15. Chapter 15
TIERNEY
I’d been sitting here alone most of the day.
Rossdale moved me to a bedroom on the second floor, making it clear I was a guest and not a prisoner.
Even so, a small part of me, maybe the inner petty queen who would have done the same, wonders if he didn’t move me upstairs to make my escape harder than it had been on the first floor.
The room was beautiful. Cream walls accented the warmth of the surrounding hardwoods, and a deep blue sofa and chairs matched the bedding. Beauty might work for other girls, but for me—it was a little plain.
I needed decorations and—ok, weapons. I needed weapons. The truth was, I felt more than a little naked without having at least a small arsenal within reach. At least he had left my knives on the nightstand—my emotional support knives .
At home, I had hundreds of knives and daggers, a few pistols—and my trusty scout and I felt exposed without them.
Still, Rossdale wasn’t wrong. Going home would have been suicide. Any hitter worth their salt, even the amateurs looking to make a name for themselves, would be staking out my house. Hell, they might have even set traps or rigged the whole thing to blow.
Apparently, he had extra security here. He was pretty tight-lipped about it, only offering that we were safe as long as we remained within the confines of his property.
He sent Connor to shop for some new clothes for me and I almost asked her to grab me a pretty dagger while she was out. But the half smirk playing at the edge of her lips told me she had known Ahren long enough to know exactly what I was going to ask, so I let it go.
I may not be a prisoner, but I wasn’t comfortable traipsing around his house—not yet, anyway. So that left me confined to the bedroom.
He said he wanted to talk later, to plan the next step in our strategy. I had to admire his optimism. I hadn’t reached that point yet—hell; I was still struggling with the fact that I’d survived the night.
When I walked into that room and saw the broker lying in a pool of blood, I knew I was dead. Then Rossdale appeared like the reaper coming to take me home. I knew then my time was up.
But somehow, and I still don’t understand how—he spared me. Even though it meant painting a target on his own back. I never pegged Rossdale as the altruistic type, yet I couldn’t figure out how saving me served him at all.
I think that is what I had been struggling with since that night in the grove. He saved me. I had been completely at his mercy. He could have asked for money, or any number of concessions, and I would have had no choice but to acquiesce .
Instead, he repeatedly raised his own shield in front of me. None of it made any sense. He was a heartless bastard who didn’t care about anyone, except his mutts. If he was showing concern, there had to be a reason, one I was too close to see.
I fell back against the mountain of downy soft pillows, using one as a poor man’s silencer as I screamed my frustration.
A soft chuckle brought me up short, and I threw the pillow off, bolting upright.
“Ah! Fuck!” I swore, wrapping my arms around me, hoping to ease the sharp ache of my broken ribs.
Rossdale stood in the doorway wearing an amused smirk I longed to wipe from his lips. “Please, continue. Believe me, I understand the sentiment.”
Despite his permission, I couldn’t bring myself to make another sound, instead I offered him a tight smile.
He dragged a chair over next to the bed, nearly spilling his drink as he dropped down carelessly beside me.
“We should talk. As I’m sure you know, there is a lot we need to discuss.
But it occurs to me that even though we know each other’s names, we haven’t been properly introduced.
I’m Ahren Rossdale.” he said, reaching his hand out as if this were just some droll formality.
No epic rivalry, no life or death crisis, no, just, ‘hi, nice to meet you.’
I took his hand and gave it a firm shake, meeting his heavy gaze with my own.
"Tierney. Just Tierney. Last names are like tattletales. They spill all your secrets, Rossdale." I cocked my head to the side, doing my best to look innocent, something I hadn't been in a very long time.
"Ahren Rossdale, son of the late billionaire Evan Rossdale, your first kill. Congratulations, by the way, or is it condolences? Hard to strike the proper tone on that one." I said, a wry smirk dancing on my lips.
He leaned forward, only inches now separating us. His heated breath warmed my face, carrying the woody spice of his amber liquid and something more, something stronger that I longed to taste.
“He was a drunk. A power-hungry bastard and I can promise you I haven't shed even the smallest of tears. But you're right, our names do tell on us,” he said, dropping back into his chair, his eyes raking over me as he took a slow sip of his drink.
"Tierney Elise Darwood, eldest daughter of the late Arthur Darwood. Oh look, something we have in common. Seems you killed him for—what was it?"
"That’s enough." I whispered.
He continued as if I hadn't spoken." Oh yes, diddling your baby sister. Bravo, by the way. He was a right bastard. You ended him too quickly, if you ask me."
"Stop it, Ahren." I croaked, my voice breaking as I uttered his name.
“Your mother couldn't handle his death and committed suicide shortly thereafter,” he continued, reading off my secrets like well-rehearsed lines from a play.
"No big loss there, if you ask me. Your children or the man who plays hide the pickle with your sixteen-year-old. Should be an easy choice." The pretentious bastard continued, his posh accent weaving my ugly past into a grim fairytale.
"Your poor sister fell into drugs after your parents' death and despite all you'd done to protect her, you couldn't save her from herself."
My fingers fisted the blanket, desperate for something to ground me.
My eyes slid shut, unable to bear the weight of the memories.
He was right about my father. I tried not to think too much about it, but he was right about mother too.
Neither of them carried much weight for me anymore.
But Carissa, that was still too heavy for me.
I leaned forward and snatched his glass from him, wincing as the sudden movement yanked at my stitches. The image of the man before me, always so well put together, now sitting slack-jawed, his hand still hanging in the air, fingers clenched around the phantom glass. That was priceless.