Chapter Fifteen
As the evening wore on Cross seemed intent on ignoring her presence entirely and Verity curled further into the numbing embrace of shock. Cheek resting against the warm length of his thigh she closed her eyes and let the noise around her fade into the far distance.
She couldn’t say how long she sat there - not asleep, not awake - but with her thoughts thankfully shielded from the horror of the present but eventually she felt a long arm loop around her waist, lifting her to feet.
“Gentlemen, if you will forgive me, I have matters that demand my attention, so I will leave you to the rest of your evening.”
Aware that his arm was the only thing keeping her on her feet and anxious to get out of the overheated atmosphere and away from the stink of sweat and blood and adrenaline she leaned into him and let him lead her from the room without protest.
Once back in the relative safety of his office, he released her and Verity swayed.
“You’re in no state to get yourself home.” He gestured to the bed, “Sleep it off for a few hours. I have work to do and you’ll feel better when you wake.”
Verity wanted to argue with him. No, more than that, she wanted to scream at him, punch him, scratch his face and tear away that cool mask of faux concern. Most of all she wanted to get the hell out of there and never look back, but her legs were shaking so badly she wasn’t sure she’d make it to the door, let alone back to her flat.
Sinking onto the bed in unwilling surrender it took her trembling fingers three attempts to undo the tiny buckles on her shoes. Opting to keep his jacket on, rather than crawl naked under the sheets, she curled up against the pillows with a groan and drew her legs up tight to her chest.
In the silence that followed, her jittering nerves returned and she strained to hear any sound from across the room, tensing in anticipation of the next attack. But other than the occasional creak as he shifted in his chair, Cross barely moved. Was he watching her? The sound of a drawer opening and shuffle of paper quietly informed her that his attention was elsewhere and she slowly released the breath she’d been holding.
Eyes closed she had the disconcerting sensation of his scent lifting from the soft wool of his jacket and settling around her like a blanket. More disturbing, was the reassurance it provided and despite her best intentions she felt her tense muscles begin to relax.
Too tired to fight the lure she snuggled deeper into the rich fabric. Perhaps, if he thought she was sleeping he’d leave her alone - at least for a few minutes. She’d almost managed to convince herself it was working when warm liquid dripped onto her face.
“Shhhh,” Cross murmured as she struggled upright, flinching away from him. “I just want to minimise the mess you’re making of the sheets.”
She blinked her eyes open and realised that the liquid was water, dripping from a damp towel. Without further explanation he pushed her down onto the pillows once more and gently wiped the remains of her makeup from her face.
The soothing strokes extended down her neck and into the hollow of her throat. She felt him push the lapels of the jacket aside and something inside her snapped. He couldn’t seriously expect her to spread her legs for him right now… not after the events from early. Almost hysterical, she grabbed his wrist, wrenching her head to the side as she tried to lever him off her.
His tone light but firm, he said, “Let go.”
His hands didn’t move and the two words hung between them: a precisely drawn line in the sand. No longer possessing the energy nor the will to fight him, Verity felt her arms fall to her sides.
“Good girl.”
She grimaced at the endearment but said nothing. He’d won, they both knew it and if he was now choosing to claim his spoils then she guessed he had every right. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out as much as possible of whatever victory celebration he had planned, when a sharp astringent smell reached her nose.
Warily she cracked one eye and watched as he soaked the corner of the towel in antiseptic and carefully flushed the scratch left by the knife. It stung like hell, but the fact she could feel anything at all came as something of a relief. She might be damaged but not completely destroyed.
“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,” she muttered to herself.
“What?”
“Sorry.Family motto.”
Confusion briefly creased his brow, then he shook his head, recapped the bottle and placed it on the floor.
“We’ll get someone to check that tomorrow. You’ll probably need a course of antibiotics.”
“And a rabies shot,” she muttered.
Holding out his hand he offered her two white tablets.
She gave him a side-look. “What are they?”
“Just paracetamol.” He gave a light shrug. “You can choose your own, straight out of the pack, if you prefer.”
Acknowledging the unspoken truth that they were well past the point of him needing to drug into compliance, she accepted the tablets and the glass of water to wash them down.
Temporary role of field medic completed, he returned to his original task. Other than as necessary to strip away the remainder of her clothing, his hands never touched her. Only the warm damp towel, passing over every inch of her that the Bratva had groped and mauled; washing away their presence if not their memory.
The long soothing strokes were hypnotic and Verity felt herself gradually relax, allowing him to move her onto her stomach without protest so he could wash her back. The last thing she remembered was him lifting her foot and running the cloth gently between her toes.
She woke to feel a warm hand resting lightly on the base of her spine, his thumb brushing against the cleft of her ass. Annoyed at herself for falling asleep, she automatically started to wriggle away, but the gentle pressure increased, pinning her in place.
Too exhausted to make a scene or start a fight that she'd undoubtedly lose, she buried her face in the pillow and fell still. A moment or two later, the touch vanished and was replaced by an inexplicable sense of loss.
Then she heard a page turn, the shuffle of documents and a single leaf was placed between her shoulder blades. Over the next half an hour more pages were carefully added and she lay frozen - pinned in place, scared that the slightest move might dislodge the light pile.
***
Work complete, Cross filed the loose sheaf of notes and returned his hand to the smooth skin of the woman pretending to sleep next to him. As his thumb brushed over the bottom vertebrae he felt her shiver beneath his touch and he raised an eyebrow. That unconscious movement was possibly the first genuine response he'd ever felt from her.
Intrigued and curious to explore further he shifted down the bed, tracing her spine with his lips until he reached the same spot and felt that same shiver. Tongue circling the final ridge of bone he slid his hand beneath her stomach.
Her sharp intake of breath granted his searching fingers access to first slick evidence of her arousal and he grinned against her skin.
Unhurried, his mouth and fingers moved in harmony, circling her flesh and pulling an unwilling moan from deep inside her.
He could feel the tension gathering in her muscles, and her efforts to fight it back. Shifting his hand lower he slid two long fingers deep inside her as his tongue traced lazy circles over her spine. A few more seconds and the tension fled from her body with a strangled cry as she clenched around his fingers.
Dropping one final kiss to the curve of her bottom, he enjoyed the ripple of aftershocks flutter against his fingers before withdrawing his hand and getting to his feet.
Looking disoriented and confused by what had just happened, Verity turned over and pushed herself back against the headboard, a pillow hugged to her chest. Shifting his attention back to the pile of documents on his desk, Cross allowed her a few moments to gather herself.
The silence stretched out until finally she cleared her throat and asked, “Can I go home now?”
He raised his head and gave a shrug. “Of course. I’ll call the car.”
“You don’t need to–” He was gratified to notice that it took little more than a stern look to silence her protests and her shoulders heaved as she changed her response and managed to say, “Thank you.”
She fell silent, her eyes darting around the room and he could almost see her thought process as she evaluated what was left of her clothing. He waited until what little colour was left had faded from her face as she considered the prospect of parading through the club naked to get to the locker room and a change of clothes. He was curious to see what she’d do. Earlier in the evening, she’d probably have taken the walk of shame without a stitch on, chin raised in insolent defiance. But now, that level of confidence and swagger had diminished considerably.
Would she ask for her clothes to be sent up? Would she plead? He saw her eyes linger on his jacket, carefully folded at the end of the bed. He was fairly certain that the last thing she wanted right now, was for anything of his to be touching her skin, but would she take that option in order to salvage the last of her pride?
Not giving her the opportunity to make that decision, he picked up a small bundle of clothing from his desk and held it out.
The look of gratitude in her eyes as she accepted the simple offering of t-shirt and sweatpants was everything he’d hoped for.
His lips twitched towards a grin as he watched her expression change, the realisation hitting her in waves: first, that the outfit was exactly her size and secondly, that it had clearly been ordered for her before the evening had even begun.
Her jaw tensed, hands balling into fists around the soft fabric, and for one moment he thought she was going to throw them back at him. But she didn’t. She swallowed hard and said nothing as she struggled into the new outfit; the look on her face suggesting that the effort was more than physical.
She rubbed her arms as Cross unlocked the door and held it open, the bruises from events earlier already beginning to darken her skin. Ducking under his arm she muttered good night but just before she could make her escape he leaned forward, his lips brushing across her cheekbone almost like a caress.
"Just remember, now I know what that really feels like, I won’t be fooled so easily," he said, the taunting note clear in his tone. "And the next time you fake it you don't get paid."
She stared at him in silence, face tight with suppressed emotion. Cross slouched against the door, holding her gaze and making no attempt to hide his satisfaction. Verity dropped her eyes first, spinning on one heel and heading for the stairs.
He watched her unsteady progress; the high heels, dangling from one hand, at odds with the rest of her casual attire. As she disappeared from view around the sweep of the staircase he closed the door and frowned, feeling strangely unsettled.
The evening had gone exactly as planned. His lesson, delivered with glaring clarity. There was no doubt she now understood who was in full control of this game. This was his club, where everyone played by his rules - and for the first time he felt some confidence that she would actually do what she was told, when it mattered.
His frown deepened. He should be feeling a sense of triumph, or at the very least relief.
But he felt neither, and as he poured himself a glass of expensive brandy, the taste in his mouth was more reminiscent of regret than victory.