CHAPTER SIX
GAGE
M y endgame is not entirely sketched out. That’s not exactly true. I’ve got a rough outline. I want to ruin Ainsley, but that silhouette is shaded in various depths, depending on the moment.
One minute, it means breaking her, making her suffer, driving home the point that she fucked over the wrong guy.
In the next, it means wrecking her cunt for any other man.
I’m sure there are ways I can marry the two.
But in the subsequent beat, I realize that despite how much I hate her, I’ll never allow her to have a life outside of me again. Possessive over her doesn’t even begin to cut it. I want to own her—especially her pain. What I really need is for her to recognize what she gave up, to crave me. So, I may be interested in owning her pleasure too. But my mind is a fickle mess, so those desires could change with the wind.
Yeah. Fucked up doesn’t even touch where I’m at.
To make matters worse, in the instances where my rough sketch translates to torturing her, I’m reminded I blew that option by bringing her into our home.
Ivy and Wells had a lot to say once Ty and Rena ushered Ainsley away this afternoon. All of it boiled down to the idea that now that Ainsley was a houseguest, she needed to feel safe, protected, and be treated with respect. Ivy told me to get it together because she’d kill me if I let someone grow close to Felicity, only to harm them and, in turn, break Felicity’s heart.
That’s my fault. I hadn’t considered that angle. Because all I could think about was the way Ainsley had flirted with Dante and the shameless drooling he did over her.
It made me so crazy that I drove straight to the pet store and bought a bag full of cockroaches. The scheme had me giddy, anticipating how undone Ainsley would be when she spotted the bugs. She loathes insects more than she despises me. I laughed the whole way back from Petco. And her terrified shrieks did not disappoint.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how at home it would feel, having her slung over my shoulder, my arms fastened around her. Skin heating, pulse hammering, chest ballooning.
Dangerous.
So, torture isn’t an option; it’s a necessity.
But my methods have to be creative so I don’t piss Ivy off. The more I think about it, the more I realize this subtle method could be superior. Like peeling a bandage off so slowly that each and every hair ripped out scorches not only the flesh, but also the root of the follicle. I’ll weaken her one memory at a time until she reaps the full burn of how despicable she was—is.
She’s been afforded the top-notch accommodation of one of my guest rooms. Wells, Liam, Ty, and I all have four bedrooms to do with what we please. I didn’t have much use for the spaces, so I allowed Ivy to decorate them however she wanted. Ainsley gets her own bathroom and plush amenities. No suffering there.
But there’s a perk. For me. This house is old and was built by a paranoid fucker. There are countless safe rooms and secret passages. Some rooms connect in hidden places to provide an easy escape. Ainsley’s closet happens to open into mine, making it one big room if I choose to leave it ajar. Which I did while she was taking a shower. I’m working on a project, waiting for her to discover this convenient bonus.
Nosy, like I expected, she pops her head out of my closet and surveys my room—navy and crisp whites, lavish materials but still masculine. It’s probably more aesthetically pleasing than she would have envisioned. I didn’t own much when she knew me. But I’ve worked my ass off for everything I have, so I take pride in it. And I’ve watched HGTV a few times to give me ideas. Nothing fucking wrong with that.
“Lost?” I ask.
“Doubt that.” She swaggers inside with a sexy silk shorts and camisole set on, which makes perfect sense for on-the-run, go-bag attire. “I’d say I’ve found whatever you wanted me to.”
I shrug, not acknowledging how right she is. “Since I claimed responsibility for you, you’ll never be out of my sight.”
She feigns a chill with a wide-eyed blink. “Noted.”
Such a brat. And so damn pretty. I avert my gaze because taking her in—her natural beauty—is unnerving. This is how the Devil reels you in, gets you to sell your soul and the blood of your firstborn. Skimpy pajamas; long, toned legs; shimmery tan skin; a delicate messy bun; bare face; and feline blue eyes. Lethal.
I’m smarter this time around though. Or I hope to be. Doubtful. But I am more aware. And ruthless.
Ignoring her, I tend to my task, and she sidles up beside me.
“What is this …” Her question trails off because it’s evidently clear what I’m working on.
A vision board. But not for dreams or aspirations.
This is one to commemorate the past—all the reasons to be wrathful. Because there was a time when forgiving and forgetting came easily for me, when I loved hard and expected little in return. When I was grateful for stolen moments. Fucking scraps. I don’t ever want to be that dipshit again.
She probably thinks that’s where this is headed, assuming I rescued her with that menu debacle earlier because it cracks my chest open to see her struggling. That I’m going soft for her again. Fuck that. It was a simple act of ensuring she didn’t humanize herself with my family. They’re all a bunch of bleeding hearts when you get down to it. They admire strengths, but they bond over human experiences—insecurities, shattered pasts, fragilities. Can’t fucking have that.
So, this board, it’s a reminder for us both—of those who earned my vengeance. And Ainsley is the star.
“Oh, this?” I trill, excited to share with her so we can establish how things are going to go with us. “I had this up for years, starting the day after this.”
I tap a picture from my funeral—Josh’s funeral. Ainsley is stoic, chin held high, features emotionless, clutching Nick’s arm.
I had hired a private investigator to take it and vowed that if I saw she was distraught—one hint of heartache—I’d risk everything and go get her, no matter what I was being told about her choosing another man or securing a position in her father’s administration. It would have been risking execution because returning to our hometown after being erased was an act of treason, per our contract with the CIA, but I would have done it. I was always at her mercy, willing to give everything up for her.
But the picture speaks a thousand words. She looks bored, annoyed, like it’s the last place she wants to be, all while snuggling up to Nick.
Even when the image was first in my hand, I questioned it. She had been a damn good actress when she wanted to be. And her father was conniving enough that he could have forced her into a marriage with Nick for some deal that served him. So, I hoped. That investigator followed her for months, capturing the unfiltered truth.
Smiling through dinners with him . Cozy car rides with him . Building a life with him .
All while I could barely get out of bed.
And since I wasn’t permitted to retrieve any keepsakes from my former life and anything I’d had with me on tour was lost to the war camp, the images of the two of them were the only ones that were real.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I had this board up to make sure I wouldn’t forget. Not what you had done. Not what she had done.” I flick my mother’s obituary.
She died two months before the government offed me, while I was on tour. I hadn’t spoken to my mom in years. Not since she had sold me to pay off her drug debt and then went right back to using, shacking up with some addict and never looking back.
I shut myself off from anyone after that. Until Wicked. God only knows why. Some fire inside her entranced me, lit me up, warmed me.
Burned me.
Ainsley’s eyes gloss over, brimming with tears, probably because she realizes she’s lumped in with the evilest woman either of us has ever known.
How the hell is she any different? That’s what she did—used me, tossed me aside, sold me to get her ticket to a better life.
I was barely a sacrifice, more like an entertaining detour.
“But then Ivy married Wells,” I go on, eager to show her that she didn’t beat me. “She had every right to break up our little group, send Ty, Liam, and me off on our own while they built their family. No one would have faulted her, and Wells would have done whatever she wanted. We all expected it—the normal progression of relationships. She didn’t though. Instead, she pleaded with us to stay. Found us this house, where we could have any life we wanted. Most importantly, together. Made sure we knew we fit—like you saw downstairs, when she insisted that she trusted me, that this was as much my home as anyone’s.”
That was my initial reasoning behind befriending Celeste. It wasn’t easy to trust her because she wore masks, like Ainsley, but she was also a loyal friend, and Ivy needed us to accept her. What began as a sacrifice for the girl who had made us a family turned into a gift I hadn’t expected. It made me realize that not all women were malicious. That’s a special honor reserved for my mom and Ainsley.
I pin a few more funeral photos of Ainsley from the private investigator to showcase how cold and diabolical she is—makeup perfect, suit pristine, not a goddamn hair out of place.
“No one— no one —had ever done that for me, so when we moved in here, I left this shit boxed up.” I stare at her for a laden pause. “Thought it was wise to put it back up with you here.”
Her Arctic blues coast over the pictures, arms crossed, elevating the swell of her perky tits. But it’s her teeth sinking into her plush lip that snags my attention—an attempt to calm the slight quiver of her chin, giving me hope that she might finally shatter while also wrenching my gut.
No. She does not deserve my empathy.
I mimic her pose. Arms crossed, soaking her in with indifference scrawled across my face.
Finally, she sets her she-devil leer on me. “Therapeutic. Maybe I should make one.”
This should be good. If I were smart, I’d act uninterested. She’s undoubtedly baiting me. But I’m a lot of things around Ainsley Morelli, and unfortunately, smart is rarely one of them.
So, I bite. “Yeah? What would be on yours?”
She hums and taps her slender finger against her lips. “On my things-that-disgust-me board? A couple of dicks and some gross, hairy balls.” She holds her icy glare on me while adding, “And maybe Ivy.”
Yep. That’s what she’d glean from my story. Distaste for the person who helped repair what she’d broken. She’d probably hate the guys if she knew how they’d narrowly kept me from hanging myself. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be six feet under, like she thought I was.
Turning away from her, I stick the last few pictures up—ones that expose the life she chose—pack up the extra pushpins, and throw the scraps of trash away. “That’s about right. I hate the people who screwed me over, and you hate the ones who took me in. We never were on the same side.”
Her voice cracks through a query that surprises me. “And what side do you think I was on?”
I spin back to face her, shocked to find the vulnerability lining her frown. “I would have said your family’s, but you turned on them too. So, fuck if I know, Ains.” I fling my arm through the air, heated disappointment trouncing me. “Seems like you only look out for you.”
Her throat works through a laborious swallow, chest heaving, her glossy eyes sailing over the board until they dock back on me. More hurt than cold, which feels like a punch to the gut.
“I guess that’s how you’d see it,” she whispers.
Without a thought, I advance on her, and she instinctively darts backward, bumping into my leather love seat. Her knees buckle from the force, and she nearly topples, but I catch her—one arm hooked around her back, suspending her in a weird half-perched, half-falling stance until she gently lets her weight sink into the cushioned armrest.
I widen my legs so she’s nestled between them, cupping the back of her head and still holding her. “Am I wrong?”
There’s so much more in that simple question, and it’s clear from her thawing glacial eyes that she hears all I’m not saying.
The plea for her to tell me I’m confused, that it was all messed up, some fucking nightmare I imagined.
The yearning to understand. Was our whole relationship an act so I’d do whatever her father wanted me to? Become the traitorous soldier he needed. Give my life for the answers and backdoor to power he was desperate to obtain.
But more than anything, I wonder if she feels this electricity and hates it as much as I do. This connection that is a living, breathing thing I can’t fucking escape. The one that makes me want to rip her apart with my bare hands and shield her, all at the same time? Is she as fucked in the head as I am?
As if to answer, a lone tear slides down her cheek, and her jaw grinds from the defeat of it. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t fight me. She sits before me, wobbly chin held high.
I want to ask her what that means, what she’s hiding, why she did what she did—to me, to her father, to Nick. But I can’t risk being blinded by her. She’s a poison, pumping through my veins and intoxicating me. I’ve been drunk on her since the first day I laid eyes on her. And all these years later, she still has my thinking muddled.
Which is my own doing. What the hell am I expecting? She answered my damn questions the first day I saw her. Admitted to doing the very things I’d accused her of. It’s a testament to my fragile mental state that I’m holding out for a different answer. Unable to accept that the girl I would have moved mountains for was never really mine. Not in her eyes.
Still, I lose myself in her. The coconut-seaside aroma that seeps from her pores wafts around me until there isn’t a cell of my body not consumed by her. Cradling her cheek, I thumb away that teardrop, and she nuzzles into my touch, sparking an intense urge in me to hug her.
Christ, she makes me weak.
“Not many people could pull off bald,” she says in a hushed tone, like she’s sharing a secret.
I wait on bated fucking breath for the clever insult she’s going to deliver. Maybe it will save me from myself. Her gaze floats over me, taking in everything from my forehead to goatee, biceps and chest.
“But you …” She licks her lips, her crystal-clear blues flicking to my mouth before rising to my eyes. “You look good. Really good.”
That shocks me to my core, more than anything else she’s said or done, especially since I know she prefers full-face scruff and always loved my hair. But I don’t overanalyze it. I surrender to the impulse to return the praise and see where this goes.
“You too, Ains.” I brush my fingertips over her temple and silky cheek, sweeping some wispy strands away and drinking her in. “You were always gorgeous. You know that. But you’re so fucking stunning. How the hell did you get more beautiful with age?”
A puffed breath gushes from her as she gapes at me, her frosty veneer melting. “Thanks … Big Guy .”
Despite how strange that nickname sounds out of her mouth, the exchange is so intimate that I’m suddenly enraged, convinced she’s playing me. That, somehow, even in my house, defenseless, she’s still the one with all the fucking control.
Fisting her hair, I tug her head back. Not a bit gentle. But that doesn’t faze her. Ainsley can handle rough, craves it. Is it. I ghost my lips along the column of her throat, across her jaw, and up to her ear, goose bumps sprouting in their wake. My teeth nip at her lobe and the sensitive flesh behind it, which has her wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing into me with a sultry moan, her nipples pebbling as they graze my chest, confusing the fuck out of my hardening cock.
But I will not succumb to this hunger for her, not like this. Not after we’ve traded sweet words and she has the notion that forgiveness is in her future.
No. When I fuck her, she’ll know it’s nothing more than me owning her and satisfying an animalistic urge. And kissing? Out of the question.
The mere thought of kissing her pummels me like a battering ram, nearly mowing me over. The first one was the beginning of the end, but I couldn’t see it. She was so soft—so fucking soft. And her lips were pouty and plush and open for me. She was the wicked I craved and the innocence I was willing to corrupt at any cost, as if she was my perfect gift after a lifetime of hellfire. Made for me. I was so fucking wrong.
Not wrong about everything actually. I knew she was a death sentence, and I bit into her anyway. Too tempted to care. And the second she purred into my mouth, my tongue tangling with hers, it was over for me. I was hopelessly addicted to her poison, unable to taste anything without her. She was my own personal Eve, dangling Lucifer’s delectable apple in front of me. And I couldn’t get enough.
Not again. Never again.
My voice is a low rumble as I drive that truth into her. “Save your manipulative flattery, Wicked. It doesn’t matter how beautiful you are or what bullshit you spew at me. I won’t let you do this to me again.”
She angles her chin so those piercing blues can skate across my face with utter contempt. “Get over yourself, asshole. I wasn’t offering.”
When I release her hair, over this shit, she forms a rectangle with her thumbs and index fingers, like she’s taking a picture. Her right index presses down on the air. “Click. Now I’m all set for my board.” An insolent grin blooms on her flushed cheeks. “I’m sensing a theme. Your head bears a strong resemblance to those dicks I mentioned.”
She shimmies off the armrest and struts away. When she slips inside the closet, she peers around the threshold to survey me once more. She looks defeated, which is odd, considering she got the last word. “I never answered your question about whether you were wrong when you said that I only looked out for myself ?” Those icy blues swing back to the board for a beat before latching on to me. “The short answer is no. Someone had to. It was the word only that made your statement false.”
She disappears into my closet to return to her room while I stand, dumbfounded to whatever that was code for. Who else was she taking care of? It sure as shit wasn’t me. But it gnaws at my gut all the same.
I glance between the photos and where she just vanished, the past and present. Fearing that history may repeat itself. At least regarding my obsession with her. But I won’t let her deceive me this time. And I definitely won’t catch feelings for her. I can’t.
She’s mine. Game over. I just need to keep hating her.
Three days since I brought her into my home. Three nights of her sleeping a cracked door away. Four showers—of hers—that made me lose my damn mind. Seven cold ones for me, where I nearly stroked my aching dick off. And sixty-six hours since she attempted to drag me under her spell.
Or succeeded. Since my every waking thought is about her. My dreams are too.
Ivy sighs. “I’m not sure how well this arrangement is working out.”
The chuckles of the peanut gallery—composed of the men who are like brothers to me, all sprawled out across the room—echo her words.
Ignoring them, she forges ahead. “She’s withdrawn. We’re not getting anywhere.”
Ainsley has been withdrawn the last couple of days. She’s barely looked at me, let alone spoken to me. Or anyone else for that matter. But I don’t give credence to that.
“She’s fine.” I spin the black fidget ring on my index finger and gesture out my office window to the pool. “She’s with Rena and Celeste, laying out, living the dream.”
We usually have our meetings in Wells’s office or occasionally Liam’s because he’s got the best tech setup. My office is more of a safe place for me rather than my workspace—that would be the road, the debriefing bunker we have underground in the middle of our hundred sixty acres, or, hell, any wooded area. The slatted wall behind my desk hints at that—nine-foot floor-to-ceiling racking that holds various collector’s guns, some kick-ass knives, and even some special keepsakes, like machetes, swords, and tomahawks. It’s like a giant, cozy hug every time I step in here.
That’s not why we’re convening here today though. The pool view is the draw, where my infuriating girl lies despite the gray clouds blocking her rays. I won’t go anywhere I can’t keep an eye on her. Dangerous in itself. The vision of her in that puny orange knit bikini is fogging my goddamn brain. It’s really not that puny. Might even look modest on someone else. But on her, it’s unholy. Obscene.
And that is the only thing I want my attention on—the wicked beauty.
Unfortunately, even in here, Liam has his laptop open, sound up, and some god-awful blathering drones from the speakers. “Break-in occurred at nine thirty-two. While no details are being released—”
“Can you turn that the fuck off?” I grit out. “Jesus Christ. Getting on my last damn nerve.”
“Touchy, touchy,” Liam sings, shutting his laptop down. “Some of us have work to do, other than ogling our captives.”
Wells strides over to the window, observing Ainsley, who is on a lounger while the other girls dip their feet in the water. He swipes his hand through his hair. “There’s more than her mental state to discuss. Or yours.”
Those last two words are added to convey that he’s concerned, but won’t press me now. I’ve put him and the guys through the wringer over the years, especially the first year after we were erased. We’ve all had our ups and downs. Mine just happen to be directly correlated to the sunbathing beauty with the prickly blue eyes.
Pushing past the insinuation, I keep her in my sight while addressing him. “What’s the concern?”
“KORT,” he replies, which isn’t shocking—the majority of my work stems from KORT. Although I still do some enforcing for the government and our erasing business. But the conclusion of his thought has my heart racing. “And her,” he finishes.
My eyes snap to his. “What does KORT even know about her?”
“Not that she’s here.” He sighs, digging out a butterscotch candy. The new addiction is courtesy of Rena. As he unwraps it, he also unravels the mess we’re in. “Over the last month, things have escalated with the war between the Morellis and the Balzanos. She’s at the center of it, and Jared, Payne, and Axel all agree we need to hunt her down to sort it out.”
An irritated scoff thrums from my lungs. “I know her name is out there for killing the heads of the Mafia, but why the fuck do they think she has anything to do with the Balzanos?”
“They don’t,” he says as the candy clacks against his back teeth. “But the Balzano foot soldiers went up in smoke, and three Morellis were in the house, which KORT knows Ty and you were involved in, so that’s on us, not her. The problem is, the lead administration of the Morelli family, which included a beloved member of the Vittori family, was offed in their own home less than a month later. There have been various speculations as to how those two events connect, thrown out by both the Morellis and the Vittoris.”
Calling Nick beloved is a stretch, but he was the youngest of three sons, so I’m sure they’re fussing plenty over him. His asshole brothers will milk it for all they can. That’s not the point my mind should be getting hung up on though.
Various speculations?
“Such as?” I probe, pouring myself a glass of bourbon and eyeing Ainsley.
Wells shoves his hands into his dress pants pockets, rocking on his heels while peering out at the pool. “Most point back to KORT involvement, even though they know she did it. Apparently, they think KORT had put her up to it. That theory is only heightened by the fact that she was working with Glines, and now Vargas is in hiding—two agents known to be cooperative with KORT.”
“Shit,” I hiss, swinging my gaze to Ty, whose face is drawn.
That fire we set is eternally burning. Although it sounds like it had been started before us since the three Morellis I threw into it had killed Glines.
“They want us to track her down for answers before the Morellis or Vittoris find her,” Liam supplies, staring at me over his writhing Zippo flame. He’s been quiet, clearly mulling something over, but I’m not about to inquire what that is now.
“You are rightfully pissed at her,” Ty starts, chewing on his cheek and appearing conflicted before he chokes out the opposition to that beginning. “But she seems to dig her heels in, put up her guard, and fold into herself when she’s cornered, so if you’re intimidating her, it might cost us.”
He always manages a good read on people, and the conflict I’m sensing is likely because he’s torn between his loyalty to me and his hero complex when it comes to women. Broken ones especially. And no matter how angry I am at Ainsley, it’s clear she’s been beaten down by something. That’s not on me though.
After a sip of my bourbon, I set him straight. “I’ve been a perfect fucking gentleman.”
More than I’d like to be, due to honoring family wishes. Only for them. That was the mistake of moving her in here. There’s also the fear that I’d become so enamored with Wicked that I’d lose sight of what she did. If the obsession I have for her—the all-consuming one that has preoccupied me after those two minutes of my hands on her the other night—is any indication, anything more would completely unhinge me. That could be fun though. I do like to flirt with danger. And I’ve been fantasizing about her screaming.
Ivy titters a dubious giggle. “Right. ’Cause that comes so naturally to you.”
I flash her a wink and a smile because she never buys my shit. “Fine. Perfect and gentleman are a stretch, but I have behaved as I was instructed to do. I’ve barely interacted with her the last three days.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Liam says from his relaxed perch, legs and arms spread out.
Ivy and Ty mutter some objections, but I’m all ears for this new opinion.
Leaning forward on my elbows, hands steepled before me, I award him my full attention. “Go on.”
He glances out the window before settling back on me. “I’ve been observing, and here’s what I see. She knows who you are and is at the center of a fuck ton of the mess we have to clean up. She’s ours indefinitely. The girl is tough and feisty, but Ty’s right. She doesn’t trust us. She’s scared. Probably seen some pretty bad shit if she was even talking to the Feds and ultimately shot four members of her family. But the biggest thing I’ve noticed is that despite her attempt to appear otherwise, she craves your attention—whether that be your forgiveness, your protection, your friendship, or just a fuck, I don’t know. Deep down, she trusts you.”
“Trusts me?” I balk, only responding to that final assessment. “No.”
“He’s right.” Wells plants himself in the chair on the other side of my desk. “She alluded to killing those guys with Vargas and me, and we knew that’s what happened, but she wouldn’t outright admit to it. With you, even though she was infuriated enough to stab you with a fork”—he chuckles to himself—“she confessed the second you asked.”
Swilling the rest of my drink in a single gulp, I slam the glass down and huff. “The goddamn point?”
“Stop holding back,” Liam chimes with a devious smirk. “She’s getting to you, which is also obvious, by the way. Show her.”
“Gently,” Ty grits out.
“Fuck that,” Liam volleys, and Wells barks a laugh.
“It is in everyone’s best interest, including hers, that we get to the bottom of what happened.” That’s all Ivy interjects, somewhat lost in thought—could be about this or simply one of those places she goes when she’s overwhelmed.
But either way, that’s my green light.
If they’re unleashing me, I’m all too ready to charge full speed ahead toward the girl who stole everything from me. All for the sake of KORT, of course.
Maybe I should clarify whether or not the Chief is granting me permission here, but I’ve never been particularly good at asking for permission. Not when my mind is made up, which it is.
Yeah, I’ve already catapulted to fuck it .
And as if the heavens are rejoicing at my newfound purpose, a clap of thunder interrupts us.
My attention immediately shifts to the unholy beauty in question, who is sitting up, back ramrod straight as she absorbs her surroundings—the sky opening up to shower a monsoon on them, Celeste and Rena shrieking giggles and screams as they scurry for the house, Rex and Dante assisting them to the door.
I can see Ainsley’s wheels turning, and I know her ludicrous scheme before she even formulates it.
Barefoot, bikini, soaking wet, and twenty yards from the guards.
But still …
She runs.
And so do I.
Perfect fucking timing, Wicked.