Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Iona
I resist spitting out my forkful of food. “Broccoli is a violence to the palate and an abuse to the digestive system.”
Skye pats my hand across the table. “I’ll trade you. Broccoli for my French beans.”
“Done.” I slide my plate over, washing down the vegetal taste of the offending crucifera with water.
“With the extra price that you tell me everything.” She dips her head and skewers me with an austere look.
This is as chastening as my baby sis ever gets.
We’re sitting in a vegetarian restaurant with a mix of cuisines—Indian, Mediterranean, Meso-American, and Thai. Alex Warren’s Fever Dream plays over the speakers, and large friend groups surround us, talking over one another and exploding with laughter.
Blushing seems to be my default mode these days. For once I’m feart of being honest with Skye. Feart of being honest with myself. I ken what she means by everything, and that’s a gey lot more than I’m ready to tell. “I didn’t tell everyone the truth on Monday.”
“No shit, babes.” Skye crooks a guileless smile.
“Leith and I agreed to marry for our mutual advantage,” I fabricate.
She pops a broccoli crown in her mouth, letting my fib marinate in the air.
“He wants to reassure the Syndicate he’s their legal advisor for the long haul and invested in their concern, so he needs to marry.” I nibble on a French bean. “And I—I need to find whoever assaulted me.”
She explodes a disbelieving exhale. “That’s a helluva way to find out—by getting married.”
I take a bracing sip of cocktail. “Only . . .”
“Only?” Skye’s gentleness makes my heart melt like chocolate in a hot pan.
“The other night he referred to”—I swallow, rolling my shoulders back—“wifely duties. He said he’s my lord and master and as such, his will is paramount.”
Her eyes widening, Skye fathoms my puzzlement. “You’ve never . . .”
My head swells with heat. “No. Never.”
“Because of That Night?”
“Aye.” I rush out the next part. “As you know, my attacker never actually . . .” I trail off as another vision bombards my head.
* * *
“That’s it. Take it like a good slut.” He slaps me across the face, stunning me and making my vision blur with unwilling tears.
I force myself to look down at the weapon he’s about to plunge into me, bare and pulsating. Writhing and bucking against him, I make a small ripple on the surface of his tidal wave of strength.
Suddenly, off to the left, a dark-haired man of medium build materializes. Sporting steel-grey eyes, a straight nose, and an upper lip as plump as the lower, he reminds me troublingly of myself. Even his cheekbones, high forehead, and deep-set jaw eerily mirror me.
“Enough,” the newcomer barks. “We have enough information for the experiment. Stop now.”
Experiment? What is he talking about? And who is he?
The three men clear out faster than a snake oil salesman at a fair.
And the only thing I can focus on is the large yellow stain on the plaster ceiling.
I can’t speak or move or take a full breath.
Am I that yellow stain, an ugly, embarrassing blot on the clean landscape of this party?
Did I invite that monster to do those things to me?
Shame and disgust fill my lungs instead of oxygen, and I gust them out in shallow, self-loathing puffs.
Is this what it is to have sex? An exercise in hatred and mortification?
If so, I’ll never do it. Not by choice.
* * *
Skye has wrapped her arms around me from behind my chair. “It’s okay, sis. I didn’t mean to pry. Come back.”
Shaking my head to rid it of its visions, I lay a hand on her arm. “I’m back. Sorry.”
I wonder how long I was out of it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
A heavy sigh makes my shoulders sag. “My nightmares are the worst. In them, the third man doesn’t arrive in time, and our two attackers finish the deed.
Then the third guy appears and scoffs that I wanted everything I got and more.
In those dreams the third man is like my conscience. After all, he looked a lot like me.”
I don’t tell her all three men haunt my waking dreams as well. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, feart they’ll return and do it all over again, this time without interruption.
Skye drags a chair so she sits right beside me. “That was your first time?”
“My first, only, non-time. I’m a virgin.” I chuff a jaded laugh. “I never wanted to give it a try after that.” After a pause, chewing on my lip, I go on. “No, that’s not the full truth. I could never bear being close enough to a man.”
“And now you’re marrying one who insists on plenty of sex,” Skye spells out. “So you can hunt down the beast who ruined sex for you.”
I force down a lump in my throat. “How do you make it good for you, sis?”
A pitying look flits across her face. “He makes it good for me. We make it good for each other. It’s a reciprocal act of love.” Her jaw ripples with tension. “If it’s anything less with Leith, you should say no.”
She means not just to the wifely duties but to the marriage.
“What if that’s not an option?”
Skye’s eyes round. “He’s blackmailing you?”
“No, no, nowt like that.” I hasten to cover up my blunder. “But the whole thing is very . . . complicated.”
She laces her fingers with mine on the table. “Are you lonely living in that apartment? You want to move back with me and Lach?”
I force a reassuring smile. “Thanks, sis. I’m sure it’ll all be fine with Leith. I’ve just got pre-wedding jitters.”
After all, while immersing myself in romance books over the years I’ve dreamt of having a man like Leith—strong-willed, self-assured, forceful—storm into my life and sweep me off my feet. It’s just that the pages always served as a comfortable buffer between the fictional and real worlds.
Now, completely unready, I’ll be plunged into the fictional world. And I’m absolutely terrified.
I have one last hope. If it works, I may be able to extricate myself.
* * *
I spend all of the next day—Friday—doing what I’ve done all week, namely searching for skeletons in Leith’s closet that I could use to reverse-blackmail him.
If I can find an egregious secret whose exposure would devastate him, I can gain leverage over him.
I find a bit about the Lowing case, which is obviously what Leith referred to at dinner on Monday.
After hours of internet searches I turn up news about his parents’ deaths in a train accident in Thailand, the murder of his guardian here in Glasgow at the hands of a burglar, and numerous cases he’s won while defending members of the Syndicate.
Of course there’s a wealth of info, reviews, and commentaries on his memoir.
No sordid affairs with high-profile married women. No record of pedophilia or bestiality.
My buzzer sounds, making me jump two feet out of my chair.
“Jesus!” My heart pounds as I stalk to the door and keek through the peephole.
No one.
Opening the door, I look down to find a long pink box tied with a white satin ribbon on the doorstep.
The note reads, To complement your flaming locks and ocean eyes. -L
I slip inside and tear open the box, curiosity and excitement making my fingers tremble.
I pull out a floor-length cerulean ball gown that makes my breath catch.
Made of satin and organza, it has beaded embroidery on the scoop-neck bodice and A-line skirt.
A crinoline underlayer makes the skirt fan out dramatically.
Nude high-heeled sandals and sparkling teardrop diamond earrings accompany the dress.
It’s sublime.
Only a sliver of guilt cracks through my thrill. He is obscenely rich, as I saw firsthand at his farmhouse-mansion. And following this one request doesn’t make me a slave to his will going forward. Forby, I really really want to don this dress.
I hurriedly shower and wash my hair, my head reeling with the image of that gown. Toweling off, I try it on, not surprised at how perfectly it fits. Leith strikes me as a precise, observant, calculating man who wouldn’t get this sort of thing wrong by the fraction of a hair.
I spin about in front of the mirror, enchanted by the figure I cut. The dress enhances my naturally wavy frame and makes me look much taller than I am. Blowing out my hair and giving it a slight wave at the edges, I put on the earrings and shoes.
Wow. A warm, bubbly feeling rises like a geyser in my lower belly. I snap a few pictures of me in the mirror and send them to Skye.
She calls, breathless with wonderment. “Sis, is that you? Where did you get the dress?”
“Leith sent it.”
“Ooohhh. He’s a keeper.” Her voice vibrates with vehemence. “You look ravishing. If he knew you enough to send that—saw you in that dress—don’t second-guess yourself or the relationship.”
Relationship. If she only knew. A pang of guilt stabs me for all I’m hiding from her.
“Have them take a lot of pictures of you tonight,” she enjoins.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Leith: Come out.
“He’s here.” A nervous knot twists my stomach. “Wish me luck.”
I’m going into a restaurant packed with gangsters, on the arm of the man who’s threatened to bring down every last member of my family, including myself.
Skye’s melodious laugh tinkles down the line. “In that dress, you don’t need it.”
Picking up my clutch, I toss my phone in and take the lift down two floors, expecting to have some time to collect my thoughts. But the doors swoosh open to reveal Leith propping his shoulders against a pillar in the entrance area, hands half-plunged in his pockets.
His chiseled body in a midnight-blue tux chases the breath from my lungs.
If I thought he was a demigod that day at the book convention, he’s a prince tonight, resplendent in fine, tailored wool.
My knees weaken at the lines traced by his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and strong thighs.
His white shirt clashes superbly with his bronzed skin, and his haughty lips make my core clench.
As his languid gaze coasts over me, a hot stickiness settles between my thighs. It’s a strange yet pleasurable sensation.