Chapter 8
COLE
“Kate,” I say again. I need her to obey me. I need to be in control.
She made a mistake just now. It wasn’t just that she faked coming. It’s that she thought I wouldn’t notice. I know every inch of her body. I’ve memorized her.
She’s mine.
Feeling the lie inside her tamed my cock more effectively than any cold shower ever could. I can’t desire her when she’s so far beyond my command.
But stretching beside her, watching her battle her instincts, seeing her fight my simple order, I have a revelation. This isn’t about obedience. It’s not about control. It’s something deeper, something far more important, something at the very heart of who I am and who I need to be.
I need Kate to trust me.
Trust doesn’t come easily to her. Her father betrayed her. Her mother too. Pyotr Tarasov and the Red Cap Raiders and who knows how many other people she set store by in her jagged, untamed past—every single one of them came up short.
I spent years perfecting the skills to keep any reasonable person from trusting me with a penny, much less their heart.
I ran cons for Shannon before I could ride a bike.
I lied to teachers, to police, to business investors, all without taking the time to blink.
I measured my worth in exactly how well I could deceive, building higher and higher walls to keep out the real world.
I don’t want walls with Kate. So instead of snapping her name a third time, I try a different approach. I try talking.
“This won’t work if you lie.”
“I wasn’t ly—”
I set one fingertip against her lips. The effect is more powerful than if I shoved a ball-gag in her mouth. She cuts herself off mid-word.
“You can’t lie to me. Not by pretending vanilla gets you off. Not by faking an orgasm. You can’t ever fake. Faking says you don’t trust me to be here in the morning.”
“I trust you,” she finally says. And those three words aren’t whispers. She’s found her voice.
She can’t understand the gift she’s giving. She doesn’t know how I’ve felt, always plotting, always lying, always taking advantage of the weakness in others.
With Kate trusting me, I don’t have to be Shannon’s broken little boy anymore.
Nearly a minute passes before she speaks again: “I’ll never fake again.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I’m not whispering either. I say the words like we’re standing in a church, in front of an altar, renewing our vows.
That’s the very definition of irony, of course. In less than a month, we’ll be dissolving our marriage. Nikolai Tarasov will pry us apart, unless I find some way to stop him.
But that’s a problem I can’t solve tonight. Tonight, my job is to convince my wife I love her. I can navigate us both through the channel of this miserable day—Barry Lynch practically a vegetable, Orla Lynch scheming, Ilya Danilov making his opening bid for power.
I use my free hand to smooth Kate’s hair from her brow. I touch the tip of her nose and the arch of her lips. I retrieve the sheet from her tangled feet, and the blanket too. And when she’s ready, I take the pillow from her yielding grasp, returning it to its place at the head of the bed.
It takes her a moment to turn onto her side. A full minute at least before the locked gate of her shoulder blades starts to open. She sighs, though, when I lie down beside her. Consciously or not, she starts to mimic my intentionally measured breathing, and soon she falls asleep.
If I check the clock, I might wake her. Same, if I slip out of bed and go to the computer across the room. I can’t get a drink of water or ease out of my boxers or stretch my right foot, which is starting to cramp.
But I set my jaw against my aching arch, otherwise holding myself perfectly still. The pain passes, and so does the night, minute by quiet minute.
At four in the morning, I finally work my way out of bed. Kate murmurs, but I tell her she’s safe. She falls back to sleep in a heartbeat.
I retrieve clothes from the closet, my usual summer uniform of black cotton shirt, black linen pants, socks and boxers, belt and shoes. On my way out of the room, I retrieve the carry-on bag Nilsson always keeps prepared. It contains three identical outfits, clean and ready to go.
I don’t know if Kate remembers my schedule, if she knows I’m driving to Delaware for the monthly meeting of Diamond Freeport’s billionaires. In an unusual move, Trap Prince, the tax haven’s president, has warned us to set aside three days for this month’s outing.
This is a terrible time to go.
I want to be here when Kate awakes. I want to greet her while she’s still flushed from sleep. I want to slip matching black neckties around her wrists and ankles and tie her to the bed, prove that I can have her screaming my name before she’s awake enough to ask for coffee.
I want to make that coffee for her while she’s showering off our exertion, and then I want to settle in next to her at the massive desk in my office, our computers side by side, the screens on the far wall filling with code as we work our way through all the thickets of building RedBear crypto.
I want to feed her lunch and dinner too. I want to hear her ideas for recruiting new Lone Wolf employees, listen to her thoughts on new ways to protect my clients, on firewalls I’ve never seen. I want to keep her mind as busy as I want to keep her body.
I want her.
But Trap Prince understands the constant stream of demands on every one of his high-stakes clients. If he’s asked for three days, he’ll be certain to make it worth our while. If nothing else, meeting with my peers might open doors as I wrestle with the massive tax debt looming over my head.
And there’s another reason I have to go. This is the first Diamond Ring meeting since Prince expelled me from the freeport. I need him to understand how much I value this second chance.
I have to go.
Jacobson is waiting by the reinforced SUV. The man might sleep even less than I do. Of course, he did go off duty after we returned from Baltimore. He wasn’t initiating a new BDSM dungeon for the better part of the evening.
Traffic is almost nonexistent on the familiar drive from DC to Dover. Jacobson handles the country roads easily, flying past tiny hamlets and family farms. When we arrive at the Delaware airfield, I say, “This is the end of the road for you.”
“That’s not acceptable.”
“It’s not up for debate. For the next three days, I’ll be in confidential business meetings.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely, you understand the risk—”
“There’s no way anyone could plan a hit. I’m willing to take my chances with a bunch of over-privileged billionaires I’ve known for years.”
“My job is to—”
“Your boss will be getting on that plane. I can either tell him you accepted my reasonable limits on our business arrangement, or I can tell him you’re fired. Your choice.”
Jacobson raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Text me when you know your return flight.”
I agree, because the man is only trying to do his job. He gets out of the SUV, though, as I collect my bag from the back seat. He watches with steely eyes as I cross the airfield to Trap Prince, waiting beside his private jet.
“Good morning,” I say, knowing better than to offer my hand to shake. Prince does his best to avoid physical contact with anyone.
“Motherfucking hot for six thirty.” Prince also does his best to include at least one curse in every sentence.
“Any hints on where we’re going?”
“There are personalized dossiers for every one of you cocksuckers, waiting on the plane.”
I raise my eyebrows. Prince usually doesn’t fill us in on our destination until our arrival. I don’t know if he likes the air of mystery, or if his need for control is even stronger than my own.
A uniformed flight attendant steps out of the hangar, carrying a tray with two insulated mugs of coffee. Mine is black, just the way I take it. I suspect there’s a chart on the wall inside, detailing the caffeine preference of every member of the Diamond Ring.
“May I take your bag, sir?” the attendant asks, with all of Nilsson’s efficiency and quite a bit more warmth. I watch him wheel my suitcase around to the far side of the plane.
After a bracing sip of coffee, I ask, “Is Alix joining us today?” I keep my tone perfectly neutral.
Prince flexes his fingers, the ones not folded around his mug. “Someone has to stay here, minding the goddamn fort.”
His tone is as careful as mine. We both remember what led up to my being tossed from the Diamond Ring.
I abused Alix’s trust, roping her in on my con without her knowledge or consent.
Prince countered with fists and financial ruin.
My bruises have healed, and I sealed an apology by giving Alix three masterpieces from my private art collection, but I’m not sure how long it will take to get my working relationship with Prince back on solid ground.
He shakes his head. “She’s got one of those paintings hanging in her office. Alix says she likes the woman’s smile, but I can’t get past that fucking eyebrow. Looks like she’s ready to shank a motherfucker just for breathing.”
A lot of people feel that way about Frida Kahlo self-portraits. But I recognize the olive branch Prince is extending. “That’s probably the real reason Alix likes it,” I say, earning an honest laugh.
A low-slung Ferrari pulls into the lot before we have to find another safe topic of conversation.
Roger Turner—another Diamond Ring member—climbs out, looking as if he wants a participation trophy for arriving at the airfield.
He shakes my hand too vigorously, pulling me in for an unwelcome bro hug.
I almost regret telling Jacobson to keep his distance.
Prince finds a reason to duck into the hangar.
Half an hour later, the entire Diamond Ring is airborne, bags safely stowed and coffees all refreshed. Prince was true to his word. Each of us has a personalized dossier, our names embossed on the front, along with Allen and Company Sun Valley Conference.