2. Chapter 2
REESE
The last streetlight disappeared behind us ten minutes ago, and I still don’t know where the hell this man is taking me.
“Where are we going?” I ask for the third time.
“Somewhere private.” The same nonanswer he gave me before.
I want to slam his head into the steering wheel.
I want to claw his fucking eyes out for being so calm while my entire life implodes.
But I don’t do any of that, because I’m not stupid.
I’m trapped in a car with a man who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat, and the only play I have right now is to figure out what he wants and use it against him.
The roads are getting darker. Trees crowd in on both sides, and I haven’t seen another car in at least fifteen minutes. My phone is in my purse, but I’ve already checked—no signal. Of course there’s no fucking signal.
I watch Tate Sinclair’s profile in the glow of the dashboard. He’s got a sharp jaw covered in dark stubble, and strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead. His hands on the steering wheel are big, and I catch myself wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around my throat.
That thought should scare me after everything I’ve experienced in my fucked-up existence. It doesn’t. And that’s a problem.
But I’ve seen his type before. I’ve fucked and been fucked by the same kind of men. Rich, powerful, used to getting whatever they want. But those men are easy to read, easy to manipulate, and easy to leave behind when I get what I want from them.
This one is different, regardless of how gorgeous and powerful he is.
He’s got to be at least six-four, all muscle and broad shoulders crammed into the driver’s seat of this ridiculous car.
When he glances at me, I catch a flash of green eyes that seem to see through every lie I’ve ever told.
And I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had to tell.
And when he looks at me, I feel it in places I shouldn’t.
I still can’t believe I got into his fucking car. I’ve never looked at a man and thought about anything other than how I was going to survive him or use him to forget. But something in my body screamed at me, and I let it drown out every bit of my good sense.
I keep replaying the moment I made that choice.
I fucked up. Michael’s driver was waiting for me in that car, like he always does when Michael wants me.
And I just . . . couldn’t. My whole body locked up, and when Tate Sinclair stepped into my path, I chose the devil I didn’t know over the one I did.
That was stupid. That was so fucking stupid. I’ve survived this long by following the rules, and I threw it all away because I couldn’t stomach one more night of Michael Collier’s hands on me.
Michael is going to tell my father. My father is going to be furious. I broke the rules. I showed defiance. I got in a car with Tate Sinclair instead of letting Michael beat and rape me.
Let’s just call it what it is. That’s what was going to happen. I still have bruises from the last meeting with him.
But there will be consequences for not being “Daddy’s princess” and doing what I am told. There are always consequences.
But fuck him. Fuck both of them.
My hands want to move. I feel the pull, the familiar need to bring my fingers to my mouth. I grip my purse instead, digging my nails into the leather until it hurts.
“You don’t have to be so quiet over there.”
I stare out at the moon. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About whether I should’ve taken my chances with the other car.” I might as well tell him the truth. That’s as much truth as he’s going to get out of me. I’ve complicated my entire life with one stupid fucking decision.
He glances at me, just for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You made the right call.”
“You would say that. You’re the one who wanted me in your car.”
“True.” He turns his attention back to the road. “But whoever was in that black sedan scared you more than I do. And I’m a scary fucking guy, Reese. So that tells me something.”
His voice is casual, but the words aren’t. There’s a promise underneath them, a reminder that just because he hasn’t hurt me doesn’t mean he won’t. The Sinclair men aren’t ones that you fuck with, and every Raven knows it.
The men want to take their power and the women want to fuck them. There’s not a lot of in between.
I don’t respond. He’s not wrong, and I hate that he noticed. He’s going to be dangerous.
We drive for another twenty minutes before he turns onto a private road. Gravel crunches under the tires. The headlights cut through thick darkness, and then a house appears—no, not a house. A mansion that is designed to look like some kind of high-end cabin.
The cabin is all wood and glass, tucked into the trees where no one would ever find it. It’s isolated and beautiful, the kind of place rich people go to escape the world. My father has a few just like it.
He pulls into a garage that closes behind us automatically. My pulse spikes. No one knows I’m here. No one would hear me scream.
“Relax,” he says, like he can read my mind. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have driven an hour to do it.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It’s not supposed to be comforting.” He kills the engine and looks at me.
Really looks at me, those green eyes taking me apart piece by piece.
“It’s supposed to be honest. I don’t lie, Reese.
When I tell you something, you can believe it.
And right now I’m telling you that whether tonight is easy or hard is entirely up to you. ”
The threat lands exactly where he wants it to. I swallow hard and don’t say anything.
“Come on,” he says and gets out of the car.
I follow him into the cabin because I don’t have another option. The inside is exactly what I expected—high ceilings, expensive furniture, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that probably has a gorgeous view in the daylight.
I count the cameras. Three in the main room alone. Tate’s going to be watching me.
“You want a drink?” He moves toward a bar in the corner, shrugging off his jacket. The shoulder holster with his gun stays on, a reminder of exactly what kind of man I’m dealing with.
Without the jacket, I can see how fucking big he is.
His black shirt stretches across shoulders that are easily twice as wide as mine, and I can better see the edge of a tattoo creeping up from his collar—dark ink against tan skin.
He rolls up his sleeves, and his forearms flex as he reaches for a bottle.
That’s when I notice the tattoos curling around his wrists run along both arms, disappearing under the rolled sleeves.
He’s built like a man who could break me in half without trying, and I see why women throw themselves at him.
I hate that I notice. I hate that my eyes trace down his spine and wonder what all those muscles look like without the shirt. I hate that I’m already imagining what it would feel like to have all that strength pinning me down.
I don’t even want to think about that. That’s never something I want from a man. Not after what I’ve experienced. And imagining him that way puts me even more on edge.
“I want to know why you brought me here.”
“I told you. I have questions.” He pours himself a whiskey, and I watch the way his hands move, taking all the time he wants. “About your father’s little business.”
He pours a second glass without asking if I want it, then turns and holds it out to me.
Up close, those green eyes are even more unsettling.
They’re dark around the edges and lighter in the center, and they don’t blink nearly enough.
He’s got a scar through his left eyebrow, thin and white, and I assume whoever gave it to him is no longer alive.
He towers over me by at least eight inches, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He’s the kind of man who could take what he wanted from me and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.
Those men fill my nightmares. But something about him is making me want to step closer instead of back. And that makes him far more dangerous than any man I’ve ever faced.
I take the glass but don’t drink. “I don’t know anything about my father’s business.”
“Bullshit.” He drops onto a leather couch, spreading his arms across the back like he owns the world.
He probably thinks he does. Even sitting, he takes up too much space with his long legs, broad chest, and green eyes that won’t stop dissecting me.
The position makes him look relaxed, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the alertness behind that lazy sprawl.
If I so much as made a move, he’d pounce in an instant.
“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”
“I’ve had my men watching you.” He cocks his head, studying me. “Jenson Donaldson runs one of the largest trafficking operations on the East Coast. You live in his house. You attend his events. You smile pretty for his business partners. And you’re telling me you don’t know anything?”
My stomach clenches at the word trafficking, but I keep my face blank. This is a skill I’ve perfected over ten years—the art of showing nothing while everything inside me screams. It’s how I’ve survived.
“My father’s business doesn’t concern me. I’m just a Dove waiting to make a match.”
“Try again.”
“I’m his daughter, not his accountant.”
“You’re also smart as fuck, which means you know exactly what he does. Or you at least have information that could prove helpful.” Tate takes a sip of his whiskey, those green eyes never leaving mine. “Or maybe you just close your eyes and pretend it’s not happening.”
He’s more right than he knows. My stomach turns. He thinks I’m complicit in what my father does to those girls. I suppose I am, but I help the ones I can.
But I want to scream. I want to tell him I know exactly what happens to those girls. That I see them in my nightmares, among other faces that I’ll never be free from.