20. Saar
Chapter 20
Saar
D izzy.
Dazzled.
Disoriented.
I slide from the seat and stumble, my legs like jello. I move, or I think I move. Mostly I’m just wondering if I lost my mind.
I don’t even know where I’m going.
Away from him? To do his bidding? To hide? To run away?
My eyes dart around frantically. Where the fuck are the bathrooms here?
The woman on the stage climaxes with abandon, and several men move to the stairs. The whole depravity of the situation is arousing and mortifying. Wrong, and somehow normal. Primal.
And the primal need is what moves my legs.
Finally, I see a discreet sign for the bathroom. I practically run there and push the door open.
Does he know it’s me? Or is he playing with a stranger?
I shouldn’t play along. But shut up, brain. I want to play.
He must know it’s me. I knew it was him the minute he spoke. I probably registered him even before. His voice, his musk, his presence—so unmistakably him.
Even while I deliberate, I slide my panties down and slip them into my small purse.
I stare at the woman in the mirror’s reflection. The woman who vowed to free herself from all the people controlling her life.
I’ve craved that freedom for years. Could this be the first step? To do something I want instead of something I should? Will that be liberating, or just plain reckless?
My cheeks are flushed and my hands are trembling. Anticipation. Desire. Vengeance?
When I return to the main floor, the music has changed. So has the mood. Three dancers gyrate around poles on the stage. A woman moans, folded over the backrest of a sofa, with a man thrusting behind her.
The room isn’t as full as before; most of the guests probably moved upstairs. But I don’t really look around; I’m on a mission.
But I stop when I realize he’s no longer at the bar where I left him. My heart races like it wants to vacate my chest.
Did he change his mind? Did he find someone else to play with?
I look around, and my mind spins into overdrive. Do I go upstairs? Do I leave? Maybe the bartender would know. Not my best option, but in the absence of any other idea, I move in her direction.
“Hello, sweetheart, you seem lost.” A stocky man with a sheen of perspiration around his mask grabs my arm. “Maybe you’re looking for me?”
He is in a suit, his belt undone. His pudgy hand on my skin turns my stomach. “Let go of me.”
“Oh, come on.” He yanks me closer. “I can show you a good time.”
I stumble, my body slamming against his belly. I gag as his repulsive musk hits my nostrils.
His fingers dig into my arm, and I try to yank away, but the fucker is strong. “I said let go of me.”
My pulse hammers in my temples, but suddenly my mind clears completely. I’ve had it with men ruling me. I propel my leg forward, driving my knee up.
He groans. “Fucking bitch. Security!”
I don’t know if I hit the intended target, but his grip loosens. The impact sends me backward, staggering.
And I hit something firm and warm. Someone firm and warm.
“She told you to let go of her.” Corm’s voice floods me with relief.
“She fucking kicked me,” my attacker sputters.
“Good.” Cormac wraps his arm around my waist.
Home .
He turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“I will break every single bone in your body if you as much as look at my wife again.”
He beckons me forward with his hand on the small of my back, leaving the asshole behind. A shudder rakes through my body—part solace, part yearning.
My wife.
“I can take care of myself,” I argue, just to regain some sort of control.
“I know.” It’s a terse statement, said with the same unwavering confidence he usually oozes.
My poor heart.
“I’m not your wife.” I desperately cling to… what? An upper hand? A winning point? Our usual bickering mode?
“Technicality.” He shrugs and swirls me toward the staircase.
“Where are we going?”
“Upstairs.”
Asshole . “Why?”
“I got us a room.”
Butterflies set off in my stomach. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer. Fuck, the man is infuriating. I glance over the banister and see my assailant talking to security.
I rub my arm; his touch is still repulsive even after it’s gone.
Corm stops, takes my hand into his, and turns my arm slightly, glowering. I follow his gaze to the red handprint on my upper arm. Shit, that will leave a bruise.
Corm’s nostrils flare. “Wait here.” He turns and jogs back downstairs.
What the hell?
He reaches one of the security guys engaged with the asshole and exchanges a few sentences with him. The guy nods slightly.
Corm taps the stocky asshole on his shoulder and before the other can fully turn, Corm draws his arm back and delivers a punch. Two. Three.
The man doubles down, swearing, and falls to his knees, blood staining his face.
Corm shakes his hand, cracks his neck, and adjusts his cuffs. He saunters toward the stairs while security drags the other guy outside.
I swallow.
I blink.
I take a deep breath.
My heart is still beating like a spooked horse. But a smile ghosts my face as well. I shouldn’t condone violence, I really shouldn’t, but fuck, that punch was satisfying.
Almost as much as my kick was. Almost.
Corm takes two steps at a time and joins me. He seizes my hand and steers me down the hallway, flanked by doors on either side.
At the end, he taps a card against a pad on the door and opens it.
“After you.” He bows his head quickly, the energy from the altercation still seeping from him.
I step inside a dark room, my palms sweating and my heart fluttering. Jesus.
Corm flips the switch and steps behind me. I gasp as he snakes his arm around my waist, yanking me to his chest. I fight not to lean my back into his firm body.
It’s always like this with us. Push and pull—neither of us willing to give in.
He lowers his head to the crook of my neck, his whiskey-infused breath tickling my skin. It’s intoxicating.
His arm clamps around me, unyielding. It’s firmer than the unwelcome grip from the asshole downstairs. It’s more possessive. Almost more aggressive.
And yet… it feels a thousand times safer. Familiar. Essential.
I definitely need to find a therapist.
Right or wrong, I don’t think I can ignore this weird, confusing desire.
This unexpected challenge to my value system. This unlimited feeling of not giving a shit and claiming what I want.
And based on the hard outline of his length against my ass, what he wants.
He kneads my breast with one hand and shoves the other inside the slit of my dress. The intrusion is rougher, more urgent than the feather-like exploration in the bar earlier.
He cups my bare pussy, and I whimper. It’s like he knows, he feels, he somehow senses I don’t want gentle and caring at the moment.
I’ve just kicked a guy; I want to be fucking equal for once.
“Where are your panties, The Morrigan?”
His voice skims my skin, erupting goose bumps in its wake. I hold my purse up, and he snatches it. With his arms still around me, he opens the clasp and pulls out my underwear.
He drops the purse to the floor and brings the fabric to his nose. His head dips beside mine as he holds my body against his. He inhales and hums with indulgence.
Oh my God.
My mind shuts down, and my body takes over. My core throbbing, I try to turn. To face him? To kiss him? To look into his eyes?
But to my dismay, he steps away. It’s so sudden, I have to find a purchase with my arm against the wall.
My entire being mourns his loss immediately, despite the energy shifting somehow. And for once, I don’t have words to spit, threats to render, challenges to extend. It’s like I’ve exhausted all the fight in me.
Like this man won, because let’s face it, I’ve never had a chance. I fought long and hard, but this man owned me before I gave any conscious consent. Before I probably allowed myself near him.
He puts my panties into his pocket and saunters to the loveseat by the window.
I blink, disoriented. What the fuck?
The room looks like a luxurious hotel room with a large four-poster bed against the wall. In the opposite corner is a sex chaise and two love seats, where Corm sits now, and a glass coffee table.
His legs spread, his eyes hooded, he drapes his arm over the backrest and studies me. He shed the mask, and I reach for the sash on mine.
“Keep it,” he orders.
Fuck, he is hot. And infuriating. And gorgeous. He has the whole big-dick energy down, and as I had a chance to find out—which was the beginning of my fall—substantiated.
“What?” I choke out, not sure why there is a lump in my throat.
It’s like the heat plummeted completely, and I’m now trapped in some game, but I’m not sure what the rules are. Something has shifted, and I’m the prey here.
As usual.
Fuck him. I turn to reach for the doorknob.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“What do you want? Why are we here?” I snap.
He reaches into his inner pocket and drops a small box on the table. “Sit down, Saar.” He doesn’t say please, but the tone is pleading. Tired. Like he has had enough of our dynamic.
Was I wrong? This is not a game but perhaps a peace offering?
And the obedient girl in me—I guess some habits aren’t as easy to break—crosses the room and sits opposite from him on the other loveseat.
“Let’s play.” He gestures to the table.
It’s a deck of cards he retrieved from his pocket. “You carry cards around?”
“This club provides anything.”
“And you want to play cards?”
He raises his eyebrow. “Or you can suck my cock.”
“Fuck you, Cormac.” I stand.
He chuckles. “Come on, one game. If you win, I’ll get the marriage certificate in the morning.”
That stops me. “Why should I believe you?”
He gestures to the seat and pushes the deck toward me. “You just have to take the leap.”
I came here to blackmail him into marrying me. But this may be easier. I sit, my eyes glued to him.
His gaze holds mine hostage, and I wish I could know what he is thinking, but the man is unreadable.
“Can I choose the game?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“Blackjack?”
I need skills, not luck with this card game, and blackjack is probably my safest bet. But I need something else. I hug myself, rubbing my upper arms.
He nods and then frowns. “Are you cold?”
“A bit.” I shrug.
Corm takes off his jacket and comes to wrap it round my shoulders. I slip my arms into his long sleeves. Not ideal, but it will do.
His warmth envelopes me through the fabric he’s just shed, and I revel in it for a moment. His scent is now strong and distracting.
I shuffle the cards, the familiar motion calming my nerves. His gaze on me remains sharp and unyielding. This feels like a test. Why cards?
Focusing on my breathing, I will my hands to stop trembling. I cut the deck and deal the cards. “What if I lose?”
“You will have to find another way to get your trust fund.” He shrugs and loosens his tie.
“Can’t wait to get rid of me, darling?”
He picks his cards but doesn’t look at them, piercing me with his eyes. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and I fidget in my chair. The air between us fills with tension—the good and the bad kind.
I can’t rip my gaze away from his lips. He smirks and looks at his cards. I pick up my hand. A five and a six. Not even close to winning, but I don’t need luck. I have skills.
“Hit or stay?” I keep my voice calm while my heart thrums in my temples.
I enjoy playing cards, but only when I know the stakes. Something tells me the damn marriage certificate isn’t it. Or, at least, it’s not the endgame.
“Hit,” he says, his tone steady.
I deal him another card—a four. He’s probably close to 20 now.
Now, it’s my turn. I slide my fingers over my cards, and in one swift, practiced motion, I swap them.
“I’ll stay,” I say, leaning back, the fabric of my dress falling to the side, exposing my legs.
Corm’s gaze lowers to my skin, then he flips over his cards—a six and a nine. Not bad, but not good enough.
His eyes flick to my hand. Slowly, deliberately, I reveal my cards—first the ten, then the ace. Twenty-one.
For a moment, Corm’s expression doesn’t change. He just stares at the cards, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Impressive,” he says, his voice smooth but with a hint of something else beneath it—something darker, more calculated. “How come you are so good at this?”
“I cheat.” I smile at him.
“Is cheating in cards another pastime like knitting?” He stands and walks to a cabinet beside us and retrieves a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers.
“How do you know I knit?” Where is this conversation going?
“Observation skills.” He pours two inches into each glass.
“You’ve never seen me knitting.” I take a tumbler from him and wet my lips in the amber liquid.
“True, but there are yarns and needles in the kitchen.”
“How do you know they are not Livia’s?”
Why am I engaging in this idle conversation? He forced me to play cards, and now we are talking about my hobbies? And the fact he knows mine is unnerving. I won a game, and I still feel like he has the upper hand.
Because he fucking has. He can still stall on his side of the bargain.
“She wouldn’t dare to sit around while at work. Where did you learn to cheat at cards, Saar?”
The question hits me with its coldness and directness, his tone not leaving any room to deflect. Not that I need to. What is going on?
“Jesus, you’re a sore loser. I learned some tricks from a girl in school. I palmed my cards while I was shuffling. That’s why I needed your jacket. The challenge is timing, but I’ve done this enough times to know when I can get away with it.” I straighten and shake the garment from my shoulders, letting it drop behind me.
He takes a sip. “And how did you perfect the skills?”
I frown. “Why are you being weird?”
He moves with the speed of a predator and leans down, propping his hands on the armrests, caging me. The alcohol in his hand sloshes around, staining my dress.
“Answer the fucking question, Saar.”
His nose is an inch from my face. There is room behind me on my seat, but I’m not sliding back. I’m not scared of him. His jaw ticks, and he shakes, barely hanging onto his control.
“Every summer, Finn and Cal would come to Europe to take me on vacation, and we played a game to choose the destination. Two years in a row I lost, and we went to Ibiza, the horny players they were. So I picked up a few tricks to finally choose where we’d go.”
He stands up suddenly and paces to the window and back. He takes a sip of his whiskey and then chugs the glass across the room. It hits the wall and shatters into pieces behind me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I jump up, rushing to the door.
He reaches me before I manage two steps and whips me around, one arm around my waist, his other hand pinching my chin, forcing me to look at him.
I pant.
He pants.
I tremble, and so does he.
The tension stretches around us, while I feel strangely threatened and safe at the same time.
How fucked up is it that I crave his wrath the same way I crave his care? I’m definitely calling a therapist in the morning.
He closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “When did you start gambling, Saar?”
What?
I push at his chest and stumble as he lets me go, glaring at me.
“Gambling? That summer was the last time I played, if you don’t count a few friendly games while waiting around at a modeling gig.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he bellows.
I rip the mask off. “Fuck you, Corm.”
“So you don’t bet on races? No high-roller online poker or blackjack?”
I laugh bitterly. “You’ve lost your mind. I’m. Not. A. Gambler.”
“Why are you broke then? Where is all your money, Saar?”
Heat rises to my cheeks as I fight to get more oxygen into my lungs. Stupid tears threaten to come.
No, no, no. Don’t cry. Not in front of him.
I don’t want him to laugh at my lack of financial acumen, but I definitely don’t want him to see me crying.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap.
“It is my fucking business. You entered into a deal with me to improve my reputation, and conveniently forgot to mention that you owe taxes, are completely bankrupt, and owe money to people who collect without finesse.”
I frown, shaking my head. “What are you talking about? My accountant embezzled from me. I will pay the taxes as soon as I have my trust fund. The authorities in Italy are investigating. Ask Vito.”
He glares at me for what feels like an entire lifetime. In that snapshot of time my mind races, trying to comprehend what he is saying. Why is he saying it?
“There are debts in your name with all the major bookmakers in Europe. Care to explain?”
“That’s impossible. I-I…” As I rack my brain for something to say, an eerie feeling wraps around my shoulders.
Did Maria place bets in my name? This makes no sense. But while I don’t understand what is happening, somehow I know—or rather feel—he’s telling the truth.
My shoulders slump as fatigued resignation washes over me. I wrap my arms around my midriff, but it doesn’t protect me. It only makes me feel more isolated.
He steps closer, the energy shifting between us again, no longer threatening. Like he feels my struggle with the realization.
Like the moment I started believing him, he immediately trusted me.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. “We’ll find out who is behind it.”
I let myself revel in his support for a beat or two, enough to let the thoughts settle. But even then, they make little sense.
“How do you know?” I murmur into his chest. I want to be mad at him for his accusations, but I’m so tired of fighting this battle alone.
“That doesn’t matter, but the information is reliable.”
“Is it, though?” I look at him, and I startle at the change in his countenance.
Gone is the indifferent, latent hatred. His features are softer now. Is he pitying me? Or is he just relieved his information is incorrect?
“Yes.” He nods.
I step away. I need to think, and I can’t do that when he holds me, regardless of how lulling it is.
“Your informant led you to believe I’m a gambler, so forgive me if I doubt the source.”
“My source didn’t dig deep enough because they had no reason to assume someone exploited you.”
“Why did you even look into it?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You treated me like a nuisance already. I didn’t need to give you more reasons.”
He lowers his head, nodding slightly. “Fair enough. I’m not very good at trusting people.”
The rare moment of honesty shocks me. I blink a few times, unsure how to take it. His admission hangs between us, a deepening intimacy that scares me and appeals to me.
“But do you trust me now?” I want to specify that I’m talking about this instance, but I don’t. I’m surprised at how much I want him to say yes.
“I do.” He doesn’t think about it, and the finality of it is clear. Indisputable. Rewarding.
“Why?”
“I don’t know why?” He shakes his head. “Goddammit, Saar, perhaps I just really fucking want your words to be true, because I’m tired of our constant fights, of trying to one-up each other. I trust you, not because you gave me any reasons to trust you, but because somewhere, deep down, I feel like you’re the answer.” He searches my face, bewildered, like he can’t believe his own words.
“The answer?” I rasp, the lump in my throat swelling.
“The answer to everything that’s missing from my life.”
An entire kaleidoscope of butterflies flutters in my stomach. I’m cold and hot at the same time—just purely overwhelmed.
I’m his answer?
“You’re refreshing. You’re beautiful, brave, and smart.” He steps closer.
“Okay, I’ll give you beautiful.” I try to lighten the mood, but it’s flat even to my ears. His honesty scares me more than his wrath.
He flaps his arms in exasperation and starts pacing. I don’t want him away from me. But can I allow him closer?
“Stop constantly questioning yourself, The Morrigan. You started taking care of yourself when you were a teenager. You stand up to me daily. I saw you interact with Livia and people at the shelter and many others… You care, you listen, you encourage. You spread compassion, and you stand up for yourself. Point in case, the fucker downstairs. Just because you’re a bit lost right now, it doesn’t mean you’re less.”
Oh, my poor heart.
“You’re a survivor, and I admire the shit out of you for that. That fucking post? It wasn’t a cry for help; it was your new beginning. To inspire. To shake. To provoke.”
I don’t know what to say. My lungs constrict; my heart races. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“You bewitched me. You fucking stripped me of my control. You infiltrated my life, and despite my best efforts, my mind wanders to you all the time.”
He crowds me again. The intensity of his declaration moves my legs backward, even though, on some very deep level, I want his closeness more than anything. My back hits the wall.
“I’m done fighting, Saar. Tomorrow, you get your fucking marriage certificate, but we’re done pretending, and we’re giving this thing between us a real try.”
Again, my poor heart.
“Do I have a say in it?”
“No.”