Chapter 35
Leilani
Jax leaves mine and Koby’s suitcases by our four-poster bed. It’s in the same room I slept in for weeks while under Noretto’s roof.
Last time, the man of the house ushered me upstairs, but tonight, after one look at wound-up Koby, he instructed his lackey to take us.
“If you need anything, you know where my room is,” Jax says, looking over his shoulder, one hand grasping the doorframe. “You’ll find all your things still in the closet.”
“She won’t need anything,” Koby clips, glaring at his back until the door closes with a soft click.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him scrutinize my former cell and glare at the furniture like it’s threatening his life.
“Koby,” I prompt. “Please stop. The dresser’s not plotting against us, okay?”
“I don’t trust this house.” He drags his eyes off the fixtures and fittings. “I don’t trust Blaze. I don’t trust—”
“Anyone but Carter, Broadway, Ryder, and Dante.” I cross the space between us, pressing my palm flat against his chest, over his thrumming heartbeat. “I know, but you’ll make yourself sick if you keep this up.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Clearly.” I brush my fingers along his pulsing temple, then take his hand, tugging him toward the bathroom. “Come on. You need to relax before you pop a vein.”
His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but I shush him with a look, and instead of words, he just huffs.
The antique clawfoot tub was my favorite part of living here. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I caught myself staring at how it gleams under the low lights every time I sank into it.
I twist the faucets, the sound of rushing water filling the room as fast as the corkscrewing steam. Koby leans against the doorframe, still as a statue, eyebrows drawn together.
“Get in,” I tell him.
“You first.”
“No, just you.”
“I’m not sitting in there alone.” He pushes off the frame, stalking closer. “Either you’re coming with me or forget it.”
“You need this. You.” I jab my finger into his chest for emphasis. “Don’t make me wrestle you into the water.”
“You can try.”
“You’re such a child,” I huff, shaking my head.
“Maybe. But I won’t relax if you’re not there with me.”
“You can’t relax at all.” I grab the front of his shirt, yank him forward, and start working the buttons.
He catches my wrists, eyes flicking from the tub to my face. “I can undress myself, you know?”
“But you won’t because you’re too busy sulking.”
“You don’t get it. I’m supposed to be doing things for you. I’m supposed to—”
“Enough.” I tear my hands out of his grasp and pop another button. “What you’re supposed to do is keep your head screwed on straight for the next twenty-four hours, but you’re not far from losing it.”
He exhales, a short, frustrated breath. “This isn’t fair, Leilani. If I tried to do this for you, you’d freak out and beat me up.”
“And you’d get hard.” I shrug, shoving the shirt off his shoulders, letting it slide down his arms. “Step out of your pants.”
He hesitates for a beat longer, then finally unbuckles his belt, strips off his pants, and lowers himself into the water.
The groan that escapes him is completely at odds with his pouting jaw.
“Better?” I ask, kneeling beside the tub.
“Not yet. You’re still not in here.”
I grab the shower gel, squeeze some into my palm, and set my hands on his shoulders, working the suds into his skin. He jerks slightly, muscles twitching under my touch.
“This isn’t fair,” he mutters. “I should be doing this for you.”
“Shut up.” I dig my thumbs deep into the knots along his spine.
“Fuck... that feels good.” His head tips forward, dark hair falling into his eyes. “And wrong to let you take care of me.”
“Feels right to me.” I press harder into the muscles along his neck until he hisses and his shoulders sag.
“You’re really won’t get in?”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “Maybe later.”
“Leilani...” His voice cracks a little, soft in a way that pokes right at my chest. “Get in here. Please.”
His hands rest on the rim of the tub instead of clenching, no trace of pout or glare left in his expression.
“Fine.” I yank my blouse over my head, then hook my thumbs in the elastic of my skirt and panties, shoving them down my legs until both items pool on the floor. “Slide forward.”
“No.” He takes my hand, holding me steady as I climb into the tub, my ass nestling between his thighs.
His arms band around me, locking me in.
“Koby,” I sigh, head tipping back against his shoulder. “This defeats the whole purpose. How am I supposed to massage you now? How am I supposed to help you relax?”
“Oh, I’m relaxing.” His lips brush my ear. “You just don’t understand that holding you is the only thing that calms me down.”
Warm water curls around us, lapping at the rim as I brush my fingers along his forearms locked across my stomach. His pulse thrums under my touch, still too fast, but not as wild.
I draw small circles into his skin and trace the lines of his tattoos until his breathing evens out against my neck.
This isn’t how I pictured calming him, but if sitting here, wrapped in his arms, is what eases his spiraling, then I guess we both win.
***
Running my palm across the mirror above the sink, I wipe off enough steam to see the stranger I’m turning myself into. The hair dryer hums quietly, failing to drown out the conversation from the bedroom.
It also doesn’t stop Koby peeking his head through the door every goddamn minute.
It’s barely past seven in the morning, but Carter’s already here, his low voice filtering into the bathroom as he tries convincing Koby to head downstairs for breakfast.
He won’t, of course, but judging by the creaking floorboards, he’s pacing, so he needs something to do.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” I call out.
“On it, hellcat!”
I smirk, brushing my hair before twisting the strands into a half-up, half-down ponytail. I tie it off with a pale-yellow ribbon that matches the dress I’ve chosen. My cheeks are too pale, so I pinch some color into them, my stomach turning with how easily I morph into Anton’s property.
Not even five minutes have passed before Koby’s back, setting a steaming cup beside the sink.
“You okay?” he asks, looking me over from head to toe.
“Yes, still okay.”
Carter leans in the doorway, holding a cup of his own, a deep eleven between his brows. “You’re not FaceTiming him, Leilani. Why bother with the costume?”
“What if he asks to see me?” I smooth the dress, fixing the hem over my thighs. “If he asks, I’ll be ready. If he doesn’t, then I’ve only wasted an hour playing dress-up. I’ll survive.”
“Fair enough.” Carter nods.
“There’s nothing fair about this,” Koby grits out. “I’m tearing that off you the second you end the call.”
I force a believable smile to ease his nerves even though I’m a wreck inside. “I didn’t expect anything else. Just wait until Carter leaves, okay? We don’t want to scar him for life.”
“Too late for that,” Carter shoots back, hiding a smirk behind his coffee. “Koby’s stunts scarred me a long time ago.”
“So not the time for this, Boss,” he mutters, moving behind me. “Please don’t lock me out, baby.”
I coat my lips with pink gloss, ignoring his dark eyes drilling into the back of my head like he’s willing me to turn and say fine, you can stay.
“I am locking you out.” I pinch my cheeks again, then fuss with the ribbon. “If you’re here, I can’t pull it off.”
“He’ll believe you no matter what. I want to be here.”
“No. You’ll pace, and grunt, and glare holes through me. I’ll trip over my words or say something I shouldn’t. It’ll work better if you’re outside.”
“Outside.” He spits the word out. “Pounding on the door.”
“Yes. Anton needs to hear someone trying to get in. It creates urgency, sells my story that I stole the phone I’m calling on. You know all this. It’s part of the plan you agreed to.” I risk glancing at his reflection.
His jaw’s locked, shoulders tight, hands flexing at his sides. Carter’s no longer there, but sitting on the bed now.
“Koby.” I turn, leaning against the counter. “I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to trust me. It’s just two minutes, and you’ll be right outside.”
His throat works, but no words come. He just stares at me, probably talking himself out of pushing harder in case he provokes an argument.
A knock on the bedroom door snaps him back to reality, but he doesn’t move, letting Carter deal with it.
“Octavius’s plane just took off,” Blaze’s voice breaches the room. “You can begin.”
Koby stiffens, pulling the phone out of his pocket. He taps the screen, and a dial tone fills the space between us.
“Are we on?” Ryder answers.
“Yes. Get to work. Let me know when it’s done.”
“Alright, hold the line.”
Fast, rhythmical tapping pours from the speaker and my stomach hollows out as I grab the burner phone. Seconds stretch, each lasting longer than the last, my heart picking up pace.
“Done. You’re good,” Ryder confirms. “Keep us in the loop.”
Koby cuts the call without another word and grabs my hand, pulling me into his arms. “You’ve got this,” he whispers, kissing the side of my head. “I’ll be right outside.”
He mutters fuck one last time, lets me go, and rushes out of the bathroom before he changes his mind.
I close the door behind him, turning the lock.
For a moment, I stand by the tub, staring at my reflection. The girl in the mirror isn’t me. She’s Anton’s little toy, her ribbon tied just so, lips glossy, eyes wide.
I drag a shaky breath through my nose, glancing around to find the best place to call from. Closing my eyes I recall how I felt when Anton locked me in the closet. How the darkness panicked me as the walls shrank closer, and closer.
My pulse quickens. I move on autopilot, curling myself under the sink, and close my eyes, inhaling the faint scent of minty toothpaste in shallow, small breaths.
I cover my head with one arm, pressing my back further into the wall. Pulling my knees close to my chest, I fold into the same position I cried in for hours inside the dark closet.
Behind the closed door, I hear a muffled thud, then Carter telling Koby to give me space.
Their voices fade in and out, muffled by the memories I’m pulling forth. I picture Anton’s hands. The way he pinched my chin when he wanted me to look at him. The way he combed his calloused fingers through my hair. The way he fed me, bathed me, erased me little by little.
I recall the sound of my father’s screams. My screams. Soft lullabies and the closet door shutting with an ominous thunk. The smell of antiseptic. Oranges. Baby powder and blood.
My throat tightens. I squeeze my eyes until white spots appear. Until I summon tears.
The next flashes of my confinement come back faster, as if I broke a dam and nothing can stop the flood. My pulse skitters, my ears ring, and I’m trembling, balancing somewhere between here and there, now and then.
My throat is raw, the panic so close I can taste it.
I tap the quick dial button.