Chapter Twenty-two
I make it a point not to share a bed with a woman, past both of us getting what we want. We fuck, and one of us leaves. There’re no shared nights, no waking up together in the morning. Doing that begs for a level of intimacy I do not have the capacity for.
Until Sloane.
Because waking up with her draped across me, her sleepy eyes looking up at me with such open desire , having her hands on my stomach and my chest, the way her fingers teased toward the knot holding the towel together had almost ended me.
It was more than just wanting to sink into her, more than the lust, because I was looking forward to waking up to her again.
Even though I’m walking around my damn house with a semi and that’ll only keep happening with her tight little body all pressed up against mine.
But she doesn’t want it to happen again; she made that perfectly clear.
I shouldn’t have snapped at her though. That shits on me.
She goes about like nothing is amiss, her face a perfect mask of nothingness.
She doesn’t show the hurt I saw flash in her eyes, doesn’t show the desire that had made them burn only an hour ago, they’re just flat.
I watch her every move, tracking her like looking away from her will make her vanish.
And perhaps it will. Sloane Reynolds is a flight risk, she’s got just the right amount of nervous energy that would have people steering clear of her.
But I’m in too deep, my curiosity has its claws in, and there isn’t an awful lot I won’t do to find out everything I want to know.
She moves a cushion toward me, and I lean back on the couch, allowing her to place it down so she can situate my daughter on my lap so I can feed her.
She avoids meeting my eyes, but for my daughter, she warms, giving her, her brightest smile.
When she is placed down and I have the bottle in her mouth, Sloane steps back.
“Will you be okay if I just go get dressed?” Her tone is polite.
“You don’t need to ask, Sloane.” I sigh, “Listen–”
She doesn’t give me a chance to finish the sentence.
Sloane headed out twenty minutes ago so she could change and shower, but she had called Savannah at some point, because now I have my future sister-in-law here and my brother.
Where one is bright sunshine, the other is brooding in the corner, holding his niece.
I’ve no doubt his irritation is for the situation with Richard Taylor, which I’m waiting for the right time when Savvy is distracted enough so I can ask him for an update.
I’d had several missed calls from the guys this morning, but I hadn’t had a chance to call them back.
“Gimme that pretty girl,” Savannah makes a squeezing motion with her hands in the air as she walks toward Killian and Lily. My brother softens when his eyes look toward her, the storm cloud dissipating with her proximity.
A pang hits me right in the fucking chest.
A few weeks ago, I was happy to be alone for the rest of my life, it worked for me. So why the fuck am I now jealous of all the people around me?
Killian hands my daughter to Savannah, who immediately starts to coo down at her, walking her out of the room and toward the small pile of toys on the floor in the living room.
My brother jerks his chin, wordlessly telling me to step closer so his girl doesn’t overhear.
“Bast found Kurtis this morning,” He says in a low tone, eyes on Savannah. “We took him down and transported him. He’s being held for questioning.”
“Alive then,” I rub at the hair on my cheek.
“Just,” A twisted smile turns up his mouth as he shrugs.
With my brother, that could mean anything.
He may be alive, but that doesn’t mean he can talk or even function.
I have to trust them enough that they wouldn’t let their rage get the better of them, but I also know them.
If they target one of us, they target all of us. We act quickly and without question.
“I’ll get over as soon as Sloane is back,” I tell him.
“We can go together. Sav was saying how she wanted to spend the day with Sloane anyway.”
“Okay,” I nod, “Good. I don’t want her alone right now, so it helps.”
“Who?” Kill frowns, “Savannah? Why?”
I flick my eyes to him. “No asshole, Sloane.”
A frown knots between his brows. “You told Savannah nothing was going on.”
“The fuck is it with you lot?” I grumble, “There is nothing going on.”
Even if I want it to.
He holds his hands up, “Whatever you say man, we’ll leave when she gets back.”
A hand slaps against my shoulder, pain flaring immediately down my arm and into my chest as the wound smarts, the skin pulling, and the muscles feeling as if they’ve been set on fire.
“Shit!” Sebastian hisses, grasping me as if I’m about to collapse, “I forgot!”
I breathe through my teeth as the pain begins to ebb, but my shoulder throbs to the same rhythm as my heart.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snap out.
“My bad,” Bast holds his hands up at my glare.
Malakai slaps him upside the head, “Hey!” Bast complains, “It was an accident!”
“I’m fine,” I straighten my spine, waiting for the ache to turn to the dull throb I’ve become used to. I took basic meds this morning, not the prescribed drugs that’ll knock me out, just some ibuprofen as if it might help. It hasn’t, not enough at least to notice it. “Let’s get this over with.”
Malakai unlocks the door in his office that will take us down the narrow steps to the cells that are below the estate.
Immediately, cold air sweeps up from the dark below; the walls icy to the touch.
Lights flare on automatically as the four of us take the stairs down, steps echoing into the pitch black at the bottom.
The main lights turn on once we reach the base, illuminating the cold, vast area ahead of us.
We built several small, soundproof cubicles into the back wall; each has four walls and a single door for entry and exit.
There’s no way out once you’re inside one unless someone lets you out.
The walls are stained, the floor too, from blood and God knows what else.
A large metal table sits in front of the cells, and in the drawers on one side, there are tools.
Knives, and saws, and hammers, all used to extract information or punish, depending on who is sitting with us.
There are three things that can make a man talk. Pain. Fear. Anger.
Killian plucks the keys for the cells from the hook on the wall, and with a whistle that seems more fitting in a park on a sunny day, strides to one of the middle cells and inserts a key into the lock.
I expected screams or yelling once that door was open, but only silence meets Killian from the other side.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Kurtis,” My brother cocks his head, something animalistic and predatory coming over him, “We didn’t hurt you that badly.”
“Fuck you,” The voice from the other side sounds slurred, but he’s talking, and that’s all I need.
My brother chuckles, “Come along, we need to talk.”
There’s a scuffle once my brother disappears inside, a couple of grunts but in the next minute he’s dragging Kurtis out, the man bound with his arms behind his back and his legs tied at the ankle, enough to hinder him if he tried to make a run for it but not so tight he can’t walk.
His face is a mess. Swollen on one side, his skin a mix of black, purple, and blue.
There’s both fresh and old blood on his skin, an open wound actively bleeding in his hairline.
There’s blood on his shirt, more on his pants, and he’s missing his shoes.
His one open eye finds me as I lean on the wall, arm in its sling, with my free hand in the pocket of my pants.
I wore contacts today. Having slept better than I have in ages the night before, my eyes didn’t feel irritated, which meant getting them in was a breeze.
Plus, glasses in these situations only hinder me.
It only takes a well-aimed strike to knock them off, and then I’d be blinded.
“How are you doing, Kurtis?” I give him an easy smile.
Instead of answering, he attempts to spit toward me, but thanks to the swelling in his lips, all it does is dribble out of his mouth and down his chin, a string of saliva dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Charming,” I push off the wall, ignoring the smart in my shoulder. “Not really the place to have an attitude, though is it?”
“I ain’t fucking talking,” He snaps out the best he can.
“Is that so?” I head to the end of the table with the drawer and pull out the chair, lowering myself into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you had died like you were supposed to,” Killian forces him into the chair beside mine, attaching the bindings and tying his hands together to hoops attached to the back of the chair.
He then does the same to his legs, keeping him pinned like an animal.
The worst he could do is knock himself over, which’ll just be more humiliating than the state he’s already in.
There is no dignity here. No mercy.
“And if you had done your job correctly, that might have happened, but alas, here we are. Do you always miss, or is this a new thing for you?”
I see my words chipping at what’s left of his exterior. He’s been humiliated. Beaten. Now I’m feeding the inner rage. He’s about three minutes from exploding.
Raised in an alcoholic household, he grew up lashing out.
At school. In the streets. Perhaps someone could have helped him then, taken him in, and changed him, but it’s too late now.
He has been molded into what he is today, and Richard Taylor took that and used it for his gain.
I’m not judging him for it, of course, how can I, when I work for an organization that hires mercenaries and takes the profit for their kills?
When I have been a hitman before, I have taken jobs and been paid when it’s completed.
I was just like Kurtis until I wasn’t. Until I used what had happened and became something better.