46. Claire
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, it’s dark in the cabin. My eyelashes flutter against something as I wake, confusion parting as I pull away from the warm body beneath me and realization hits me.
Remy.
I fell asleep on him?
It’s somehow embarrassing. In our interactions, we’ve been giving and taking in equal measure. It’s been working so well. And then he went and gave me the greatest orgasm I have ever had—maybe the greatest one to ever exist. I wanted his anger, his rage, his wrath. But somehow this time feels different. It’s like I’m his whore who was supposed to slink away after the deed was done with him still between my thighs—that way it wouldn’t mean anything. Instead, we literally slept together.
Now I know why Rhea was losing her shit earlier. The bubble of panic in my stomach has me feeling nauseous, the air too warm. And yet, his arm is wrapped around me, his skin pressed against my back so that as I try to peel myself off of him, I hold my breath, trying not to wake him.
I’m sore, my body aching in the best way. I close my eyes as I slip out from under his arm, just in case his pop open to find me desperately trying to escape him. Somehow, that would be even more mortifying.
But he’s completely passed out, barely even stirring when I let his arm drop to the pillow at his side and roll off the bed to find my discarded clothes. My bikini top ended up on the floor, my shorts are halfway across the room, and the bottoms of my swimsuit are draped off the side of the bed like they were left to serve as a sign of my submission. I make quick work of tying the knots and tucking away all the tits and bits, slipping my shorts on like I’m racing the damn clock. As if he hasn’t seen me in anything less than my bikini.
When I reach for my shirt, I remember that he ripped it right down the middle like an animal. I guess I don’t need it on the boat anyway, and it’s not like there’s anywhere for me to go to sneak away from him. But I can’t be here in this room any longer, so I slip out of the room, fully intending to go sit on the deck and wait for him to wake up so he can take us back to his house.
But I freeze as soon as the door is shut behind me, seeing all the blood still splashed across the shiny floor. It’s a mess out here—I honestly don’t know how Wes will survive all that blood he lost. Even with giving him some of mine, seeing how much was spilled, I don’t know what will come of him.
My stomach twists at the thought, which makes me irrationally angry. I know I shouldn’t care what happens to him. He wasn’t going to care what happened to me. Honestly, if I was the one bleeding in front of him, he’d probably fuck me before passing me off to his father.
My blood is heating by the time I stalk over to the cabinet under the sink and pull out a spray bottle without a label. A quick whiff once I uncap it proves it’s bleach, and for a moment I wonder why this is the only cleaning solution to be found. Then I remember he’s fucking rich. He probably has Elaine come out to clean his boat or something. But there’s also the fact that he kills people, and maybe the boat is just a convenient spot for that. Take them out where no one can hear them scream and throw them where no one will find them. Isn’t that what he threatened me with the first time he brought me out here?
I ignore the burgeoning rage in my chest and grab a hand towel off the counter, setting about cleaning up. I don’t bother looking for gloves. I just scrub the floor clean until the rag is so thick with blood, all I’m doing is spreading it around, so I run it under the sink, wring it out, and repeat.
I’m not letting myself think as I work, focused on the task at hand— the circular motions, the smell of the bleach, the up and down as I wring the cloth out and then drop back onto my knees again and again. I hope the gentle pitter patter I hear means that the rain has washed most of the blood off the deck outside, and I’m honestly exhausted by the time I finish, leaning on the sink as I wring the cloth out one last time.
Blood pools in the basin, the water running red as it drips from the cloth. I drop it onto the counter and focus on scrubbing my hands, which seem to be permanently tinted red. The harder I scrub at them, the redder they get until I can feel the blood on them. Not Wes’… Eric’s.
My chest is tight as the tears blur my vision. I don’t even know what I’m crying for by the time I turn the water off and wipe my hands on a clean towel.
“You cleaned?” Remy’s voice makes me jump, so that when I turn to face him, my heart hammers so hard I press my palm against it. He’s quiet as he takes me in, giving me a little chance to blink away the tears before his eyes turn to mine.
But it’s too late. Recognition darkens his eyes as they flit over me and then back to my hands. “Were you trying to bathe in the bleach?” He asks, stepping closer to me and seizing my wrists so that he can inspect my hands. They’re still red, though now that I look at them, I can see it’s from the irritation of the bleach and the hot water.
“Sorry,” I tell him, trying to rip out of his touch. His fingers tighten on my wrists, so I abandon the fight, meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to… make myself useful.”
“You’re already plenty useful.” He says, eyeing me thoughtfully. It sets a fire in my stomach, but also makes me clench around nothing, feeling how hollow I am.
I can’t even dignify that with a response, so I inhale a sharp breath and gesture to the windows that look out at the dark night. From in here, you can’t even tell the sea from the sky. Something about that makes my chest ache more.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“It’s late.”
Remy arches an eyebrow, like he’s amused by my elementary assessment. He’s just opening his mouth when his phone rings. But he doesn’t let go of my gaze as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his phone, answering it without ever checking the caller ID. “Hello?”
The volume is up all the way, or else the person on the other end of the line is yelling. Either way, I hear it when the man says, “He’s gone!”
My first thought is Dimitri and Rhea. Surely, they must be wondering where the hell we ended up. I was supposed to be playing a little game with Rhea when I ended up on the boat. “I’m sorry,” Remy says calmly, blinking at me. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”
“He was sedated when I left him. I went to bed, woke up to the silent alarm going off back at the clinic.”
The clinic.
So, Wes lives to fight another day.
Unless he’s a zombie who died on the table then got up to amble away, he survived. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that. Relieved? Afraid? I’m neither. But Remy knows how he feels. His face goes sharp, his rugged features turning severe as every part of him tenses. “You let him get away?” He’s grinding the words out from a clenched jaw, and I just watch him. My heart is racing, but I don’t know what is making it gallop harder—the impending explosion or the fact that, against all odds, Wes lived.
“I didn’t let him do anything, Boudreaux. I left because I have a family to get home to. I help you when I can, but that doesn’t mean I’m a babysitter.”
Remy doesn’t miss a beat… or explode. “You think your family would like to know you save the lives of murderers and criminals for enough cash to powder your nose?”
The doctor mutters something to himself before a hefty sigh issues from the other line. “No, I don’t want them to know.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Remy snaps. “I should have your fucking head for this. Maybe just a hand?”
My heart stills so suddenly my chest aches.
“Remington, I…”
“No excuses.” He shakes his head, though I’m not entirely sure it’s meant for the man who can’t see him. “You disappoint me, doctor. You know I don’t bring business to you because you’re the best. You just have the best fees of all of them. Of course, dead people are of no use to me, so I’d be forced to seek out your competition. Hector Valdez is worth the price he charges.”
The doctor’s shaky exhale reaches through the phone, and his voice wobbles when he says, “I—I’m sorry.”
“Mm.” Remy nods, noncommittally. “I don’t think you are. But you will be.”
He doesn’t offer a chance for response, ending the call and tossing the phone on the counter with a disappointed sigh before turning his eyes to me. “I…” My throat feels thick and tight, making words hard to come by. “That was cruel.”
“Cruel?” He chuckles, closing the space between us so that his body presses into mine, backing me against the counter. I grab hold of the edges, needing something to close my hands on, something to ground me. “You think it was cruel to warn a drug addict that I was going to cut him off? You think it’s cruel to take his life before the powder can?”
“You don’t get to decide.” I say, my voice surprisingly confident. It only increases when I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and tilt my chin up to look at him defiantly. “What makes you the man who gets to take other people’s lives?”
“Because I’m the man with the gun. Or the man with the plan. Or the one who pulls the strings. It’s quite easy to take a life, Claire. Messy, sure. Unpleasant, yes. But easy if you don’t let the guilt control you… but then you know all about the guilt.”
The guilt.
I’m sure it’s why I’ve been on edge, why I feel like I’m falling apart, why I want to cry. I’ve never known guilt like this, even though I was so certain at the time that what Remy and I did was justified. Now, I’m not so sure. Did the couple who brought me into this world plan for this to be my legacy? Is that why they abandoned me, dumping me in the lap of a broken foster care system so that they wouldn’t have to deal with it? Maybe that was their legacy, too. Maybe darkness is in my bloodstream, keeping me alive. Maybe I have to feed it to keep it alive because if I starve it, I’ll kill a part of myself I haven’t yet learned how to give up.
“He deserved it.” My voice trembles even to my own ears. Remy surely hears it, too. He only laughs at me, cold, distant.
“Deserved it why? Because you said so? Because I did?”
“Because he hurt innocent girls!”
Remy’s beautiful face is blurry with the tears in my eyes, but anger is igniting in my veins to chase it away. I’m so fucking tired of crying, of feeling sick, anxious, scared, nauseous. I’m sick of feeling anything but free because that’s what I am. I got myself emancipated so that I could get out of the cage I was kept in, and when I did, I learned how far my wings could reach, how high I could fly. But I’m not flying, not spreading my wings. I’m torturing myself because I did an unforgiveable thing. And part of me knows that trying to spare Wes’ life was just a Hail Mary attempt to clear my guilty conscience.
“Because I told you he did. I gave you a police file, and you believed me, as if it wouldn’t be hard to make that up. You killed him because I told you to… because I pull the strings.”
The damn tears won’t go away no matter how furiously I try to blink past them. “You lied to me?”
Remy’s lips curve into a smirk, so delicious I could close the space between us and cover his mouth with my own. But I’m too shocked, devastated. The fire in my veins seconds ago has turned so quickly to ice, that it’s visceral, painful. A cold chill runs down my spine, and a shudder follows it. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe those girls were just more of Davos’ victims.” He shrugs. “In the end, do you think that matters? We either just cease to exist, in which case, what does any of it matter? Or we get judged for what we did with our time. Do you think that the judge is really going to examine the circumstances before he delivers his verdict? Do you think his idea of right and wrong and maybe wrong and mostly right is going to align with what you believe?”
The betrayal I feel is unfounded, but it’s there anyway… sharp and cold like a knife between the ribs. Or a knife between the breasts, cutting just deep enough to mark. “If you want me to feel bad, I don’t.”
“Because I told you not to.” He challenges. “I gave you an excuse to feel justified in what you did. But if I take that reason away, what do you have?”
Anger.
Guilt.
Remy warned me it would stain my soul.
“Why are you doing this?” I swallow the tears, collecting myself enough to steady my trembling lip. I thought I was getting over the guilt. But all of a sudden, I feel like it’s eating me alive.
“Because I’ve been too soft with you, Claire.” He lets his gaze drop, and then skate over me again. “I didn’t want to scare you. From the first minute I saw you, I knew you were either a doe who scares easily or a fox dressed as one. Now I know… you’re a doe through and through.” I don’t know if I should be offended by that assessment. “You’re soft and gentle and sweet. I convinced you to kill Giante because I wanted to know, once and for all, if you were a fox or a doe. And now I know.”
“So, you lied to me?”
“Does it matter?” He challenges, toeing my feet apart and wedging himself in the space he creates. My body tenses, craving him.
“Of course it matters.” My head hurts. Everything hurts. But I do my best to pretend it doesn’t.
“You’re a killer, Claire. But you’re not a fox. You never will be.”
“I don’t want to be!”
I just want to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. My idea of what would make me happy has changed with time, morphing and transitioning into one simple thing: A family. I’d thought I had found one just a few nights ago, sitting next to him and Rhea on the boat. Obviously, I wasn’t deluding myself into thinking that he was in love with me or anything, but it had felt like the closest thing to a family I ever had. Probably the closest thing to family I will ever have. And now, what have I got?
“I’ve done you a disservice by trying to protect you instead of teaching you how cruel the world really is.” He presses his lips together, his gaze suddenly predatory. “I’ve lied to you about how wicked I really am to keep you from running and getting caught up in one of my traps.” His breath ghosts over my lips as his eyes rove mine. “Maybe I’ve been trying to hide it from myself, too. I’m not a fox or a doe.”
“Then what are you?” I challenge, afraid that if I even breathe wrong, he’ll break whatever spell has been cast between us. If he turns away from me—when he turns away from me—I just may break.
“A snake.” He says without hesitation. “I lay low, unseen, but powerful. I can wrap myself tight enough around you to crush the life out of you. And I can poison you as easily as I can kiss you. I already did.”
My spine straightens at the mention of poison, my stomach flipping. Was that an admission?
“Remy…” I feel dizzy, unsure what even to say, what to do. If that’s a confession, why is he giving it to me? Does he know that I know? Does he want me dead?
“Claire…” He says my name so softly that it’s hard to reconcile it with the man standing before me.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s who I am.” He sighs, brushing a thumb over my lip and watching the skin part under his touch. “Because I want you to see the real me before you decide to sleep in bed next to me again, before you let your guard down with me. Before you learn just how cruel I can really be.”
“I think I’m starting to understand.” I swallow.
“Good.”
As if it’s a reward for the admission, he pulls me against him, tangling his hands in my hair, and devours me.
Our kiss is fire and passion and hate and confusion and anger. It is lust and hunger and craving. He systematically blows past my defenses, pulls me into him, and runs away with me before I’ve even had a chance to catch a breath. He pulls away when I’m on the verge of blacking out and swipes a tear from my cheek, but his lips still dance over mine when he speaks again. “Every moment you’re with me, you’re swimming in the deep end, Claire. You could drown at any moment.”
The little lift of his lips makes me think he wants me scared. So, I force a laugh, meeting his eyes with a similar intensity. “Lucky for me, I’m a good swimmer.”
“Are you?” He doesn’t miss a beat, again. Damn him.
“Excellent swimmer, actually.”
“Let’s find out.” He shrugs.
Before I can figure out what he means, he scoops me into his arms and strides out onto the boat deck. My stomach tightens as I realize what he’s implying, my eyes going wide as I try to get out of his grasp. “Remy!” I warn him.
“Time to put your money where your mouth is, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything else because the next thing I know, he lifts me over the bow of the boat.
Then the warmth of his body disappears, and the icy water consumes me.