Chapter Fourteen
AVA
F ucking Elijah Creed.
Even his name haunts me.
I leave work in a daze, unable to think straight, unable to focus. One minute I was at Ogmore Grange and the next I was already home, stripping off my uniform like it was burning my flesh.
Ignoring the missed calls flashing on my phone, I step into my shower. It was probably just another voicemail from my father asking me to reconsider my job. Again.
Turning the dial, I need the cold water to bring me to my senses, but it doesn’t work. All I see is him. Dark eyes. Inked skin. Scars. That fucking smirk.
Turning the heat back up, I try to push him from my thoughts. It’s like I’m consumed by him, this dangerous stranger who everyone seems to fear. Christ, even battered and bruised, he was still hot. Sinfully hot.
And the things that came out of his mouth? Cover me in paint and take me right there on the desk? Just who did he think he was?
Soaping my body, I let my fingers move over my breasts. Nails scratching lightly over the tight, hard nubs. My body was aching, desperate for something…anything. I pinch myself, letting my head fall back against the tiles with a small groan.
He put everyone on edge, the other officers, my father, the warden. I’d read his file, over and over. I knew what they suspected him of, the rumors that surrounded him and yet…I was wet for him.
How could an evil man like Elijah Creed draw me in like a magnet? My hands roam over my slick skin and I imagine that they’re his hands. How could he be so honest and raw with me? He said he wanted to fuck me and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. Of course I had.
I was thinking about it now as my hand slid lower. What was I getting myself into? Those eyes seemed to stare right into my soul, and that hair. He had looked like a rogue pirate before, wild and a little grungy. Now, he looked like a slick mafioso. Dark and tempting.
Tracing slow, lazy circles over my clit, I lose myself in the memory of him. God, that fucking hair. I wanted to fist my hands in that hair as I moaned his name against his skin. Elijah Creed was invading my thoughts and I couldn’t control it.
I was standing on a precipice I never realized existed and I wanted to jump all in, and take what he was offering me.
But I’d be ruining my life if I did.
Was anything worth that? Did he really shine that brightly?
My fingers move quicker, with a touch more pressure as I remember the scars on his back and chest and my urge to kiss each one. The man and the monster, and I craved both sides of him. I wanted him to own me, but also for him to unravel, spilling his secrets.
My orgasm hits me quickly and is over all too soon, leaving me feeling hollow and empty. It wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed…him. Turning off the water, I dry my sensitive skin slowly, drowning in my thoughts. There was no use in trying to resist him—Creed isn’t someone you say no to. That would be like waving a red flag at a bull. He’d made it clear he was interested in me, and I doubt that he's just going to stop, especially now that he’ll be in my class.
I’m still processing how I feel about that. Part of me wants to get to the root of what makes him tick, find out whatever I can. If it yields something I can use to help take down his organization, then that’s a good thing. At least, that’s the excuse I make as I crawl into bed and try to calm my racing heartbeat. I was doing my civic duty. He was a criminal, and it was my job to uncover more about it.
The other part of me wants to just soak in his intense attention. Lap up the way he watches me like I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever seen. My instincts were broken and couldn’t be trusted clearly, because while they were screaming at me to stay away from the dangerous man, I was also trembling with excitement. It was like something had been unleashed inside me and I couldn’t describe it.
All my life I’ve done what was right—I went to college, followed in my father’s footsteps, working on the right side of the law, found myself a steady, boyfriend with a good job, made the right friends in the right circles and apart from my job at Ogmore, I’d always done as I was told by my parents. I was a hardworking, dutiful daughter.
The expectations placed on me had been weighing heavily recently, like chains around my neck as the voice inside my head, the one that had questioned each and every step my life has taken, got louder.
I wasn’t able to see things as black and white as my father and he had always said that I was too soft, too trusting, because the shades of gray made me doubt myself. But Creed shone so brightly, a splash of crimson in my dull world that all but made my common sense run away and hide in the shadows. Finally drifting to sleep, I imagine myself inside Monet’s head, a world of swirling colors of blues, greens, and purples covering everything.
G etting ready for family dinner takes more effort than normal as I force myself to pull on a nice dress and put on some light makeup.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to my brother since our little run-in at Port Ellesmere docks, and it was making me anxious. What was he going to be like at dinner? Would he be nasty and snarling again? Or would he be a perfect gentleman in front of our father?
Making the drive to Newton feels like it takes no time at all, before I’m standing on the doorstep of my family home. My father’s housekeeper, Elsie, ushers me inside and towards the dining room with a tight smile.
We pause, standing just outside the door as she casts a worried glance my way.
“What’s wrong?”
Swallowing, Elsie glances at me with a guilty expression. “The Judge has been in a…foul mood this week, Miss. It might be best to stay quiet this evening and nod along.”
My father was a busy man, a powerful man, and that often came with a lot of stress. When I was a child, my mother used to take the brunt of his short-temper, and while he never laid a finger on us, he could be prone to throwing things and screaming. I’d learned early on to keep my head down and avoid his anger. We share grimaced smiles before I step into the room.
My father stands near the window, finishing a glass of whiskey before placing it on the sideboard. “You’re late.”
Glancing at the time on my phone, it shows that I was dead on time. It was the same time I’d always arrived for dinner since I moved out, but I can already tell that pushing back on this would be a bad idea. Waves of tension roll off him, filling the room with a stifling atmosphere.
“Apologies. There was traffic,” I lie. Taking a seat in my usual spot, I reach across and pour myself a glass of water. I was only allowed one or two glasses of wine with dinner, and if he was in this kind of mood, I wanted to savor it with my main course.
“Prepare better.” My father lights up a cigar, still standing watch at the window. “Being late is a sign of sloppiness.”
Swallowing, I count to ten inside my head. It doesn’t matter what I say this evening, I’ll still be the one in the wrong. I wonder what happened today to put him in this kind of mood?
We exist in silence while he smokes, the bitter smell clinging to everything. I sit there for a while, losing myself in the decor, counting the ridges on the gold gilt mirror. My mother used to fill the quiet. She was the glue holding us together with her soft-spoken jokes. It would be her asking about how our day had been and if we’d been eating properly. My father had never done that, and now he didn’t really know how to.
When he’s stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray, he limps over to his seat at the head of the table, holding his body as if he’s in discomfort.
“Are you unwell?” I tilt my head, watching as he sits down with a hiss, exhaling a painted breath.
Straightening, he avoids my gaze. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Elsie brings in two small bowls containing a creamy mushroom starter, and places them before us. My father pours himself a large glass of wine, but doesn’t offer me anything. When a third bowl doesn’t appear, I glance at my phone to check the time. Where was Andrew?
“Your brother won’t be joining us this evening; he has an important business meeting.” Again, my father avoids looking directly at me as he eats. His movements are slow and considered. He’s injured somehow, and hiding it.
“But it’s Thursday…” I mumble. “We never skip a Thursday.”
His head snaps up, and he gives me a long stare, gray eyes cold as they lock with mine. “I know you don’t understand how things work outside of that disgusting little prison, but sometimes men must make concessions for business. Your brother is working hard to make something of himself, so we shall give him some grace and allow him to miss one dinner, Ava.”
The way he says my name makes me shiver, as if I was some sort of petulant child or a nagging inconvenience instead of his grown daughter.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I’m debating whether to say something, when my mouth seems to move on its own. “I had to miss Chad’s birthday last year because it was on a Thursday.”
The bitterness in my voice is undisguised. There’s no missing it. The undertones of anger, throbbing with each syllable, but my father waves them away.
“Until he’s your husband, this family comes first.” He goes back to eating now that he’s had the final say.
It shouldn’t surprise me; I’m always treated differently to Andrew. It’s always been the same—I have to fight for even a scrap of attention, and it’s rarely positive. I can do nothing right.
When we’re almost done with our main course, a delicious fish dish served with roasted vegetables, when my father pours me my first glass of wine.
“The Lutwidge charity auction and dinner is coming up at the end of the month.” He reminds me as he barely half fills my glass. Women shouldn’t drink too much in company apparently, which always made me wonder if that meant I could drink an entire bottle behind closed doors.
I think about the sleek black embossed card with silver text stuck on my fridge with a cat magnet. “Yes, I received my invitation a few weeks ago.”
The Lutwidge Trust is a charity that supports LGBTQ+ teenagers. They mainly focused on issues of homelessness, helping get kids off the streets and back into education. It was something my mother had been very passionate about, and she’d been close with one of the founders, Warren Rothschild. Each year, they held several fundraising events, and my family still attended and made donations in my mother’s name.
“Your brother cannot attend, so you will need to be on your best behavior. Remember you are still there to represent the Walters family, even if you insist on using your mother’s surname.” He rolls his eyes as he returns to his meal.
It irks my father that I choose to use my mother's maiden name. I’d changed it not long after I started high school and my father became a judge. He was always outspoken, attending all these public events and rallies, and people began to take notice of me and Andrew. They wanted to know what our father was like, what we were like, and it got to the point where there were reporters waiting for us after school almost daily.
My mother pulled us from our school and enrolled us in a private academy where they were stricter with security, and my brother and I both changed our surnames. After a while everything died down, and we were able to step back out of the spotlight my father stood firmly under, only to be wheeled out at political events and when it benefitted my father’s image.
Andrew changed his name completely a few years ago, shunning Walters and Bishop to become Bass. It was a family name on my mother’s side from a few generations back. It was to ensure his business was separate from Father, because he wanted to prove he could make it on his own, or so he’d insisted when my father had thrown a whiskey decanter at the wall.
My father finishes his meal and places his cutlery down with a quiet clink against the plate. “Will you be bringing Chad?”
Shrugging, I chew faster, knowing that my father hates to be kept waiting. “I don’t know yet, maybe.”
“Maybe?” His eyes narrow as he pours himself another glass of wine. “Is there a problem? Has he lost interest?”
Taking a sip of my wine, I frown. “What? No, nothing like that.”
How was I supposed to explain that inside my head I had already started separating my life from Chad’s, untangling all the knots that bound us together? I still needed to talk to him, cut the cord, but I was finding it harder than I thought I would. For four years, he’d been my person.
This morning I’d been collecting up the items he’d left at mine and boxing them up. It was strange to think that four years together equated to three boxes, that wasn’t even a box per year.
“Either way, I’ll send a car to pick you up at 7pm. I’ve also told them you’ll donate one of your little paintings.”
“What?” I ask, the word sticking in my throat.
“It’s for charity, Ava.” My father gives me an unimpressed look as Elsie enters to clear the plates away.
“No, I understand that. But don’t you think you should have asked me first. What if I had nothing prepared?” I start mentally flipping through the canvas’ I know I have back in my workshop. My recent pieces were inspired by a certain criminal who liked to whisper my name like a prayer. I’m not entirely sure they were suitable for the auction.
“If you have paintings to provide that little dealer on the edge of the Church Quarter, then you surely have one you can spare for a charity auction.”
I freeze. How did he know about that?
When I finished college, I’d wanted to earn my own income rather than live off my parents, and so my mom had helped connect me with an independent art gallery down near St Mary’s church, in the Church Quarter of Newtown.
We’d agreed to keep it from my father, because I knew he wouldn’t approve. He called art a waste and said that I was deluding myself, thinking I could make any real money from it. When I sold my first piece, my mother had cried happy tears with me. It didn’t make me rich, and even if it did, the money wasn’t why I did it. It was to prove to myself that my art wasn’t worthless.
When she died and I received my inheritance, I needed the money even less, but it felt like a connection to her. So, I kept supplying them with pieces sporadically and built a fanbase of sorts.
In the right circles, many of whom would be at the charity auction, my art would do quite well. My anonymity was part of what I loved about it. It gave me the freedom to express myself without worrying about who I was. Who my father was. Where I worked.
He had ruined that with barely a few words.
With a satisfied noise, he leans back in his chair and glances me over. “Now, there is dessert. But perhaps we best skip that? Hmmm?”