Chapter 13 Amelia #2
Amelia drew a shaky breath, and Emory settled in his seat to redraw the space between them. He lowered his voice as if the night itself had stilled to listen. Dead air encased them, and the moths all fluttered away.
“Burt was a fucking clown, digging into things he should’ve left alone. Martin Kranski tried to help him out of the shit storm. I saw you talking to Kranski last night. You couldn’t get away from the guy fast enough. Why?”
Emory stared at her lips with overt fixation. He could take her apart with one look and seemed poised to do just that.
Remember who you are. She was lost and alone in a world where he was God. She’d have to give him something.
“My dad and Richard had an argument before the party. I don’t know what about. Martin came over to ask about my dad, and I didn’t want to talk about it. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”
Amelia kept his eyes despite the lie. She worked it like clay in her hands. With each iteration, it came easier, softer, more pliable. Emory’s appraisal of her changed then, and he regarded her with somber concern before going impassive again.
“Why were you there last night?” Amelia asked.
Emory glanced at the desert awash in a full moon’s glow. In the distance, the road lights twinkled like drawn-down stars.
“Rich Dauer owes me something and had more opportunities than most to deliver but didn’t. I knew I could corner him at his own party.”
“You said the Velascos are coming for you too. Why?”
“I assume to upend this.” He tipped his head backwards to the mansion behind them.
“Our organizations have had a ceasefire for a long time, but they’re backtracking on it.
I need to know who’s behind it and why. That’s what Richard owes me.
Answers. All he knows is that the Velascos are unmanageable. ”
“They’re different than they used to be,” Amelia mused airily enough anyone else might’ve carried on.
Not him. No, of course not. Emory responded with a thoughtful nod but seemed to harden with that detail.
“They’re different because Philippe Velasco is dead. He went missing a few weeks ago. Body parts turned up in the Colorado River. Yesterday, the medical examiner identified those parts as Philippe. People assumed he bailed after the indictment. Truth is, he was betrayed, killed by his own men.”
It made sense, the fight with Richard and her father’s words that a man was already dead. Amelia had assumed he meant Burt.
“Why would they do that?” she asked.
“A few of their captains thought Philippe was too dovish when your dad came around. That sentiment grew with someone fanning the flames of dissent. Philippe felt the target on his back and turned rat for a plea deal. Staging a coup is no small thing, though. It means there’s a sickness inside.
Mutiny, distrust, betrayal. It all falls apart.
But they’re not falling apart. They’re getting stronger, more brutal, more organized. ”
“Who’s in charge now?”
Emory shrugged, but his severity returned.
“That, more than anything, is what I need to know. Someone let the wolf in the door, and now it calls the shots from the shadows.”
Leaned forward, he pinned his elbows to his knees and interlaced his fingers.
“I know about the folder, Amelia. I know you saw it.”
Her eyes shot to him. Fix your face.
Too late. Her lips parted and body responded in ways he already knew how to read.
“So, here’s what I think,” he continued. “I think Burt figured it out. He named the wolf and paid with his life. Now there’s one other person with the same puzzle pieces.” Emory lightly traced a knuckle along her bare knee. “You.”
Though his touch was tender, brutality remained in his stare. The sentiment menaced in its mismatch. He would sooner savage her than save her. Fading fast beneath his scrutiny, Amelia shook her head.
“No, I…I don’t know.”
“You seem unsure.”
Emory’s mouth curled in a smile that would’ve been painfully gorgeous, except for how it peeled back the curtain and bathed her in limelight. Time to spill her guts and shine. Amelia demurred instead, wilting at center stage.
“I don’t know anything about that. I swear. The things I saw didn’t mean anything to me the way it did Burt.”
It wasn’t an attempt at subterfuge. Too captivated by his photograph, she hadn’t fully consumed the folder’s contents and could only recall a mishmash of information.
“So, you did see something.”
Amelia licked her lips and eyed the stairs to the courtyard. With no savior in sight, a searing ache returned to her chest. She’d revealed too much but knew so little. A dog with a bone, Emory wouldn’t stop.
“Look at me,” he rasped and gripped her thigh. Amelia stared at his hand but didn’t move. “You knew enough to run, to know that the Velascos aren’t the same. You know more than you’re telling me. Just give me a name, Amelia. That’s all I need and I will make this go away for you.”
Emory’s attention lingered on her lips again as if he meant to extract the secrets there. His grip tightened too. He must know I’m not wearing underwear. What would he do with that knowledge? Make her spill her secrets in other ways?
Amelia desperately wanted to believe he wasn’t that kind of man, but what did she know about him? That he wanted to fuck her. That was inarguable, and he wanted her to know it too.
Emory bit down on his bottom lip as his gaze explored her body. He seemed to take his time at the parts he liked best—her bare thighs, full breasts, soft lips. Amelia squirmed in her seat. Emory relented with a sigh and removed his hand from her leg.
“Alright, I tell you what. I know you’re tired. I am too. Sleep on it, and in the morning, I have a feeling you’ll remember all the little details eluding you now.”
Another false smile graced his mouth. Once more, it didn’t match the look in his eyes. The disconnect invited more dread because it wasn’t sweet sympathy. A threat prowled in his gently spoken words. Emory put a finer point on it.
“Last night wasn’t about shit luck or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Velascos have a death warrant for me and now you, understand? The longer you withhold, the less I have to act on. We have a common enemy, and I’m trying to help you.”
There it was again, the Royal We. Both he and Mirabelle tried to draw a fated thread between them. Amelia snipped it for good.
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.”
Emory sucked in an offended breath that he held in his chest. That’s right. He wanted gratitude, down on her knees in praise. Amelia refused.
“Then I guess we’re done here,” he said with a cold snap.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Amelia replied, just as frigid.
Emory stood and roughly shoved his chair into the table. In an absurd gesture of chivalry, he held out his hand to her. Amelia contemplated his calloused palm and long fingers but rejected it. She started toward the stairs and ascended them, keenly aware of Emory close behind.
Inside, he led the way through the mansion to the bedroom Mirabelle had deposited her in earlier.
It was sterile and lifeless with stiff bed linens and side tables with nothing but a lamp on each and an alarm clock on one.
When Emory nudged open the door, dim light spilled into the hall.
Amelia stood beside it and waited for him to leave.
He didn’t depart, only demanded with a surly bark, “What? This is gonna have to be good enough. I’m not putting my sister out of her room on your behalf.”
“I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t ask for any of this!”
Too afflicted with bone-deep fatigue, Amelia didn’t care that her voice echoed in the hall.
She did a dangerous thing, stepping toe-to-toe with him and causing a scene, though no one was there to see.
Without an audience to intervene, Emory walked her into the wall and propped his hands on either side of her head.
In the darkness, his hulking shadow leaned in close, but shadows didn’t expel sharp breaths on the brink of coming undone or radiate heat that invaded the shallow void between them. With her back against the wall, Emory’s strong arms caged her in, and his breath warmed her ear.
“I heard about the stunt you pulled earlier in Mirabelle’s room.
You wanna rage? Then rage at me.” One hand slipped to her waist and the other gripped her throat.
“Fill me up,” he said, his nose brushing her cheek.
“I can take it. But if you hurt my sister, then I hurt you worse. Pain you can’t imagine. ”
He spoke slowly as to not be misunderstood, and Amelia took him at his word because there lay his boundary—Mirabelle both his virtue and his weakness.
Emory pulled away enough to stare at her mouth and not with shallow interest like before, but palpable desire even the darkness couldn’t conceal. His grasp on her throat tightened until Amelia’s lips parted with a startled breath.
“Maybe I do want to hurt you. Squeeze until you beg me to stop.”
Emory had nothing left to threaten her with that he hadn’t already, so her curiosity of him took a morbid turn. Fueled by exhaustion, Amelia discarded her better judgment, the rational part that demanded her fear. Pinned against the wall, what power did she have?
Enough to call his bluff.
“Go ahead,” Amelia said and placed her hands on his chest. Against her palms, his heart raced just as wildly as hers. He so clearly didn’t know what to do with her—fuck her into submission or deliver on his more sinister promises.
Emory ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip and eased into her until their bodies met. Amelia closed her eyes as his thumb caressed her top lip.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, his dick hard and pressed against her. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, the things I could do to you.”
Emory released her throat and cupped her cheek. His hand at her waist disappeared beneath her dress and settled on her naked hip.
“No underwear.” He smiled wickedly at the observation and leaned in close, his lips nearly grazing hers. “That for me?”
A dizzying thrum coursed through Amelia. Emory couldn’t hide his arousal behind walls of steely reserve and something in his brazenness sent her into a tailspin of conflicting desires.
He would fuck her so good, she had no doubt, and seemed the kind of man to take great pride in that. And maybe he wanted to fill her up, to put her on top of him and let her ride to her heart’s content, until she came with trembling knees and his cock slick with her orgasm.
Remember who he is.
A monster. A murderer. A horrible man.
Amelia gripped his shoulders. Her fingers dug into the muscle there and she drew him in. With her breasts against his chest, she craned her neck to meet his gaze.
“Nothing I do is for you,” Amelia whispered. “Get off me.”
Skin hot, she burned alive but shoved him away.
Emory laughed, and perhaps Amelia should’ve been afraid as she hurried into the room where the bed was unmade.
How easily Emory could pry open her legs and make a bigger mess of the sheets.
And wouldn’t he love to find her already wet and ready for him?
Amelia cradled her elbows and turned to the door. Emory leaned against the frame. A faint blush dusted his cheeks, and he ran a hand over his mouth.
“And to think Mirabelle told me to be sweet,” he said.
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Great job you’re doing.”
Emory’s anger returned, and the scar on his lip exaggerated its sneer.
Good. If he hated her that much, he could leave; let that be that and throw in the towel like Mirabelle had.
If her only weapon against these people was driving them to exasperation, Amelia would wield it with all her might because she hated him too.
“I’ll be across the hall,” Emory told her and, in a miserly demonstration of good will, locked the door from the inside.
The stilted courtesy seemed foreign to him and entirely forced, enough that Amelia just as easily interpreted it as a threat. She managed a nod and mumbled “goodnight,” yet another wasted courtesy. The farce of pleasantries only further plowed a gaping chasm between them.
“Sleep well,” he said with what seemed like great difficulty and an even greater desire to be unburdened of her.
When Amelia refused a response and wanted him gone, Emory pulled the door shut behind him, locking her inside.