Chapter 7
MAE
Allyson: Babe, you scared me half to death.
Placing my paintbrush in the jar of solvent, I curl up on the chaise in my studio and reply, albeit with caution.
Me: I’m sorry. The night took an unexpected turn. I didn’t manage it well.
Allyson: Was Peter being his usual asshole self?
How do I even begin to explain? I can’t.
I can never utter a word about the extent of this to anyone, let alone confide in my best friend, for fear of repercussions.
Me: Unfortunately so.
Allyson: One day, that fool will get his comeuppance and I’ll gladly be the one to hand it to him.
Peter’s masquerade dropped two years ago, the moment we said ‘I do,’ which means Allyson, who lives on the East Coast, never had a chance to meet the man I fell in love with before he single-handedly lit fire to my world during my stages of grieving.
‘You’re vulnerable right now, Mae,’ she’d said shortly after I’d received my mother’s ashes. ‘Give yourself another month or two.’ But Peter was persistent, funny, and attentive, everything I needed to distract myself from waking up every day in tears.
However, it was all a cleverly crafted facade—a premeditated performance targeted at a gullible audience.
Because two years and four months ago, I unwittingly fell for a psychopath who found me in a sea of faces and preyed upon my fragility.
Now, I have the Shaw brothers to contend with, and while Damon seems to be orbiting my hemisphere as if we’re caught in some strange dance of fate, my list of adversaries is mounting.
So, what if I just disappeared?
What if, by a miracle, I could actually make it past Peter’s sentry post and vanish into the night?
What if there was absolutely no trace of me left behind, so neither Peter, Jason, or Damon, for that matter, would know where to start looking?
What if my husband finds me once more, except this time, instead of hauling me over the threshold with his knife held to my throat, he makes good on his promise and simply plunges it into me?
‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ He’d said, holding the blade to the light to capture its malevolent glint. That evening, after dodging a barrage of verbal abuse and his thirst to lay hands on me—all because I was to meet Antonio to collaborate for a mural—Peter had made a show of dragging me into the living room where his brother sat. Carlson never fed into his younger brother’s aggression, but he’s always been a complicit spectator. So, this one particular night which preceded Big Bear, my brother-in-law simply watched as Peter twisted the hunting knife in his hand. My husband grinned like the maniac he is and dragged the blade’s tip across my cheek, hard enough to hurt but not to draw blood. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to put this to use, honey, so don’t try to leave without my permission again.’
Except I did.
Two months later, I fled to a remote cabin in Big Bear, where he and Carlson found me less than twelve hours later. As a result, an eight-centimeter scar is now drawn across my neck, a branding to say I am his , much like the storm of bruises Damon covered me in, but at least his will fade to just a memory.
However, things are different now.
It’s no longer about outrunning the man I married and his penchant for terror.
It’s become nothing more than a twisted game of which hunter will find me first.
The only problem is, when it comes to Damon Shaw, my head is screaming run , but my foolish heart would rather I hide in plain sight.
~
“I thought I told you to change out of that?”
Midstep going down the stairs, I freeze as Peter makes his way up, blocking my path.
“I’ve been in the studio painting.”
“And I told you I don’t care what you do in it. Burn the lot or I will.”
With nothing left to say on the matter, he steps past me.
“Peter—”
Like I’m an intolerable child, he sighs. “ What , Mae?”
“I’ve been thinking about the contract—”
“Can it wait?”
“Not particularly.” My first attempt at freedom is riding on it. “I understand it’s time-sensitive, so it’s best I tell you now that I’ve given it some thought.”
He shrugs. “And?”
“And… well … I don’t want my name on any contract the Shaws present.”
My suspicious husband closes the space between us, and, concerned he might just push me the rest of the way down, I grip the balustrade with one hand. “ Excuse me?”
Stand firm.
“They require us both to sign an NDA in the event you discuss details with me, but surely your own contract should be considered enough to prevent you from doing so. Right?”
To my surprise, he nods. “For sure.” Then the glint in his eyes reminds me that Peter is rarely ever kind or agreeable. “Now, if you’re brave enough, you can tell Damon yourself.”
“Tell me what?”
The deep rumble of a voice that’s followed me into my dreams has me turning sharply on my heel.
There he stands with a knowing wink and a smile as if he’s stealing a moment just for us.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he says in a way that tells me he heard every word. “I was just passing by.”
That, I doubt.
Damon holds three wine glasses from our kitchen and a bottle of Shiraz. “Why don’t you join Peter and me for a drink.”
“Thank you, but I need to get back into the studio.”
“Just one drink,” he challenges. “I’m sure you’ve been out there all day.”
Peter pushes past me. “Don’t take it personal, Damon. My wife is particularly inept at socializing.”
In fact, I’m not.
Any lack of involvement is almost entirely due to having a husband who controls my every move.
He takes the glasses and bottle off Damon’s hands and heads into the kitchen. I’m left to confront the man I need to hastily make a bittersweet memory of because before the week is out, if I hope to be on the other side of the world. For now, however, there’s no escaping either of them.
Damon’s hungry stare makes light work of tracing over my exposed legs, cocking a brow when he reaches my thighs, covered by the long-enough shirt.
“I hope you wore this just for me,” he murmurs while stepping close. Kissing my cheek, his lips linger. “ With underwear.”
A shiver I don’t quite hate tremors through me. Then he smiles, and it brushes my skin, taking joy in knowing my response to his touch belongs exclusively to him. He smells fresh out of a shower with the slight scent of citrus and spice. I close my eyes, the sensation conjuring flashbacks of his passionate brutality and him ruthlessly fucking me over every inch of his room. How I could smell him on me when we finished.
With his finger and thumb under my chin, he tilts my face to meet his. “You tremble like a lamb being led to slaughter.”
A fitting analogy.
“Why are you really here, Damon?”
“To see you, of course.” He glances over his shoulder at Peter, but when he turns back to me, his expression has darkened. “And to ensure you’re safe.”
He sees straight through Peter’s bullshit and has from the very start. It’s reassuring that if I were to suddenly disappear under suspicious circumstances, Damon would know who to point the finger at before coming to look for me.
His fingers toy with mine. “Join me.”
When I look up at him, I find myself nodding—such is the power of his voice.
I follow Damon to the kitchen island, and with a smile he wears a little too well, he pulls out the chair and says, “I promise I won’t bite.”
He knows as well as I that there isn’t one inch of my body he hasn’t sucked or sunk his teeth into.
“Thank you,” I mumble because Peter is observing the interaction and grading my manners.
Damon settles beside me, his muscular arm brushing mine. It’s torture, but I crave it too damn much to care about the pain it will bring me not to break free of him.
Over the next ten minutes, while the men talk, I zone out. I don’t care for anything Peter has to say, and likewise, I shouldn’t care for the dangerous world Damon is creating for us that will trump any sense of protection he may feel toward me. Business will always win. Therefore, I’ll always be the loser. So, I continue fantasizing about my escape, growing excited by the fact that Peter and I have never shared a joint bank account. Had we, locking in plans would be a great deal harder.
The sound of Damon’s voice is like a call to prayer, always pulling me out of my deepest thoughts, his quietly commanding presence consuming not just the room but the entire house. Transfixed, I watch his fingers run the stem of his wine glass in a slow, delicate caress. The veins in his hand and forearms move with the action, bringing his ink to life.
“Don’t you, Mae?” Peter asks, awaiting my response.
My heart stalls. “Don’t I what?”
His head tilts a fraction to the left, something he does when I’ve irritated him. “I was telling Damon about the lineup of heavy hitters attending your New York exhibition. Curators, art patrons, commissioners, investors…” Peter isn’t remotely interested in discussing my exhibit unless it’s a prelude to an attack, so rightfully, anxiety kicks in. “And the Gallery of National Art director, I forget his name.”
“David Rossi,” Damon offers, surprising us both. He turns to me. “That’s a big deal, Mae.”
It takes a second, or three , to whisper, “Thank you,” because, in front of my husband, he looks like he’s a man willing to place a bet on one number and to hell if he loses.
But Peter’s ignorant to the attention because he started this conversation with an objective in mind and remains determined to make his point. “That’s quite the coincidence,” he says. “And how exactly do you know the director?”
“David and I have done business in the past.” It’s said with a falter that would have gone unnoticed if I didn’t hang onto his every word.
Peter, however, alights at the opportunity to strike a blow. “Perhaps you can put in a good word for my wife? Call it a favor from a friend.”
“Why would I need to do that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? No artist wants their exhibition to fall into the hands of scornful critics.”
“I’ve seen Mae’s work, Peter, and she doesn’t need me or anyone else to vouch for her.” Damon’s finger taps an irritated beat on the base of his wine glass. “Her talent speaks for itself, and I hope to put it to use for our many Dubai projects.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious or simply wanting to see Peter glitching. He’d loathe hearing that I, too, might benefit from a proposal. Either way, I keep my mouth shut.
“Speaking of Dubai…” My husband recovers by clearing his throat. “We should probably resume discussions.”
Damon nods, his thigh purposefully pressing against mine as if he knows my mind is racing a hundred miles an hour. “What more would you like to know?”
Scratching his head, Peter laughs. “Everything!”
“Sign the contracts, and nothing will be off-limits.”
Peter purses his lips together in thought. “I gotta say, man, this is why I’ve got my doubts about it all. The cloud of ambiguity in going in blind is freaking me out. I’m not feeling particularly assured from your side.”
If Damon is bothered by the concerns, he doesn’t show it. “I have to protect my client and his wishes. I also understand your hesitation. But simply put, it’s a large-scale project that’s an architectural feat…” He pauses for effect before uttering the words I am sure Peter will relish, “I’m talking beyond imagination. That’s why its concept is heavily guarded. It has the potential to make a lot of people extremely wealthy, with many more projects to come. I’m talking wealth that would not only set you up for life but so much money, you wouldn’t even know what to do with it all.”
“Some would say that’s greedy.”
I cringe at Peter’s lame attempt at humility.
“There’s a reason bank accounts don’t have limits. If you have the potential to earn it, why not?” When Peter doesn’t answer, Damon continues, “Every country has its draw cards. Reasons why tourists would choose one place over another. My client wants his country to be synonymous with architectural marvels and structural plans that require someone with the balls to take it on. Not just one plan, ten to twenty in the making. That’s twenty-plus years of ridiculous wealth hitting your bank account.”
Peter is tempted by the dollar signs, and while it’s written across his smug face, out of duty, he asks, “I know I’ve asked this before, but I need you to be a hundred percent honest. Is it perfectly legal?”
“As long as the paperwork matches the goings-on. Then yes.”
“And if something isn’t possible?”
“Make it possible.” Damon looks pointedly at me, a smile turning his lips by a fraction. “Isn’t that right, Mae?”
Does he really care for a response, or does he just want to see me squirm?
“Well, Damon…” His smile grows at the sound of his name on my lips. “Some things, no matter how much you want them, are just not possible.”
He begs to differ. “They are if you want them badly enough.”
I’m certain he notices my pounding chest, knowing my heart is racing just for him. “And if something or someone is standing in their way?”
In a moment of contemplation, Damon’s stare remains locked on mine before he finally responds with, “I’m not one to have roadblocks stop me from getting what or who I want, Mae.”
My traitorous body shivers in delight, his attention drawn to the goose bumps covering my thighs. Taking a moment to admire the effect he has, his utterly terrifying eyes say it all. He wants me on this countertop with my legs spread open so he can eat me alive again .
And God, I so badly want that too.
“And if something…” Peter asks, reminding us that he’s still in the room, “… does go wrong? Where does that leave me?”
By asking such a question, after punishing me for doing the same, is typical of the man I married. He’d sooner put me in a stranglehold, threatening to steal my last breath, than admit my concerns at the dinner party were all valid points, only to now recycle them into his own.
“You sound like you’re doubting your ability.” Damon uses two fingers to move his wine glass in gentle circles on the counter, expertly preventing a spill. “Your name comes as a recommendation around the industry.”
Peter nods but remains unconvinced. “I see what you’re doing, but I don’t want to be associated with anything that makes the news for all the wrong reasons.”
Damon accepts the challenge. “Such as?”
“Such as loss of life because the building collapses. Or—”
“Peter, if that happens, I, too, will lose. We all do, including my client.”
“The difference is your client is hoping the risk will pay off. He’s not living in reality.”
“He’s the president of the UAE. A crowned prince. A sheikh. He makes fantasies a reality. He needs you to think beyond your years of cookie-cutter buildings and turn his vision into a tangible work of art. Can you do that?”
Peter falls silent, lost in consideration.
Then, as if it’s a completely innocuous thing to do, Damon places his huge hand over mine. It’s warm and strong, gently tightening when feeling my hesitation.
“It’s evident you and Mae need more time to discuss this. I do, however, require both contracts to be signed soon. Perhaps…” Damon turns his focus to me, his grip on my hand tightening for emphasis, “… you need to work your charm on your husband. Maybe find his weak spot.”
Peter practically snorts at what I know won’t be funny. “I have a few ideas for her.”
There’s an immediate cold shift in Damon’s demeanor. “I was thinking more along the lines of cooking your favorite meal.”
“I can get that at a restaurant.” Peter winks at me, and I’m sick to my stomach. “Don’t be fooled by her. My wife used to know a trick or two. These days, I just have to word it in a way that makes her feel more involved .”
He stops shy of calling it for what it is because sex isn’t just sex with Peter. It’s one-sided, forced, and coerced with cruel mind games before he takes my ‘no’ and shows me just how little he thinks of me. I’m his wife , and it’s expected I take it how he wants to give it.
“Right,” Damon says, looking like he might just crush Peter’s skull. “I’ve got another meeting to attend, so I’ll let you two deliberate.”
“It’s almost eight,” Peter replies, unable to read the room. “Call it a day like the rest of us.”
Standing, Damon tucks the stool back under the counter. “It’s only four in the Middle East. When business is global, there is no calling it a day.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
“No need, but I do require that paperwork from you.”
“Right, ah… just stick around a few more minutes. It’s somewhere in amongst my files.” Peter rounds the counter and heads out through the French doors and down the garden path leading to his office. With him out of sight, Damon doesn’t waste a second.
“Why the fuck are you with that asshole?”
I smile despite battling pent up emotion. “You’ve only seen the better side of him.”
Upon hearing that, his jaw hardens. “What happened to your wrist?”
At some point during the night, he noticed the raw skin from the cuff bites. “Nothing. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing what?” he practically growls, pissed I’ve changed the topic.
“Making me feel things I know I shouldn’t.”
“And what exactly are you feeling?”
“You know—”
“ Tell me.”
He wants my confession, but what will happen between us once he has it? After all, knowledge is a powerful weapon. “I lie awake thinking of you, Damon, and when I finally fall asleep—”
“You’re there, too, sweetheart. Haunting me in my damn dreams like you’re the only thing in this world I give a fuck about.”
Damn him. Damn him coming into my life and ruining me in the best and worst kind of way.
“Damon, if you care anything for me, then remove my name from the contract.”
The hungry look in his wild eyes has me instinctively retreating, but matching my every step, he backs me into a corner, one hand on the wall above my head, knuckles grazing my cheek with the other. “Why would I be foolish enough to do that?”
“Because my role in all of this isn’t even necessary. Peter actually wants what you’re offering, so please just work something out with him and leave me out of it.”
“Is that you telling me how to do my job?”
“This is me pleading with you. I don’t want anything to do with the deal. And I especially don’t want my name on any contract.”
“And why is that.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Are you planning on running, sweetheart?”
“No.”
Damon tuts. “You’re a terrible liar, Mae.”
My hands instinctively meet his chest, and he presses closer. “Just please… please exclude me from anything to do with this.”
He inhales sharply, perhaps out of annoyance, maybe out of a need to fuck me in my kitchen. “You may not be aware of this, but that piece of shit is as obsessed with you as I am, but for very different reasons.”
He allows the weight of his confession to sink in. However, any minute now, Peter will come back through those doors, and this conversation will come to an abrupt end without a resolution.
“How my husband chooses to do business is not my problem,” I bravely say. “He can and will do this without me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He can’t, and he won’t because the fool’s an emotionally stunted asshole who needs you to hold his hand every damn step of the way despite him denying it.”
Peter would rather kill me than admit to ever listening to a single piece of advice. But right now, in this moment, all I can think of is Damon and how he’s watching the heavy rise and fall of my chest.
“And your reason?” I whisper.
“For being obsessed with you?” I nod once, and he hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my face at a better angle for his lips to graze mine. “Sweetheart, I think you know exactly what you do to me.”
Damon kisses the way true lovers would, intimately stroking my tongue with his. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he bites my bottom lip, groaning against my mouth with a primal energy I remember all too well. Then, a hand slides up my inner thigh and under the oversized shirt, brushing my underwear.
“Good girl,” comes his murmur, satisfied I’m not walking around the house bare for my husband. Then he pulls the fabric aside and glides two long fingers through my pussy, feeling for himself how wet I am for his touch. “Fuck, I want to taste you.”
My head lolls to the side, exposing my neck to Damon’s greedy mouth as he sucks and bites at the tender flesh. “ He’s going to come back.”
“Let him.”
Two fingers push inside me, and he captures my gasp with a kiss, smiling against my mouth when I plead his name. Gentle thrusts deepen, his thumb massaging my clit, both combined to drive me insane unless I climax. That’s exactly what he wants. To love-bomb my body until I forget about running. Until I agree to do as I’m told.
But right now, I don’t care about any of it. I just want what he’s currently giving me.
His hand wraps around my throat in a move I’d normally find terrifying if it were Peter but not Damon. His control over me is for my pleasure that he will earn well before his own. A violent shiver erupts from deep inside, and suddenly, I’m coming hard, grinding on his fingers that have impaled me against the wall.
“Damon… my God.”
A low, ferocious growl of appreciation reverberates from his body to mine. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He kisses me hard while tauntingly finger fucking my pussy, long, slow thrusts now easing me back down from the high he just gave me. I clutch Damon’s shoulders, my knees weak as he pulls out, his stare fixed on mine while sucking my cum off his fingers.
Outside, Peter’s office door slams closed, indicating my window of opportunity will be all but dead in the next thirty seconds.
“Damon…”
“Yes, sweetheart?” His gravelly tone ruins me every time, especially when he’s consumed with lust.
“Please…” The words fall short because, despite my pleading, despite how he feels for me, I already know the answer. Peter won’t sign unless I convince him it was his idea to do so, and I play into his mind games and the abuse that comes with it.
It seems Damon also knows this.
“You know what you have to do.” It’s a cold dismissal that doesn’t suit him. He turns to leave but stops. Rubbing his jaw in apparent agitation, he looks back at me. “Get this achieved, Mae, and I’ll grant you anything and everything you desire.”
~
DAMON
Closing the front door to the Cooper’s house, my white-knuckled grip remains on the brass handle. I should be kicking it back open and hauling Mae over my shoulder. What I shouldn’t be doing is leaving her alone with him.
She’s ready to make an escape. I witnessed the urgency in her eyes and in the evidence burned into her wrist’s tender flesh. That asshole wields power over his wife, forever content in destroying the woman he vowed to protect.
Now—as when animals fall eerily silent preceding a natural disaster—there’s a quiet desperation about her. It bears too great a similarity to the hopelessness seen in her eyes when she walked into the dinner party—a wounded bird with clipped wings.
Then I go and fuck her up some more by pretending I’m unaffected by her pleas, and her desperation is nothing more than a game that will all go away once she follows orders and signs the contract.
Reaching the footpath, I unlock the Lamborghini Revuelto and dial my brother’s number. He predictably answers on the first ring.
“Yep?”
“Tell me something…”
“Okay.”
I close the car door and start the engine. It roars to life in the quiet suburban street as Jason’s voice moves from my cell to Bluetooth.
“Why would a husband who hates his wife prevent her from leaving?”
“Depends on whether the man is a sociopath.”
“Well, that’s already confirmed.” Glancing back at the Cooper’s house in the rearview mirror, I wonder what stories he’s now fabricating to put her through hell for the rest of the night. Mae has only hinted at what she wants so desperately to escape from, and I suspect it has nothing to do with what I already know about the piece-of-shit. “She’s got to be serving a purpose, something he can’t live without.”
Jason thinks for a moment, then unconvinced, answers, “Sex?”
It’s almost laughable. “The evidence proves he does not need Mae for that.”
“True. But just because he has one fetish that we know of doesn’t mean he hasn’t got others.”
I wish he hadn’t said that.
I really, really fucking wish.
Leaning back on the headrest, I exhale heavily. It does little to prevent the wave of dread churning in my gut.
“Damon.”
“What?”
“Give Dr. Phillips a call and find out who her physician is.”
Doctor’s notes. They’re like diary entries. “You think that son of a bitch would allow his wife to seek help if she needed it?” I don’t.
“Depends on the nature of it. It may not give us a conclusive answer, but I suspect it will definitely push us in the right direction. Perhaps then we can use it to our favor.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I regret having called my brother at all. He’s not completely heartless, but he’s certainly mastered the art of being one cold asshole.
“And Damon…”
“What?”
“Whatever we find out about it, remember this is not your fucking problem.”