Chapter Thirty-Two
I woke up this morning in a bedroom, in an actual bed, for the first time in three years. And I immediately thought I was dead.
The bed in Dr. Love’s room is insanely comfortable, like a complete one-eighty from the flimsy mattress on my rickety old bunk bed in the Pen. After the massage and multiple orgasms from Trevel last night, while the rain hit the windows like quixotic music… I was out cold.
Unfortunately, sleeping in wasn’t an option. Dawn brought with it a long-awaited break in the storm, and the harsh reality of the state of Alabaster Isle.
Last night wasn’t a bad dream… It really happened.
The prison has fallen. People are missing… Dead, or gone, or both. Velle is still over there, with his men, doing God knows what. Prisoners who attempt to flee are being gunned down like animals.
It’s chaos, plain and simple. Death, destruction, devastation.
And I’m just… here . Inside a lavish mansion, surrounded by people I don’t know, feeling more out of place than an earthworm among pythons.
Trevel and I have been sitting around for hours, quietly blending into the background as much as possible. Just trying to stay out of the way, because there’s so much going on, and I wouldn’t have the first clue what part I’m expected to play, if any.
What am I supposed to be doing?
Why is he allowing me to stay here??
What… does he want from me?
All day, men I’ve never seen before have been storming around the mansion, yelling things in Spanish at each other and over the walkie-talkies. I’ve seen a few of the Warden’s guards pop in, but mostly they’re new faces—and more are arriving constantly, I believe coming in on the ferries.
Men in uniform. Soldiers.
He’s bringing in backup. Which can mean only one thing…
I won’t pretend to know much of anything about who Manuel Blanco was before he became the Warden of Alabaster Penitentiary, but based on the way all of these men look to him like he’s their commanding officer—referring to him only as Jefe —I have to assume the rumors I’ve been hearing over the years are true.
The Ivory’s business is with the Colombian cartel, and this island is just one small piece of his territory. A piece that’s now under attack , and apparently, requiring the defense of a goddamn military cordon.
Seriously, Trevel and I are the only ones not involved in whatever is going on outside the mansion.
From what I understand, there’s a staff of personal chefs, chauffeurs, and cleaning people who live in that house by the back entrance.
They too have been mulling around the mansion, keeping busy while The Ivory’s men turn their quarters into a fucking base of operations… And an armory.
Every single dude who stalks past us is packing some serious artillery, leading me to believe that Manuel Blanco is bringing over more than just bodies as reinforcements.
These soldiers are strapped, which would be overwhelming… If I wasn’t already wearing a collar that’ll incapacitate me if I try to leave the premises.
Time is both flying by and standing eerily still. The next thing I know, a full day has passed, then another, and I can’t tell if I’m adapting, or in denial.
The echoes of gunfire still register, but I’m trying not to think about it; fighting off the need to know what’s happening out there, because no one will tell me anything, anyway.
Trevel and I have tried asking Kent questions, but his answers are limited to the standard curt responses.
Don’t worry about it.
Just stay out of the way, and if he asks for something, do it.
In an effort to take his advice, we decided to move out of Dr. Love’s room.
The mansion is getting crowded with all the newcomers, but if I’m being honest, I wasn’t feeling it in there.
It was one thing to fuck in their bed as some silly, stupid game of revenge kink, but actually staying in Dr. Love’s room was bothering me, and I’m not exactly sure why .
Maybe I am; I just don’t want to think about it.
We decided to take a bedroom on the third floor on the left side—formerly the guards’ quarters. I guess it still is, just not the guards I’m used to. It wasn’t until we started poking around, looking for clothes and toiletries to use, that we discovered whose room it’d been…
My mind is still running over all of this bullshit while I sit in the library, reading— or pretending to —on the big leather couch, with Trevel by my side. A fire crackling, keeping us warm and distracting from the bloodshed just outside. It’s not doing the best job.
I’ve been scanning the same line of this book for minutes on end, remembering the stuff I found in the back of the closet in our new bedroom…
An NYPD hoodie. A Claddagh ring, engraved with the words, “Dílseacht agus teaghlach,” which I think is Irish Gaelic.
A framed picture of a young Velle standing next to a woman…
Don’t worry about it.
Keep busy.
Ignore the fact that you’re now sleeping in Rook, Joy, and Velle’s bedroom, and they’re trapped in Alabaster Penitentiary.
It’s not completely fucking insane that you’re here and they’re there.
It’s fine.
Head in the… game.
“Cold?” Trevel brushes his fingers up and down my arm, over the goosebumps that have little to do with the temperature.
I give up rereading the sentence and peer at him. He’s scribbling in a notebook. My eyes fall to it, just long enough to catch a few words before I look away.
Glancing across the room, I watch Yari, who’s nestled in a big chair, scrolling on his phone. No surprise there. It’s what he does ninety percent of the time.
The Warden’s assistant, Yari Estevez, is a nice guy. Too nice…
It doesn’t make any sense. What does The Ivory need with an assistant like him? He’s so… normal. He’s exactly what you’d expect from a personal assistant to a celebrity or some rich business mogul. Not a cartel capo who runs a depraved prison as just one of his many nefarious enterprises.
Yari must sense me staring at him, because he peeks up, locking his light eyes on mine. He smiles kindly, gaze dropping to the book in my hands. He cocks a brow, but says nothing. Just goes back to his phone.
“What are you writing?” I ask Trevel, attempting to distract myself.
“A poem,” he answers with a smirk, though he doesn’t even pause what he’s doing.
“No shit,” I grumble, and he chuckles. “What’s it about?”
Wet flesh and growls of thunder…
Like the storm, I felt him in my bones.
Trevel looks up from his writing, violet gaze darkened with the fire’s glow. “You.”
Slip between the trees with me…
Fall for me like rain.
Fight me back, sweet fury…
And I’ll fight for you.
I swallow hard. “Me?”
He nods slowly. There are way too many things littering my thoughts, but he’s at the forefront. He has to be… He’s all I have, now more than ever.
But the thing is, I’m conflicted, between wanting to keep this, hold on to it with everything I’ve got… And fearing it’ll smash me to pieces.
It’s just another thing I’ve been trying not to dwell on, because it’s a lot of pressure on a new relationship that I’m not even confident we’re actually having.
We weren’t supposed to be a couple, but now it feels like we’ve been thrust together in this crazy fucking situation, and I don’t know what any of it means.
What is this?
What are we doing?
Who are you , violet eyes?
Before either of us can speak, The Ivory appears at the entrance to the room. I’m instantly anxious as he stalks over to where we’re sitting, stopping to peer down at us.
His dark eyes take in my book, lips twitching. “Enjoying it?”
I glance at the book I’m gripping nervously— Beneficial Brainwashing by Dr. Melvin Strange. “It’s, uh… odd.”
The Ivory’s smirk widens, and he huffs. “I need to speak with you about something very important.” He turns without waiting for a response, waltzing away casually. “Follow me. Both of you.”
We jump up and scurry after him, apprehension eating at my insides with every step.
He leads us down a long corridor I’ve never seen, into a large room.
From the look of it, it’s meant to be a dining room—there’s a long table with lots of chairs, with chandeliers hanging above. Except it isn’t set for dinner…
There are papers all over the place, some like blueprints. A few men sit at the far-end of the table, their conversation coming to a halt when we enter the room.
The Ivory gestures to a chair. “Have a seat.”
We do what he says, sitting beside one another. As soon as my ass is in the chair, Trevel’s hand is on my thigh. It’s my only source of comfort, and that still worries me. Greatly.
But I don’t have time to think about it. Because The Ivory is coming up behind me…
Stiffening, I can’t stop picturing him whipping out a knife and slitting my throat. Not sure why he’d do that, but I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he allowed me, a prisoner , to stay in his home.
I feel him behind me, my skin hot and itchy all over.
Fear, and memories of other sensations weave through me as his fingers brush my neck.
I’m bracing myself for pain when he touches my collar.
But instead, I hear a faint beep, and the collar loosens.
He removes it slowly from around my throat, and my brow furrows.
Huh…?
The Ivory takes the seat opposite me, placing my collar on the table while I just stare.
“I’m going to need you to do something for me, Byron,” he says calmly.
“Officer Chevelle and his men are in the prison. They’ve hijacked the armory and are…
making things very complicated for us right now.
I need to know the extent of the damage so we can work on repairing it, but they won’t let us get close.
” He pauses, charcoal irises boring deep.
“I need you to go over there. I need you to go inside the prison and speak to them.”