic companion serving constant reminders to grin and bear it because the consequences of fighting it are much worse.
Or, she just no longer cares—escaping him, the only thing on her mind.
Either way, it’s truly fucking sickening.
Feeling the heat of my stare, Mae looks at me. It’s a hesitant motion, fearful of pity or reproach for accepting her husband’s behavior. Indifference leaves the room, and now, as her eyes glisten, brimming with desperation to flee, something shifts within me.
Someone like Mae doesn’t deserve the bullshit he puts her through.
Someone like Peter deserves to be dragged through the pits of hell, and if he comes out alive, I should shoot the fucker dead.
Instead, I pour more pinot into his glass and then some into my own, which I have no intention of drinking. Needing no encouragement, Peter polishes his off at record speed, burgundy goblet stains curving up from his mouth.
“Peter, why did you marry Mae?” I ask, keeping it conversational.
With a sideward glance, she appears panic-stricken. Tonight, I’ve learned that she cares not for attention, preferring to blend into the background. Now is no different.
Peter’s face twists into a scowl. “What kind of question is that?”
One that should be real fucking easy to answer. “Come on, Peter. I’m sure you can find a reason if you search hard enough.”
He sniffs deeply, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know. Why does any man marry? The guarantee of pussy every night?”
“I’ve had enough,” Mae says, trembling as she reaches for her clutch.
“ Don’t. Move,” he orders, and she stills, terrified for what might come next. “I’m only half-joking,” he says, continuing the flow of our conversation. “She doesn’t give me pussy every night.” Mae visibly cringes, closing her eyes to hide from the shame. “I’m not one for begging, but she makes me fight for it. Don’t ya, honey?”
Fucking cunt.
Mae goes to stand. “Please excuse—”
“ Sit ,” Jason says, stopping her midrise. She freezes, taken aback by my brother’s unexpected command.
Thinking Peter was her only battle tonight, Mae casts a wary glance between the three of us—her humiliation shifting into fear. Outnumbered, she reclaims her seat, visibly weighing up her options for escape.
“Now I’ve got a question for you,” Peter says, demonstrating his ignorance and complicity.
“Shoot.”
Words slurring, he asks, “Is everything you do legal? I mean, is this…” He gestures around him. “Is this even achievable by following the rule book?”
“Does dedication and commitment scare you, Peter?”
He wouldn’t even know the meaning of the words.
“Going to jail and being ass raped by fellow insiders scares me. So, if what you’re getting me into is illegal, I want to know now.”
I lean forward, interlacing my fingers. “I imagine that if we did dabble on the other side of the law, Peter, a good ass fucking should be the least of your concerns.”
He’s too drunk to remember the threat come morning, and by then, Mae will have her own issues to contend with.
An ugly smile creeps across his face. “Yeah, I see what you did there.”
You didn’t see shit.
“Peter,” Mae interrupts. “We should go.”
“It’s like she’s fucking deaf,” he says to me as if we’re on the same team. He turns back to his wife, who, after everything, still has his back. She has the patience of a fucking saint. “I said, sit your ass down, honey . We’re not going anywhere until this guy gives us some answers I can believe.”
Mae holds her clutch with a death grip, ready for a clean break. Except, she won’t get one. Unaware of the approaching threat, she stands, silently begging Peter to follow suit. He’s ignoring her, focusing instead on refilling his wine glass.
Jason closes in on Mae, standing chest to back, a single tear slipping down her cheek when she realizes there are no options. “Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”
“I want to go home,” she whispers. “Please .”
“I give zero fucks what you want. I won’t tell you again.” My brother can be a cold motherfucker.
Peter attempts to swill his wine, but it splashes over the rim and onto his white shirt. He’s too fucked-up to notice. “I bet you make it rain money, don’t you?” he goads. “And girls must line up to jump on your cock. You just take all the pussy you want.”
I turn and hold Mae’s pleading gaze, but my comment is an honest warning to her husband. I don’t bother hiding my smile, my promise, or my very real intention.
“Keep being a cocksucker, Peter, and I might just take your wife.”
~
MAE
“You look nervous.”
After a comment like that, why wouldn’t I be? A perfect storm is rolling through Damon’s eyes, a dangerous smile playing on his perfect lips.
“Then you’ve achieved your goal.”
He cocks a brow in amusement but there’s no denying they’ve had this ambush planned from the beginning.
The moment they sent the dinner invitation, the Shaw brothers knew exactly how the evening would unfold, and for whatever reason, hidden behind an NDA, the job proposed is questionable enough to resort to coercion.
Peter doesn’t acknowledge the sinister interaction. Lips shiny, his cheeks and neck are flushed, all a typical response to red wine. He’s wasted and behaving as I feared, delivering blow after blow. I should have ignored his threat from the beginning of the night and left him here, because for whatever reason, Damon and Jason have turned on me.
Peter mutters something incomprehensible, but it doesn’t matter. Damon is beyond caring what the drunk across the table has to say. After all, hadn’t he been the one to facilitate his inebriation?
I glance toward the house interior—there’s not a soul in sight. The song on the playlist changes to David Kushner’s Daylight . A favorite of mine, once innocuous but now symbolic of the evil at hand.
“I think… I think we’ve outstayed our welcome, and I should be getting us home.” I wait for Jason to come for me again, but with a stony face, he’s reclaimed his seat.
“My wife, as you can see…” Peter slurs sloppily, “… needs a little help loosening up.”
Damon smiles, and it’s unjustly disarming. “Duly noted.”
Damn him for still having this effect on me while proving my gut instincts right.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s happening or why I even have to be involved, but I’d really like—”
Peter stands abruptly, the chair scrapping over the tiles, creating a hideous noise that tears through the otherwise quiet evening.
Jason mutters, “Fuck me,” under his breath because I’ve learned that incessant, repeated, or abrupt noise grind on his sensibilities.
“If she wants to be the fucking boss…” Peter sways unsteadily, “… then let her be one.”
“Well, then…” Damon muses as if this whole evening hasn’t been fucked up for me, “… perhaps I should be discussing business with Mae instead and leave you out of it.”
“Help yourself. I’ll take that little server with the fine ass. Where’s she gone, anyway?” A wine glass hurtles through the air courtesy of reckless gesticulation. It shatters on impact, landing on the marble tiles, the noise further splintering the group dynamic.
At the end of his tether, Jason stands, fists balled, his brother gesturing for him to remain calm.
“Why don’t you wait by the pool, Mae,” Damon suggests as if he’s completely unbothered. As if this was expected. “I promise it’s even more beautiful at night. I can’t have my guests walking through broken glass on their exit.”
I’m done playing this game. “No, thank you. We’ve outstayed our welcome, and I just want to leave. And he has to come too.”
I’m locked in.
There’s security and a giant gate.
The valet has the car keys.
Peter has the house keys and might just kill me if I leave him here.
And two brothers intent on making my life worse are standing in my way.
What chance is there?
“I insist,” Damon says. This time, however, it isn’t a suggestion.
In no position to argue, I stand, his unapologetic gaze drinking me in.
God, I hate how it makes me feel.
I hate that my body and mind betray me so recklessly.
He seems to enjoy how nervous I am around him. I believe he even enjoys my vulnerability in being outnumbered.
“Fuck!” The sudden crash of remaining glassware and cutlery sees Peter in a heap on the floor. Having tripped on the chair leg, he clutched the tablecloth, dragging everything with him. Rage, I’m all too familiar with, courses through my veins so much that I want to kick him while he’s down. Every second that passes, he keeps burying us further and further in our graves, with all responsibility of getting us out of here falling squarely on my shoulders.
“Go,” Damon says with a reassurance I don’t believe.
I turn away before the tears fall and walk down the giant stone steps to the infinity pool that glitters under the lights. I sit on a chaise lounge, willing the incessant trembling to stop. Pulling out my cell, I compose a message to Allyson, my best friend and agent.
Me: Listen… I don’t want you to be alarmed, but if for whatever reason you don’t hear from me by eight tomorrow, this is my last visited address…
55 Kings Avenue, Bel Air
I press send, my heart sinking when I notice there are no reception bars.
“Shit!”
Feeling more isolated than ever, I shiver, my teeth chattering. The view of the city from up here is spectacular, and I’d give anything right now to be back amongst it because up here in the mountains, I could simply disappear.
Casting my anxiety aside, I head back up the stairs, but once I reach the pavilion, my blood runs cold. The carnage is completely gone, almost like it never happened, but so is Peter. Damon stands by the table where I’d sat earlier. He watches me with the satisfaction of a lion ready to feast. In contrast, Jason leans against a pillar, hands in his pockets, his dark, soulless eyes reminding me once again that I’m in a world of trouble.
“Where’s Peter?”
Damon nods to the second floor. “We had him taken to one of the bedrooms.”
Other than being murdered, that’s the worst possible scenario. “That’s kind of you, but I should get him home.”
“He’s proven to be a danger to you in the car, Mae. Let him sleep it off. He’s already passed out.”
I pause, debating the next question. “Passed out or knocked out?”
Damon shrugs, humored. “It’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“Is he breathing?”
“Unfortunately,” Jason replies, deadpan, and a part of me—the part I’m not proud of—might just share that sentiment.
The asshole sabotaged himself, but I’ll be the one to pay for it.
Unless...
“You can keep him, but I still need to get the house keys from his pocket, so excuse me.” My voice may be small and lack authority, but Damon steps out of my way. I pass Jason, feeling their watchful stares, even catching their shared glance in my peripheral. I stiffen, the small hairs on my neck standing on end.
My gut is screaming at me to run.
That the hostile environment will viciously turn on me at any second.
This, however, is not an opportunity I can let go to waste.
With renewed purpose, I run up the grand staircase in search of the bedroom Peter has been placed. I try the first door, but the dim hallway light reveals the room is empty. I try two more, only to find the same result.
Shit!
How many rooms does this godforsaken place have? I keep walking until I encounter double doors at the end. They’re ajar, and I grow hopeful. The room is larger than the others, and even with the hall light on, the bed to set too far back to see. I run my palm flat against the wall, but still, there’s no switch.
“Peter?” I call gently, hoping he’s conscious enough to moan. Nothing. “Peter, are you in here?”
Silence.
Damn you .
I turn to leave but collide hard with a firm chest, strong hands wrapping around my shoulders, steadying me before I fall.
“You seem to have gotten yourself a little lost.”
I look up at Damon and trace the line of his lips as they curl into a half smile. To his credit, when I step back, he releases his hold.
“I can’t find Peter.”
“He’s down the other wing.”
Of course. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t snooping.”
“I wouldn’t care if you were.”
At that, my heart skips a little faster. Why?
“Do you mind pointing me to the bathroom?” I need time to gather my thoughts in private.
Instead of leading me back down the hall, he guides me through the dark room and switches on a light in the en suite bathroom.
Giving my thanks, I close the door and lean my full weight against it. My heart pulsates so hard that my whole body practically moves with the rhythm. I glance around the bathroom and, with dread, note the personal effects. Three bottles of men’s cologne sit on the countertop. Body wash, shampoo, and conditioner are on the marble shelf in a shower that’s five times the size of mine.
Please, no , I mouth silently, terror finding its way back.
Opening the door, a soft, warm light now illuminates the enormous and stunning room. With wainscoted, rich forest green walls, there are at least eight original pieces of art that bring the space to life. The same artwork he intended on showing me during a private tour.
Well, now we’re here and art curating is most definitely not how he wants to be spending the rest of the evening.
Damon leans against the door frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. He cuts an imposing figure, one who has certain things on his mind. It’s a mix of gentleman and savage, but I’ve yet to discover which stands before me now.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was your bedroom.”
“Don’t apologize.” For a misguided moment, I see the Damon who first greeted me, the one who sucked me into his world and made it a refuge. But now, he’s also a man with no intention of letting me go—not yet, anyway. “You’ve saved me some time.”
“For what?” I take an instinctive step back the second he pushes off the wall. He circles, observing the shiver coursing through me once more.
“Are you cold?”
My response escapes as little more than a whisper. “No.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Do I make you nervous, Mae?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“Why?”
“I… I don’t know,” I lie. Everything about this man is intimidating.
“Mm… I think you do.” He mistakes my terror for hesitation. Gripping my chin, Damon forces me to meet his gaze, his eyes wild and primal. “Why?” he repeats.
“Because you scare me. Because you won’t let me leave. Because I don’t know what you want with me.”
“Better.” His smile is so faint I can’t tell if he’s satisfied with my response, or if he’s hiding something dangerous behind it. “You should be scared. You’re trapped in a room with a man with a long list of things he’d like to do to you. And I won’t let you leave until I’ve done Every. Single. One of them.” Damon inches closer, his lips almost grazing mine. “I promise you’ll enjoy every bit of it.”
Without a doubt.
He’s drawn to me. I’m drawn to him. The connection is undeniable. It’s charged, passionate, and volatile. A truly dangerous predicament to have found myself in, especially if he proves to be just as much a monster as Peter.
I want this , but I also can’t waste an opportunity.
Tears slip down my cheeks and roll over his fingertips. “I’m not yours to do any of that with. Now please…” I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, and I wince in pain. “Please just let me go.”
“You are not his either. Your husband is a fucking fool who gets off on hurting you, Mae. It’s a sport for him.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why do you stay? Why do you let him play these games of what can fuck you up the most ? You cry tears over him, but he would never do the same.”
I’m embarrassed because Peter’s abuse doesn’t make him look strong or powerful. To an outsider looking in who doesn’t know what happens behind closed doors, it simply makes me look weak. And Damon witnessed every fracture, splintering deeper and uglier as the night progressed.
But he doesn’t have the right to use it to his advantage.
I’m not a trade-off.
“You only saw what would benefit you.”
“I don’t need to see a husband abusing his wife in order for me to take what I want.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his disdain towards Peter softening when he studies my face. “Do you know what a rare find you are, Mae?” When I’m unable to form a response, he continues, “When you’re upset, these…” his thumb grazes over my lips, “… turn rose-red. Did you know that?”
I didn’t.
“They do,” he murmurs as my eyes flutter closed. “And they’re fucking gorgeous.”
Damon’s lips touch mine, lingering and absorbing my whimper, and suddenly, I’m reminded of how right he feels, cajoling me into giving myself to him. He coaxes my mouth to move with his, tenderness now replaced with urgency. It triggers something inside me I’ve never felt before.
Passion?
Desire?
Then panic rears its ugly head.
I try to pull away, but he holds firm. “Stay,” he orders with a low growl that reverberates through me.
As much as I want to give into him and crave what he’s offering, I need the keys to give myself at least a four-hour head start.
“I need to find my husband,” I insist, pushing at his chest, but my words become lost somewhere between lust and longing.
Damon snakes his hand around my neck, deepening the kiss as his tongue finds mine, tasting me, easily taking control of my response. My knees weaken with how raw and sensual it feels, regretting that at twenty-four, I’m only just experiencing this now.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he warns. “Except under me.” Damon ravages my neck, biting hard enough to elicit a gasp, only to then suck the sting right out.
All the surreptitious and pointed glances, the brazen comments and touching, have all led to this forbidden moment. Damon had me in his sights the entire evening, entangling me in his web with no intention of setting me free.
I should be saying no . But I can’t .
I should be shoving him away again. But I won’t .
I should still be thinking of my escape.
But I can’t do any of those things now.
Because I’m already a prisoner of Damon's in more ways than one.
The way his kisses absorb the pain.
The way his touch replaces the burn of my husband’s scold.
His forehead and nose rest against mine, and beneath the pulsating rage, I feel his warring desire. “What do you want, Mae?”
“I don’t know.”
“ Yes , you do. What do you want?’
“I need to go,” I whisper.
“Don’t run from me, sweetheart.” Damon kisses my lips once more as if it will be enough to convince me, and it does. “I’m the same man you met earlier in the evening.”
That could so easily be a lie. But… “I don’t even know who that person is.”
“Then stay and find out.”