Chapter 3
LILY
My hands tremble as I hold the envelope that arrived at my front door earlier this morning. I knew exactly what it was, so at the time, there was no reason to open it in a hurry. I kept it tucked away in my bag all day, knowing it was there while I worked my shift at the salon.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been stalling, but now that I’m also getting sent text messages too, this whole thing is starting to get to me. It’s either escalating, or I now have two obsessive admirers.
Sucking in a steadying breath, my eyes dart to the stairs to make sure I’m alone. The twins went back to uni earlier, and as far as I know, Asher is upstairs taking a shower.
Okay, let’s see what this sicko has in store for me today.
Slowly, I start to peel open the envelope, my mind flicking back to the first one I received a little over a year ago, and then each week after as they kept coming.
There’s never a postage stamp on it, so I know they get personally delivered each time, but my exterior security cameras never seem to pick up a clear identity of the deliverer, even though I use top of the range equipment.
The masculine figure who delivers the envelopes is always dressed in black and wears a cap to shade his face. He also seems to know the right direction to turn his head, so my cameras never get a good shot.
There is never any particular schedule to them being delivered. The day and time change each week, and a couple of times they were waiting for me at the salon, having been slipped under the door.
Whoever it is, is smart. They know not to be predictable, and they know exactly who I am, in more ways than one if the text messages I’ve started getting are anything to go by.
As I slide the photograph free of the envelope, I hold my breath, taking in the very clear scene it shows.
Me, dressed head to toe in black latex, my ivory face completely recognisable, even past the fury on my expression, my hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife, buried deep in my victim’s throat.
I remember that kill. It was at least two years ago. Maybe a little longer. The man was Bernard Evans. He was a known kiddie toucher and had been flying under the radar from authorities with his more recent activities of preying on children online.
I’d severed his dick that night and shoved it down his throat before ramming my knife up through his voice box and into his brain. The look of fury caught on my face was warranted, but unfortunately, having such damning evidence on me is really fucking bad.
So far, whoever it is that is sending these pictures of me mid-kill hasn’t asked for money or declared that they will hand the evidence over to the police. They just want me to know that they know.
Flipping the photograph over, I read the words scribbled across the back, just like all the others, there is a message for me.
I Know Who You Are!
“Is everything okay?”
I gasp, my eyes darting up quickly at the sound of Asher’s voice, as I clutch the picture to my chest so he can’t see what it is.
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Everything’s… fine.” I trail off, my eyes dropping down his bare chest and abs and the tattoos there, before landing on the grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips.
Ohhhh, well… doesn’t he look—
Shaking my head, I mentally slap myself, needing to get my shit together as I realise I’m practically drooling, my traitorous eyes desperate to travel lower and see if the sweatpants are showing what he’s packing.
What the hell, Lily!
“Ahhh.” I force my eyes back up to his, not missing the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Did you have a nice shower?”
Why the hell is there a squeak in my voice?
Panicking about my damn reaction to him, I quickly re-envelope the photo, and Asher frowns, watching me fumble.
“Yeah,” he nods, eyeing me curiously. “It was nice not to have a bunch of thugs checking me out for once while I washed.”
Shit.
Here I am, checking him out, which is totally messed up regardless, doing the one thing he’s had to worry about in prison.
Sighing, my shoulders drop, and I place the envelope down on the kitchen counter, needing to remind myself of how much Asher has been through.
He didn’t deserve to go to prison. The arsehole who invited himself to live with Asher’s mum is the one who should be locked away. The cops should have been thanking Asher for what he did, not punishing him.
Unfortunately, I know all too well how this fucked up justice system works, so it wasn’t a surprise when Asher was charged.
As soon as it happened, I considered reaching out to my cousin Barrett and asking him to help protect Asher while he was locked up.
I knew he could help. Hell, any one of my family could, but I avoid talking to most of them.
I’ve kept my distance from them after they demanded I abort my pregnancy when Alexander knocked me up with the twins all those years ago.
There was just one problem with asking for Barrett’s help. If Asher found out, he’d question how my cousin had that sort of sway, which could lead to him finding out who my family really is.
No one locally knows Barrett and I are related, aside from the twins, Asher, and Alexander, my good-for-nothing ex-husband. The twins and Alex think Barrett is a wealthy businessman, which, I guess, in a way, he is, but they think he works in the wholesale packaging industry.
It’s a lie we came up with to ensure they don’t suspect anything more and hopefully sounds boring enough that they don’t ask too many questions.
I hate lying to my sons, but it’s for their own safety.
The boys love each time their uncle visits, which isn’t all that often, maybe once or twice a year in person. But they are never interested in what he does for a living, their conversations sticking to whatever gift he brings them.
I, however, see Barrett every time he sets foot on British soil, which has become more frequent over the past few years.
One reason is that he does a lot of business over here for his family… my family.
The Marx family.
But mostly, he’s hiding because of something that happened at home… I mean, his home, in Australia.
My home is here in England now.
Barrett often helps me with research, and sometimes even field operations relating to Hedgwick and the surrounding town’s trafficking ring. A world I’m anonymously a part of, but not to do business in. No, I’m the one they all fear.
Since I didn’t have anyone else to ask for help, I called Barrett and made it clear that Asher was never to know he had a hand in helping to protect him in prison.
Barrett moved fast to get the protection in place, telling me some guy called Poe had Asher’s back. Which he did, for the two years Asher was incarcerated.
He was only beaten twice. Once on his first day, which was while I was frantically trying to get him inside protection, and the other was during a riot, when the prison guards got to him, even though he was trying to help end the siege.
Those guards got what was coming to them, though. Barrett and I made sure of that.
“I’m sorry.” My eyes soften as I round the bench, approaching Asher, trying to ignore the sight of his sculpted bare chest and how badly I want to study the ink there.
He’s grown into such a strong man, and it’s clear that he used his time in prison to work on building his muscle mass. He no longer looks like the teenage boy he still resembled when he went in. Now he looks so much older than his twenty years.
“I wish I could have done more to help clear your name,” I add, speaking the truth.
His whisky eyes drop from my face, travelling down the length of my body as I approach, and I feel warmth flush over my skin.
Is he… checking me out?
When his eyes make their way back up, lingering on the swell of my breasts for a moment too long, I have the urge to push my chest out further.
What the hell?
Shit. Did my nipples just go hard?
“You’ve done enough for me, Lily.” My name rolls off his tongue so sensually with his thick British accent that I need to mentally remind myself that this is Asher Scott, and not a man for me to ogle.
Although he sure does look fine. He has a lot more tattoos than the last time I saw him shirtless. And the way one disappears under the band of his sweatpants is nothing but teasing.
His voice is so manly now, with a deep husk. I noticed it when I went to visit him in prison. He’s always been a quiet kid, not saying much, so to have full conversations with him during my visits was an eye opener, showing me how much he’s matured over the years.
When I glance up at his face, my eyes find his lips, framed by a dusting of facial hair, and I have the urge to reach out and touch them to see if they’re soft.
Jesus Christ.
I clearly need to get laid so I stop ogling my sons’ best friend.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I remember we were having a conversation.
What were we talking about again?
Oh yeah. I’d said I wished I could do more, and he said I’d done enough for him… and then he said my name… Lily. Not Ms Bennett.
Lily.
“Nonsense,” I say quickly, needing to get this conversation back on track. “You’re like a son to me, Asher. I’d do anything to help you.”
I don’t miss the way he flinches at my words, right before his face hardens.
The action takes me aback, worried I’ve said something wrong, but then he steps closer to me. Too close.
I crane my neck back a little to keep my eyes on his, and he studies me for a moment before speaking.
“I’d rather not have you look at me as a son, Lily.” His voice is a low, deep rasp, and my brows shoot up even as my tummy flips.
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, and one of his dark brows hitches.
“You find me funny?”
“Uh…” I take a step back, needing to put space between us.
This poor kid doesn’t realise the effect he’s having on me. I can barely understand it myself, but he needs to get away from me before I do something stupid. Jesus, he’s seventeen years younger than me, for fuck’s sake.