Chapter 22 Erin
Erin
Holding my phone out in front of me, I follow the direction of the dot. It takes me down the stairs and out of the main exit.
The welcome desk is empty—there’s no one around, not even security.
I force myself to breathe steadily and put one foot in front of the other. Everywhere is silent, except for the sound of a soft, cool breeze tickling the branches overhead.
I move off the main path and into a thicker part of woodland. Ahead I can see more buildings, mostly dark. Only one appears to have light coming from inside it. Checking the map I wonder if that’s where August is.
I pause in the crisp undergrowth so I can listen for any telltale noises. After a few minutes of nothing, I’m about to move my feet again when I hear it. The rough grunts of a male voice and the thwump, thwump of repetitive movement.
My heart folds in on itself. Is someone having sex out here? Is it him?
Oh God, I didn’t think this through.
I debate turning around and heading back to the suite, but I’ve come this far. I need to know.
Is August involved with another woman at this retreat?
Pain stabs at my chest but I start to move.
I don’t think, I just walk, each step taking me closer to the building where the sound is coming from. Glancing at the map, I can see it’s where August is located—or where his phone is located, at least.
It only takes a few minutes before I’m standing outside the door to the outbuilding.
The repetitive noise has stopped but the low light is still glowing inside.
I debate whether or not to call out first, but that would give time for him to potentially cover up whatever he’s doing, so instead, I wrap my palm around the ice cold handle and push.
Then my mouth falls open in surprise.
Kneeling down in the center of an otherwise empty room is August, dressed in gray sweatpants and nothing else. Beside him is another man laid out on the floor, blood pouring from a gash above his eye.
I lift my lids back to August to find him staring at me with a shocked, almost guilty look on his face. Dropping my gaze to his fingers I see a needle and thread in one hand and a bloody cloth in the other.
“What’s going on?” My voice shakes.
August looks down at the man on the ground then back to me. “He’s been in a fight. I’m patching him up.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Who is he?”
There’s a long pause. “An associate.”
I step into the building and let the door close. Folding my arms, I regard him with narrowed eyes.
“How did you know he was out here?”
August returns to sewing up the man’s gash. “He called me.” Without looking up, he continues. “What are you doing out here?”
“I woke up and found you gone. I was… worried.”
He glances sideways as he pulls the thread through the man’s flesh. “You don’t need to be worried about me. I can look after myself.”
I’m convinced something has changed since our conversation this morning. First, he’s away in an extended meeting, then he’s late coming back to our room, and now he’s sneaking around in the middle of the night and stitching up some random guy in an outbuilding.
Something has changed and I hate that he’s being secretive about it. I hate that it’s not my place to know.
“Fine,” I snap. “I won’t bother again.”
I turn and yank the door open, his voice making me pause.
“Where are you going?”
I stare out at the dark woodland, my hand curling around the door handle.
“Back to the room.”
“Wait for me outside. I don’t want you walking around out there alone.”
I’m incensed. How can he boss me around when he’s kept me at arm’s length all day and is being cagey about why he’s out here with a badly injured man?
“Tough shit,” I say, in a low, level voice. “I’m going.”
The door swings shut as I walk away. There’s a lot he’s keeping from me, I can tell, and I’m sick to the back teeth of men keeping shit from me.
I stomp back through the woodland, not caring if I’m making a sound with my exasperated huffs and tramping feet.
The main house is visible through the tree branches, a few lights dotted around its exterior, then suddenly, something blocks my view.
Before my eyes can adjust to the banished light, someone grabs my hands, twists them and shoves them up between my shoulder blades. It feels like my arms are about to break. When I cry out in shock, another hand comes down over my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” a male voice hisses in my ear. “Answer my questions or I’ll give you something to scream about.”
I nod frantically and mumble my agreement against the rough hand.
My heart has dropped to my feet, my blood chasing it, making me lightheaded with fear.
My body bristles like it’s being beaten up by a man I thought I could trust, all over again. Trauma repeating in high fidelity.
“Who are you?” the man grits out.
He relaxes his hold on my face, just enough that I can speak.
“My name is Erin King. I’m staying at the retreat with August King—m-my husband.”
He shoves against my hands and it’s so painful I listen out for the snap of bone. “I promise, that’s who I am,” I whisper, trembling.
“August King doesn’t exist.” His words slither into my ears like venom, making my stomach turn.
“I think I should know,” I say, trying to be as convincing as I can. “I married him.”
“When?” he asks, a playful note on his tongue.
“Just over five years ago,” I say, hoping to God that tallies with our fake background.
My head spins as he removes his hand altogether from my face and rummages around for something on his person.
I wonder if I should tell him August is back there in one of the outbuildings—that maybe he should speak to him to get the answers he needs.
But, even though I’m pissed at him right now, I have a terrible feeling August is in danger of some kind.
“Can you feel this?”
I gasp.
Something presses against my temple.
Something cold, hard, deadly.
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I can.”
It’s the barrel of a gun.
“The fucking Italians weren’t invited. Now, answer my questions—truthfully. Why are you here?”
Italians? What is he talking about? My thighs are shaking, madly, desperate to run.
“I couldn’t sleep. I came out for a walk to clear my head.”
In a beat, the barrel moves and I’m suddenly cracked around the head with a hunk of steel. Tears drip from my eyes.
“I’m going to ask you again. Why are you here? You and Mr. King?”
A sob bursts out of me, uncontrollable.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quickly, before he can hit me again. “My husband owns an investment firm. He’s here to make a deal. I don’t know any more than that, I pr—”
A branch snaps and my captor spins us both around to face the source. My entire body goes cold.
Standing a few yards away, his arms outstretched, a gun poised and ready to shoot, is August King. And though his posture and demeanor are terrifyingly calm, I catch a glint in his eye and it’s raging.
In a voice like a wild animal, he addresses my captor.
“Take your hands off my wife or I’ll pop this bullet into your skull, come over there and hack them both off with a pocket knife.”
This doesn’t sound like August. He sounds like someone else.
My stomach shrinks at the words he uses and the snarl he delivers them with. Who the hell is this man? Who the hell are both of these men? Now, I am certain I’ve walked into an arrangement that is not what it was meant to be.
My captor doesn’t move.
Seconds pass.
I feel him open his mouth to speak, then a breeze rushes past my ears, my arms are released and the man drops to the ground. I stagger backward then fall onto the forest floor in shock.
August is at my side in a heartbeat, his thick arm wrapping around my waist and lifting me to my feet in one easy movement. Securing me to his side, he shoves the pistol into his pants, whips out his phone and texts someone.
I gape open-mouthed at him, then down at the man on the floor who is clearly dead.
August just killed him.
My fake husband just killed a man.
The man I’ve been sharing a bed with just committed cold-blooded murder.
My stomach lurches and I bend over and wretch.
A cool hand rubs my back as my stomach refuses to expel its entire contents.
I glance over at the man on the ground. Yup, he’s definitely dead.
What the actual fuck?
Finally, August speaks. His voice is menacingly relaxed and measured.
“The shit is going to hit the fan tomorrow when this guy fails to show. This pushes my timeline up.”
I wipe my mouth with a muddy hand. “What timeline?” I demand.
His gaze falls to me, soft and warm. “Let’s get you back inside.”
I’m devoid of speech as August half-walks, half-carries me back to the main building. Just before we hit the entrance path, he pauses. “Which way did you come out?”
“That way.” I nod to the main entrance.
“The door?”
“No, genius. I abseiled out the window.”
“If now was the time for a smartass mouth, I’d find that funny.”
He pulls me in another direction, skirting the edge of the gravel toward a back entrance.
“What’s wrong with the main entrance?”
“Hush, Erin,” he whispers.
I pin my lips together now, but in a short while when we’re inside, I’m demanding answers of my own.
We take a different set of stairs up to the floor where our suite is located. It’s a set of stairs I didn’t know existed. How does August know alternative routes and access points?
Inside the suite, he points to the couch. “Sit.”
My eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. He did not just tell me to sit.
I remain standing as he paces back and forth waiting for someone to pick up his call. When they do, he barks out a set of instructions.
“I need a wipe... Winter Pines Lodge. Front entrance…” He glances at his wristwatch. “Between zero-four-hundred and zero-four-thirty.”
There’s a long pause then he thanks the person at the other end and drops his phone onto the console.
When he looks back at me, his expression is different. His whole demeanor is different.
He’s half-naked, ripped, cut to perfection, but he’s braced to kill. His muscles are filled out, legs solid on the carpet, hands curling and flexing at his sides. The movement draws my attention to the purpling bruises on his knuckles, and on the length of his fingers, another man’s blood.
Do you know what that kind of adrenaline does to a man’s dick?
My gaze falls to the bulge in his sweatpants, but I override the warmth that floods through me and lock my eyes on his.
I don’t wait for him to begin. I’ve seen enough. I want the truth.
“Who exactly are you, August King?”