Chapter 18 Again
EIGHTEEN
AGAIN
LUCY
Seeing it there, a relief I didn’t even know I was searching for slams into me.
I don’t know why. I knew I was married. I have a ring, and a devoted husband who’s told me all about our married life, even if he refuses to give more information about our estrangement other than that he believes it was his fault.
Still, though I can’t quite explain why, I click on the link with trembling fingers.
The page loads and a pair of photographs appear.
I know the one on the left intimately. My hair is a little longer, my smile a little brighter, and I don’t have that dazed, lost look in my eyes like I do now.
I’m obviously younger, which makes sense.
The announcement is dated for the end of October, five years ago.
But the man on the right? The man I supposedly married?
That’s not Dallas.
He’s older than fresh-faced Lucy. I’d say he’s at least thirty-five, maybe even forty when you take in the handful of white hairs standing out against his slicked-back black mane. He has dark, fathomless eyes, and a smirk that turns my stomach though I’ve never seen this man before.
And that’s a lie. That’s a fucking lie.
I’ve seen him before.
I’ve dreamed about him…
I hurriedly read the paragraph below.
With the blessing of Jack Collins and the Order of the Owed, Mr. Julian Fairchild of 139 Rosewood Place is pleased to announce his wedding to Ms. Lucille Anne Wright on October 16th…
Julian Fairchild. This says I married a man named Julian Fairchild in a union blessed by the King, a man called Jack Collins.
Collins. Collins.
Disregarding how there can be any such King when he live in fucking America and that, despite wannabe government officials thinking a dictatorship was in order, we’re still not a monarchy, I notice that Jack Colins’s named is underline in blue. It’s a hyperlink, and I click that, too.
When I typed in my name, I only got one result. This Jack fella? He has hundreds.
I don’t know where to start—but then one article headline stands out to me and I zoom the cursor right toward the line that says:
Dallas Collins Named New King of the Order of the Owed
My breath catches once that page loads next.
The man who called himself my husband agreed that his name was Julian, but that his nickname was Dallas. Now I know that I did marry a man named Julian, but it wasn’t the same one who came to sit with me at St. Luke’s.
Oh, no. The man who showed up really is named Dallas Collins, and I’m staring at a picture of him on the computer screen.
He looks pissed off. Definitely uncomfortable.
He’s glaring, as though the photographer made it a point to rile him up before they shot the picture, but there’s no denying his sexy aura and dangerous nature in the simple shot.
His arms are crossed over his chest, t-shirt defining his muscles, and his head is tilted just so to show off the spade tattoo on his neck.
That’s Dallas. My Dallas… but it isn’t my husband.
So who the fuck is he?
I hurriedly read the lines beneath the photo.
Following the unfortunate and untimely death of our leader, Jack Collins, it is now announced that his son and heir, Dallas, is now and henceforth named as the new King of the Order of the Owed.
I don’t understand. He… he says he fixes cards. That’s his job. He’s not some powerful head of a secret society like the Illuminati or something… is he?
Fuck. I mean, I should’ve known something was up.
The penthouse? His endless supplies of money?
I told myself that he worked because he wanted to, ot because he had to…
but what about all those times I wondered why he came home without a lick of grease under his nails?
And his hands… those aren’t mechanic hands.
Who is he?
What does he do?
My hands are flat-out shaking now. Ignoring the way that the Dallas on the screen is glaring at me, I return to the search engine and type in his name.
I don’t know what I did that was any different from before. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a file in the computer, and he does, but the same picture appears in a thumbnail. I click on it, and instead of pulling up a list of articles, there’s a profile.
It lists his name, date of birth, city of birth, and parents. On the plus side, all of that information coincides with what he’s told me about himself, except for the fact that his name most definitely is Dallas and not Julian.
I scroll a little more, pausing when I get to the part that says:
Title:
King (current)
Enforcer (former)
Rank:
1
Confirmed Kills in the name of the Order:
16
Kills.
Kills.
What the fuck?
The saddest thing is, if someone asked me if I thought Dallas was capable of killing someone, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.
Of course, I’d add caveats to that. He wouldn’t do it for the sake of killing, but to save a life or to protect someone.
Like me. He’d kill for me in a heartbeat.
The gun I’ve seen him carry gives credence to that, plus the pocketknife I’ve seen him pull out of his pocket casually when he doesn’t care to look for a pair of scissors to open another package he’s ordered for me.
But this.. this makes it seem like killing is his job.
My hands poise over the keyboard. I don’t even know what to look up yet, afraid of what else I might find. However, before I can start to type again, I heard the doorknob rattling, and a muffled female voice saying, “That’s weird. It was open when I left it.”
Moving quickly, I just make it to the other side of the desk before the door shoves in and I watch as two people walk into the office with all the comfort of someone who is used to this space.
One of them—the one with the earrings and the suit—I know.
That’s Dallas’s cousin, another tidbit confirmed in the profile I read, though the name listed said he was Adrian Heller and not Adrian Collins like I believed.
The other is a slender woman with a pretty face whose wearing a soft yellow blouse, a dark grey pencil skirt, her strawberry blonde hair pulled up in a twist. She has freckles dotting her nose, and a pair of warm hazel eyes that light up when she sees me.
Adrian, however, frowns, as though he knows I’m not supposed to be here.
His wife—and I’m assuming it’s his wife considering his hand is on her ass as he guides her into the office—seems delighted to see me.
“Oh, hi! You must be Lucy. I’ve been dying to meet you.
” She hurries forward, heels click-clacking against the hardwood floor as she comes closer to me, throwing her arms around me in a welcoming hug.
“I’m Loni. Dallas talks about you constantly, but he’s so overprotective, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to say ‘hi’.
” She throws a look over her shoulder at Adrian, a teasing smile tugging on her lips.
“Not like I can complain. If you knew what it took for me to convince Adrian to let me take this job at the Fortress, you wouldn’t believe it. ”
Adrian snorts softly. “She lives with Dallas, princess, one floor above us and this is the first time she’s come down here. I’m sure she has an idea.”
Loni grins at me, like we’re sharing a secret between us, knowing how possessive the Collins—or, in her case, Heller—men are. “True. Unless Dallas didn’t give her permission.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “What do you say, Lucy? Does the boss know you’re here?”
All along, I thought Adrian was the boss. After what I just saw… yeah, no. It looks like Dallas is, and I have no idea what to think about that.
What to think about any of this.
But I offer her a pale mimicry of her own grin, make up an excuse that—from their expressions as they glance at each other—neither one of them believes, then hurry from the room before either of them can stop me.
Part of me wanted to huddle in the elevator, take it all the way down to the lobby again, and run out into the night.
It’s not raining, so it’s a safer bet than it was the last time I felt the urge to flee, but I know better now.
The security in the Fortress alerted him to my escape last time.
They already know I’ve been wandering around the building today.
Even if that man I ran into doesn’t immediately snitch to Dallas, I know damn well that Adrian and his lovely bride will.
So I don’t leave. Thankfully, Dallas finally trusted me with the passcode that allows the elevator to go up to the penthouse floor. I take the short ride, letting myself back into Dallas’s place.
The bareness of it all is stifling. The weight of his lies—his continued betrayal—has me hunching slightly as I trip over the floor.
He told me that I could trust him. That I could believe him.
That the truth of the Order of the Owed was the last big secret he kept from me… and that was just another lie.
So he is Dallas Collins. He’s not Julian. He’s not the man that I married five years ago.
He’s not my husband.
So who the fuck is he?
I can’t return to his room. I refuse to go to the one he gave me when he first brought me home, either. Instead, I go to the living room, staring blankly across the way at the oversized windows as I perch lightly on the edge of one of the couches.
That’s where he finds me no more than fifteen minutes later.
His hair is windblown, as though he was outside when he got the call that there was trouble with his ‘wife’.
His cheeks are ruddy, his green eyes glassy and wild, and there’s a heaviness to his step as he stalks into the penthouse, calling out my name as though he’s sure that I’m already gone.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “In here.”
He finds me in the living room, a flash of relief crossing his features before he notices the look of determination on mine. Something inside of him tightens in that moment, and by the time he’s standing opposite of me, he’s locked down all of his emotions.
“Dandelion.”
I wince. To hear him use that name so easily, knowing that it means something to him, something so important that he tattooed one on his throat… remembering that night by the fountain, and how I felt like I was finally home again… I fucking wince.
He rocks back on his heels, muttering a curse under his breath.
Yeah, Dal. Yeah.
Running his fingers through his hair, snagging them on the messy curls, he says, “You found my office.”
That’s putting it simply, but if that’s how he wants to begin this conversation, that’s fine by me. “I did.”
Dallas exhales through his nose. “I would’ve shown you if you asked. You didn’t need to go snooping—”
Snooping? Well, yeah, I guess that’s what I did. But when he’s been so careful to keep me from doing just that, is it a surprise that I finally grew enough of a backbone to see if I could figure out what he was hiding from me?
“You left me no choice.”
A muscle in his cheek tics. “Dr. Brannigan said that there would be no good in you opening doors better left closed. Googling yourself would only lead to problems.”
Right. Like finding a wedding announcement on a secret society’s archive that said I married a man who isn’t this one.
Pushing past that for the moment, I suddenly remember the mark I would see on the good doctor’s hand as he gestured while he spoke.
“Dr. Brannigan is one of you, isn’t he?” I jerk my chin at Dallas’s palm.
“One of the Owed. Don’t deny it. He’s got that brand, too.
Fucking hell, Dallas. How much did you pay him to tell me what you wanted him to? To keep me in line?”
To keep me from finding out the truth?
“It’s not like that.” At my scoff of disbelief, Dallas firms his voice. “I mean it, Luce. Yeah, Dr. Brannigan is an Owed. Most of the best therapists and shrinks and docs in Harmony Heights are. But I never interfered with your treatment. How fucked-up do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” I shoot back. “Fucked-up enough to take a vulnerable woman whose memory is a blank slate and tell her that you’re her husband.”
The way that big, bad Dallas Collins flinches at the venom in my voice… I hit a bulls-eye with that one.
“Lucy—”
Nope. “Don’t even think about lying to me again. I found my wedding announcement. My real one.”
Dallas doesn’t react. Not outwardly, at least, though something dark moves behind his eyes as he refuses to respond to that.
Fine. “I know I married Julian Fairchild. Not Dallas Collins. I saw a picture of him when I looked. He isn’t you.”
No. But you know who he is? The same man that has haunted my nightmares. The dark-haired, dark-eyed bastard who berated me, who hurt me, who forced me to do things that I never wanted to do all while I fantasized about another man.
About Dallas Collins.
“I looked you up, too. Found your picture. So you didn’t lie about being called Dallas. You sure as hell did when you told me you were Julian. You lied to me. Again.”
Again.
And again.