13. RYAN #3
“Take off your shirt,” a low voice says. It’s a heavy-set man in a stained white T-shirt and jeans. He gestures to a black, padded chair. It’s got fucking straps on it with large buckles, glinting under the dim yellow light. “Sit.”
His beady eyes scan my body. “This will hurt,” he warns. I can’t place his accent. “You want the straps?”
Before he can get started, the bell over the door rings as a thin man in a stylish suit enters, one hand in his pocket. His soft blond hair falls across his forehead, feathering over his left eye, leaving his striking features exposed. He stands, chest held high, with the confidence of a lion.
Or a witch or a vampire if my friends are right.
“Ah, just in time,” he says. “That will be all, Bob.”
The man—Bob, I guess—looks up. “I’m still getting paid?”
“Double, in fact,” Ethan says. He pulls out a billfold stuffed with cash, peeling off more bills than this guy deserves. He makes a show of giving him extra. “If anyone asks, you worked on our friend here.”
Bob shrugs, taking the money. He didn’t have much skin in the game, I guess.
“Come along,” he says, motioning quickly. There’s a car outside. He climbs into the driver’s seat; I get into the passenger side.
“What’s going on?”
“Tate bugged your phone. He heard what was going on and sent me to fetch you.”
“He what?” My jaw clenches, eyes watering. How does Tate manage to make me pissed at him and near to tears with relief?
“Bugged your phone,” he says, slower this time. “Is there an issue with your hearing?” He starts the car. An old Nirvana song blasts from the speakers. He turns it down, sniffing. “Sorry. Also, your rich ass owes me five thousand dollars.”
“Yeah, I heard what you said. I’m fucking appalled. Who does Tate think he is?”
Ethan smiles crookedly. He’s clearly reminiscing about all the things Tate does that make him who he thinks he is. “Look, just go with it, okay? The man is a barrel rolling down a hill—you can try to stop him, but you’re more likely to get bowled over.”
“And I’m too low on his list of priorities for him to fetch himself?”
“Not too bright, are you, kid?” No way Ethan’s that much older than I am. He just likes to feel superior. “He wanted to be the one to retrieve you, but Tate’s not exactly inconspicuous. Don’t worry, you’ll see him very soon.”
We end up at the brewery. Ethan refused to answer any questions directly related to Tate, Kline, or the shady tattoo removal place.
At one point, he turned his Nirvana back up until I agreed we’d only talk about trivial nonsense.
Something I wouldn’t normally bother with, but I did just to make him have to talk to me.
“You’re under orders to be nice to me, aren’t you?” I deduce as we pull up to the brewery.
“Get out of my fucking car,” he says instead of answering.
Okay, so not that nice, but he can’t stab me like he wants to. And for the record, he’s not that scary.
Although it might have to do with him being forbidden from harming me.
As soon as I’m out of the car, I’m accosted by security guards. I’m flanked by two male guards and a tall female guard with a high, black ponytail, who extends her hand. “I’m Jane Takahashi, head of security. It’s nice to meet you, Ryan. We’ll keep you safe.”
“I’m only walking to the damn door,” I mutter.
“Mr. VanCourt said you’d say that. He told me to tell you to get used to it,” she says.
Jane leads me through the brewery, down, down, down, past the murder hockey rink, and down yet more stairs.
It’s starting to give dungeon vibes. Tate wouldn’t have a dungeon, would he?
Actually, it checks out. And maybe I should be a lot more afraid.
Tate has a fucking dungeon lair, he’s obsessed with me, and I told him he can’t have me—chaining me to a dungeon floor would be the logical conclusion for someone like him. But I don’t think that’s what this is.
I hope.
Tate materializes out of the darkness, from another room into this one, and my breath catches.
His sleeves are rolled up—that’s becoming a fetish of mine—his dark hair wrecked, wet strands falling over his steel gaze.
His brows are narrowed, swooping like majestic and angry wings across his browbone.
Sweat runs down his neck. He’s splattered with blood, white button-up stained with it, giving him unhinged artist vibes.
His shirt’s undone, tucked in only at the back, his trail of solid abs on display.
Something peeks out from chest level. A scar, maybe?
I want to push his shirt off him and find out. Find out everything about him.
He spreads his arms as if to say this is me and do you want this?
I don’t know whose blood that is, though I bet I could guess. And this small reveal is the tipping point into Tate’s double life. I don’t know what it says about me that I do want this. I want him. The more fucked up, the better.
I’ll fit right in.
But … I’d only ever be a possession. A prized possession, yes, but still a possession. It’s all Tate’s capable of. What happens when he gets bored?
“Oh, c’mon. You’re not still angry with me, are you?” he says.
“Of course, I am. You didn’t fucking apologize.”
“I know you got my flower. It was very romantic of me.” His eyes shift from dangerous to a softer form of rugged.
He takes slow steps closer, like a cat sneaking up on its prey.
Only I can see him, every step, and I don’t run.
But I do back up until I hit the wall, Tate’s sweaty chest rising and falling as he looms over me. “You can leave us, Jane.”
He never looks at her when he speaks, gaze focused on me as if nothing else exists.
“Yes, sir.”
A door shuts. I’m locked down here with him. The world leagues above us. No one would ever find me. My heart jack rabbits in the confines of its cage, otherwise known as the ribs. And Tate is the cage around the rest of me.
“Every day without you is torture,” he says, voice raspy, filled with desperation. “Let me taste you.”
I turn my head, offering my neck, and his lips press there, trailing up my jaw.
I’m powerless, but in a different way than I was with Kline.
Every cell in my body begs me to give in as wave after wave of arousal reaches my groin.
I hear his breath, all needy and wanting, like the world can burn for all he cares—he has what he wants.
I like that kind of power. It might be the only one I’ll ever have over Tate.
A foot sweeps under my ankle, and strong arms coax my legs around his waist. I squeeze them around his torso for stability, and he spins, carrying me over to …
what is this place? I was too focused on him—as usual—to look around.
He sets me atop what would be a kitchen island if this were a kitchen, a long slab of marble set on a cabinet of cupboards and drawers, but this isn’t a kitchen.
It’s an arsenal. An armory room.
We’re surrounded by wall after wall of scary-looking firearms and other sharp weapons. It’s a showcase. They’re even backlit, behind panes of glass. Holy shit. It’s enough for an army. Axes, knives, nunchucks…
“Swords?”
“I’ll show you all my pretties later.”
He attempts to distract me with his lips again, but my eye catches on a handgun that seems to stand out from the rest, on top of a wooden pedestal. It has a pearlescent handle; the barrel polished to gleaming perfection. Below is a name plaque.
“Pearl?”
“You’ll meet her later, too,” he says, gripping under my chin, attempting to press his lips to mine.
“Tate,” I say, pulling away. “Am I the equivalent of Pearl to you? Another pretty thing you’ve added to your collection?”
He has the look of a man who’s caught out. “Does it really matter? I take excellent care of Pearl.”
“I’m a person, Tate.” But he slides those sensual lips of his over the spot on my neck, and maybe I don’t care about being a person anymore. They reach my lips, and that sets me off. A jolt of pleasure, bucking my hips, seeking connection, something to rub my aching cock against.
Tate’s tongue teases along the crease of my lips as if he’s trying to find the sneaky way in. I tease him back, making like I’ll part them, give him admission, but I don’t. The frustration pours off him until it reaches his limit, and his hand digs into my hair, close to my scalp in a death grip.
I cry out. He seizes the opportunity, his tongue barging in, wrapping around mine.
His lips turn up into a victory smile against mine briefly, before he fucking devours me.
A long guttural moan of relief rumbles from somewhere deep inside him as if it really has been torture without me.
I answer it with violent tongue tangling, sucking, trying to get closer.
The only thing I don’t do is touch him, no matter how badly I want to. My fingers itch and ache to glide along his slick skin. I’d love to sink my palm inside his shirt and explore that scar I saw. Instead, I glue my hands to the marble, kissing him back with the same unhinged intensity.
But I’m not letting him get away without my mark on him this time. I bite down on his lip. Hard. He barely flinches, but blood spills into my mouth, mixing with saliva. I’m making him part of me this time.
“Did you really miss me?” I murmur between mauling his mouth.
“Every second, dollface. Did you miss me?” His free hand slides under the waistband of my sweats, rubbing my cock over top of my cotton boxers.
I missed him every second, too. But I’m not telling him that. His ego’s already big enough. “I—”
“You did. I know you did.”
See?
“You arrogant sonuva—mmph.”
He plunges his tongue in again, as if it’s the first time, as if he’s already missed kissing me for that short exchange.
“Lemme … Please lemme touch you, Tate.”