Chapter 11 #2
He shot her a dark glance. He wasn’t impressed that she’d remembered what he’d said.
“Listen, princess, the less you know about everything, the better you’ll sleep at night.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Don’t be a pain in my ass.” Another button came undone, exposing the white collar of his undershirt. Apprehension slid through her.
“What are you doing?”
Cal’s hands dropped to his sides. He stuck them in his pockets and stared at her. Waited for her to piece it together: He’d stopped his brother from taking her into his office. Convinced Rodney to let him clean up the mess.
Fern’s bare heels rubbed against the wall. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she reminded him. “You were lying?”
The hollow of his throat seemed to reflect the lamplight like a mirror. Fern averted her eyes.
“I’ve lied about a lot of things.” He left the side of the bed and came toward her. “But I’m not square with rape, okay? If I was, I’d have finished my drink downstairs and let Rod take you out back, instead of risking my fucking neck to get you up here instead.”
Her pulse slowed as Cal held himself a few inches from her, his jaw shifting. His eyes ran down the side of her face. Fern didn’t want him to touch her, but seeing his revulsion felt like swallowing hot glass. She dropped her eyes to the floor. His polished black shoes braced her bare feet.
“Can’t you just take me home?”
“He’s pissed I interfered in front of Francis and Tink. I know my brother, and he knows me. He’ll be sending someone up here soon.”
Jagged streaks of electricity combed down her arms, and she hitched her chin, meeting Cal’s eyes. “For what?”
“Proof I didn’t lie to him.”
“Have you?”
“Never.”
Cal closed another inch of space between them, and Fern realized she’d made a mistake. Somewhere, sometime—probably at the Pier—she’d started to trust him. A small part of her heart fissured.
“I’ll fight,” she whispered.
He weighed the warning with a bob of his head and a frown. “If I was going to attack you, I hope you would.”
She pulled back, her head knocking against the wall. “But you said—”
“I never told him I was gonna fuck you. All I told him was that I clean up the messes. And Fern Adair, you’ve been one big fucking mess. Now, stand still.”
As Cal lowered into a crouch in front of her, she felt like she’d been spun around a dozen times then jerked to a stop. He took the hem of her skirt into his hands and yanked hard, ripping the silk and scattering some beads. “What are you—?”
He gave another yank, making the ripped slit in her dress higher, up to her knee.
“Stop that!”
Cal let go of her skirt and stood to loom over her. “I have to make you look the part, all right? Lean your head to the side.”
His hand touched her chin, and she jerked away, knocking her head against the wall again.
“Hold still, already. All I’m gonna do is mark you up a little. It won’t hurt.”
She pushed at his chest. His hands caught her wrists and pulled them down. She stomped on his foot, and Cal swore but didn’t let go. He wrestled against her thrashing another few seconds, finally locking her wrists behind her at the small of her back. “Fern.”
Another tight contraction of his arms, and she couldn’t even twist.
“I promise I’m not going to hurt you,” Cal said, the words a whisper in her ear.
She stopped trying to move. His hands loosened around her wrists, and slowly, carefully, his fingers slid up her arms. His dark, half-lidded eyes contemplated her.
“Lean your head to the side,” he said again, this time softly.
Reluctantly, Fern did as he asked, still watching him. A lock of her hair had tumbled loose from a pin as they’d scuffled. Cal brushed it aside. And then, without warning, he lowered his lips to her neck. She dragged in a sharp breath and shoved him away.
He stepped back, though not far, and she clapped a hand to where he’d just kissed her.
“What’s the problem? It’s just a brand.”
“A what?”
He squinted down at her. Then his eyes went soft, his frown smoothed as he seemed to realize something.
Her eyes watered with mortification as she determined what he’d quickly come to understand: How alone she’d been in her turret, how sheltered.
He raked a hand through his hair. “A brand. A love bite. Listen, do you believe I’m not gonna hurt you? ”
Fern gave a hesitant nod. She wanted to believe that, at least.
“Then just let me do what I need to do.”
He waited for her to nod again, and when she did, he moved fast.
Cal hauled her against him, and his lips came down onto her throat again.
His teeth nipped her skin, pinching it, stunning Fern to absolute stillness.
And then came the warm, wet press of his tongue.
It rubbed away the prick of pain where he’d bitten her.
She whimpered, a sound unlike anything she’d ever made.
Fern didn’t recognize it. She bit her lip, embarrassed.
Cal’s mouth pressed harder. His teeth scraped her neck and nipped again, and his tongue suckled and kneaded to chase away the pain.
Heat suffused her body. It twisted and curled and rushed, not to where his mouth was, but to the juncture of her thighs.
Fern gasped at the hot lick of it, at the way it made her ache.
Cal softened his grip on her arms and braced her head, his fingers pulling at her hairpins.
She went limp, the fight she’d promised him gone like sugar dissolved in water.
Cal gathered Fern close, and she clung to him.
Her fingers balled into his shirt. Unable to breathe evenly, her lungs swelled, and her vision went dark.
His fingers left the tangle of her hair, slipped to her shoulder, and then, with a hard yank, ripped the seams holding her sleeve.
Fern startled and tried to twist away, but Cal sunk his teeth into her skin again.
She went still as his tongue stroked over the stinging pleasure.
The moment the hush of his tongue took over, she wanted the delicate pinch of his teeth again. She couldn’t make up her mind which felt more divine. She just knew, with startling clarity, that she didn’t want him to stop. That the ache between her legs needed something more than this suckling.
Fern shifted her footing, then the angle of her hips, and brushed against Cal. That aching point flared bright as the sun, as a hard part of him made contact.
He groaned and ripped his mouth from her neck. Cold air slapped her wet skin as Cal heaved himself away. “Fuck, Fern.”
He immediately turned his back and walked toward the bed.
She touched her fingers to her neck, the skin there numb and damp. He’d suckled so hard, his teeth unrelenting, he had to have left a bruise. Evidence. The ripped hem and shoulder seam of her sleeve were evidence too.
Cal cleared his throat, his back still to her. “Leave your hair the way it is.”
The twisted low bun had practically unraveled. Locks of hair framed the right side of her face. Fern touched it, then dropped her hand again.
Cal straightened his shoulders, his back. He grabbed the perfectly tucked green blanket on his bed and pulled, rumpling it.
“If the photographs served their purpose, why this too?” she asked him.
They’d already successfully blackmailed her father. Ruining her just seemed…gratuitous.
A bell chimed. Fern lifted her eyes to a small brass bell rigged near the ceiling in the corner of the room.
“Francis,” Cal muttered. He came back toward her. “Crack me across the cheek. Hurry, princess.”
She gaped at him. “You want me to slap you?”
He tapped his cheek. “Don’t hold back. Make it look good.”
Cal stood there, waiting for her to hit him.
To leave more evidence, perhaps, that she’d fought off an attack.
Her stomach twisted, hating him, hating everything about this place and his world.
But Fern gritted her teeth and slapped him.
Her palm prickled as Cal shook off the strike, his hands hitched on his hips.
“Again. Harder. Twist your ring around.” He grabbed her hand and turned the onyx stone ring she’d received from her mother on her last birthday so that the small stone was facing inward.
The floor creaked beyond the bedroom door. Francis cleared his throat loudly as if to announce himself.
Fern clenched her jaw and slapped Cal again, this time hard enough to make the bones in her hand ache. The ring’s stone cut his skin, leaving a small gash behind. He lifted his fingers and touched the blood on his cheek.
“Nice work,” he muttered just as a knock landed on his door.
Cal held her stunned stare before backing up.
Fern peeled off the wall, her legs and arms trembling, and crouched to pick up her one shoe.
Cal threw open the door to reveal Francis, as suspected.
He held her other shoe, the one she’d lost. He inspected her, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.
It stretched as Cal made a show of swiping the blood from his cheek.
Cal took the shoe from his hand and held it out to Fern. He waited while she slipped it on her foot, then turned and barked, “Tell Rod I’ll be back.”
He pushed past Francis and took off down the hallway.
Francis stared at Fern, still smirking as she followed, purging herself from the bedroom.
Cal stood by the door leading to the outside steps, and they spiraled down them in silence.
Outside, rain had started to fall. It misted the creamy yellow paint of the Roadster, the windshield beaded with silver drops.
By the time Fern reached the passenger door, he was already in the driver’s seat with the engine cranking. She barely had time to shut herself inside before he spun around the yard and started for the street.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she said as they bumped onto the road. “If the photographs worked, why do this too?”
He didn’t respond. Only drove, eyes forward.
She didn’t know what to make of him. Or of herself.
In his room, with his mouth sealed to her neck, she’d become another person.
She hadn’t cared about anything other than his lips, his hands.
This man, this criminal, had blackmailed her father, undressed her, let someone take crude photographs of her.
And still, she’d liked his mouth on her.
Still, she’d felt a measure of safety with him.
She faced the window, shame consuming her.
The roar of the engine filled the silence, the windshield wipers squelching in an incessant rhythm.
When he finally turned onto South Woodlawn, Cal accelerated.
His tires squealed as they turned into the driveway, rather than pulling alongside the curb.
He slammed on the brakes, clearly eager for her to be gone and out of his hair.
Fern opened the door, a stone lodging in her throat.
He caught her hand as she moved to get out of the car. “Fern.”
She battled an appalling urge to let him stop her. But her self-control won out, and she jerked away. “Don’t! You don’t want to answer me, that’s fine. But I don’t ever want to see you again. Stay away from me.”
She slammed the car door and ran through the rain. The front door to the house swung open, and her stomach dropped. Buchanan rushed outside and came down the brick path straight for her, a murderous expression twisting his face.
The sound of another slamming door shuttled up her spine. Fern spun around as Cal came around the nose of his car. Buchanan pushed past her on the walk, and she just barely hooked his elbow and was able to haul him to a stop.
“Patrice was here,” Buchanan shouted at her. “Mother’s been in hysterics. Is that what you wanted?”
“No!”
He pushed her away and faced Cal. “A sister for a sister, is that what this is?”
Fern stared at the back of her brother’s head, at the rain slicking his blond hair. A sister for a sister?
Cal stayed within the beams of the car’s headlights, his glare cooling to something deadly calm. He looked at Buchanan the way Rodney had stared at Cal earlier. Calculating. Dangerous.
“Buchanan.” She fumbled for his arm again and pulled him back. “Come inside. Before Mother comes out.”
He didn’t relent at first, and he and Cal continued their icy standoff. But then his muscles gave. He shook off her hand, turned, and clutched her elbow. He dragged Fern along, wrenching her arm painfully, and practically hurled her inside the house.
The soles of her shoes slipped on the polished parquet floor as he slammed the front door. Her dress was drenched, dark purple now instead of orchid, and somewhere, she couldn’t recall when or where, she’d lost the wrap and her black beaded clutch.
Fern found her footing, and immediately, Buchanan gripped her chin and hiked her head up. She knew what he was seeing before he released her with a curse. Disgust turned his usually handsome face into an ugly scowl.
“You really are stupid, aren’t you? Fucking desperate. He’s using you.”
“What did you mean, a sister for a sister?”
“Fern? Is that you?” Their mother’s voice shot down the staircase. She clapped a hand over the still throbbing bruise on her neck.
Buchanan gave her a final glare and stalked off, out of the foyer and away from the stairs, leaving Fern to face their mother alone.
She couldn’t. If she saw her ruined dress, her disheveled hair, and the mark Cal had given her…
She panicked and ran for the kitchen. There, she took the backstairs to her turret and locked herself in.
Minutes later, her mother was at her door, demanding to be admitted.
“I’m fine!” Fern shouted as she stripped out of her ripped, sopping dress. “I just need to be alone!”
“Patrice said that some man took you from them,” her mother’s voice quavered, and a strike of guilt hit her low in the gut. “Fern, tell me what is going on.”
“I can’t,” she said, a strangled sob high in her throat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
Her mother didn’t respond. Fern stood in her drawers and bra, waiting. But then the floor creaked as her mother walked away.
She collapsed into her vanity chair, heart thrashing in her chest. A sister for a sister.
Did Cal and Rodney have a sister? Had Buchanan done something terrible to her?
Patrice’s friend, Sarah, had commented about Buchanan’s reputation for sowing his wild oats.
But how could he have done something so awful that the Rosetti brothers now wanted revenge?
Fern looked in the mirror, and for the first time, her scars weren’t the first things she saw.
She touched her fingertips to the livid purple welt on her throat, speckled with red blotches.
The memory of Cal’s mouth on her skin, his lips and teeth and tongue as he held her to him, burned.
His promise that he wouldn’t hurt her had been careful and tender. But it had been a show. A trick.
All of it, a lie.