We’ll meet again, my red dahlia.
I wake up with a gasp for nonexistent air. Moisture gathers in my eyes and my heart nearly spills out on the ground.
For a second, I’m disoriented as to where I am. But the memories soon trickle back in, steady and horrendous in their accuracy. I can almost hear the thwack and the sound of my suppressed screams of pain.
My head whips around and I wince at the sudden movement.
I slowly slide out of bed, expecting Kingsley’s shadow to appear out of nowhere and dunk me back onto the mattress.
I release a broken breath when that doesn’t happen.
Only that asshole would take care of a hurt person while flashing his dick diploma from “Bastard School.”
And yet…I stare down at my dirty dress and the bruises on my arm and shoulder, at the map of destruction all over my body. And the most prominent feeling that overwhelms me is gratefulness.
If it weren’t for him, I would’ve passed out in some unknown corner and had a worse fate than being beaten to a pulp.
I carefully get out of the room, trying and failing not to be impressed by the mansion.
This place has a soul that can be felt from a mile away. Like an old gothic cathedral that was used to hide skeletons.
It’s the first time I’ve been within its walls. During Gwen’s wedding, the garden was all I saw of this imposing building.
Previously known as Black Valley Manor, this place has a presence as grim as its current owner, but it has its charms, too.
The ornate antique pillars belong to some architectural museum and the marble flooring mirrors a sophisticated taste. There’s so much space, hallways, and intricately decorated sitting areas that it’s easy to get lost within its walls.
There’s an air of sinister intent in the house’s soul. Again, a replica of its owner.
According to his very public trials about the mansion’s ownership, Kingsley has a sentimental attachment to this place. So when his father died and his wife, Susan, inherited it, Kingsley went berserk. The fact that he inherited almost everything else—billions worth of portfolios and a higher tax bracket included—meant zilch to him.
He’s the type of crazy to prove his father was senile in his last years, render his will null and void, and then revert to the most recent will before that, in which he has ownership of this mansion. After all, he was born here and should inherit it as the tenth generation of the Shaw clan.
The press painted him as a “Savage Devil’ and threw in standard sexist misogynistic traits because he evicted a woman from the house she’d lived in for most of her life.
And while all those adjectives apply to the asshole for other reasons, it’s not the case when it comes to Susan.
I met her a few times when she showed up to flex her nonexistent muscles at the firm, and they were unfortunate events that I would rather never witness again.
If Kingsley hadn’t graduated from jerk school, I would’ve felt sorry for him. But then again, birds of a feather flock together. So maybe he and his stepmother share a fitting fate.
Nate never saw the charm in this house, but I do. Part of it has to do with the fact that my daughter has lived here for so many years.
My feet come to halt in front of a huge painting of demons eating angels. The details are so striking, it’s hauntingly intimidating.
All the demons have repulsive faces, horns, and blood on their hands, and all the angels scream in agony as they’re devoured alive.
I’m pretty sure there’s a version of this where the angels slay the demons, but why am I not surprised that Kingsley would prefer this scene instead?
Hell, even the outside gate has a demon sitting on top.
“This was the last painting Mrs. Shaw purchased.”
I startle but hide my reaction when a short woman with generous curves stops beside me. Her brown hair is pulled into a conservative bun and she’s wearing a classic maid outfit that makes her appear refined.
“Hello. My name is Martha and I’m the only housekeeper Mr. Shaw keeps around.”
“I’m…Aspen.” I pause when pain bursts in my shoulder, reminding me of the assault.
“I know,” she says with a warm smile.
“You said Mrs. Shaw—as in, which one?” I motion at the painting, reverting the conversation back to it.
“Mrs. Liliana Shaw. The only one to be called Mrs. Shaw in this place. The other one is just Susan.” She pauses. “Or any other colorful names Mr. Shaw calls her.”
I snort. Of course, he has colorful names for everyone.
Martha, however, seems oblivious to my reaction as she continues staring at the demons. “As soon as she moved here, Susan attempted to vandalize the painting. So Mr. Kingsley Shaw hid it in Mr. Nathaniel Weaver’s house, then took it with him when he moved out of here at eighteen. He brought it back with him when he returned five years ago.”
“It must hold a lot of value for him if he went to those lengths for it.” But then again, it makes sense for a demon to protect those of his own kind. For hell’s greater good and all that.
“While that might be true, it’s a message more than anything else. The painting and Mrs. Liliana’s memory are here to stay. Susan is merely an unfortunate stop in Black Valley Manor’s history.” Martha smiles. “Or so Mr. Shaw says.”
She appears too happy about it. Something tells me Martha is the type of maid who has a fierce loyalty to Liliana and, therefore, to Kingsley as an extension. I wouldn’t be surprised if she spied for him when Susan was the lady of the house. Which would make sense that he would approve of her when he approves of no one.
Martha faces me. “Would you like to have a shower? I’ve prepared a change of clothes in the guest bathroom.”
“Uh, no. I better go home and get to work.”
Because fuck Kingsley. He doesn’t want me to show my face at the firm, fine, but I can at least work from home.
“It’s the afternoon, miss.” Martha motions at the glass doors, and sure enough, the sun is about to make its descent.
Holy shit.
Did I sleep a whole night and a day? That hasn’t happened in…forever. I’m the five hours of sleep type of person. Anything more and it should be reported to the weird police.
“It’d be better to take that shower.” Martha gently pushes me toward the bathroom, not taking my reluctance into account. “I’ll help you.”
“No, I can do it myself.”
She shakes her head, lips curving in a smile. “He mentioned you’d say that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Say what?”
“That you won’t accept help. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” With a nod, she steps out and closes the door behind her, leaving me with cloudy thoughts that I refuse to put a name to.
Like how the hell does he know me so well when he’s detached from everything and everyone?
Taking a shower proves to be harder than pulling teeth. But I go through it, hissing and whimpering every time a cut burns. No matter how hard it gets, I don’t call for Martha.
I refuse to be babied or treated like a delicate flower.
As a result, I finish about forty minutes later, feeling less refreshed and more like a soldier out of war.
I’m glad the clothes she gave me are a dress and some cotton undies. Surprisingly, they fit. The dress is white and loose with a fashionable cut in the collar and barely reaches the middle of my thighs. Definitely too short for my preferred length.
The scent of vanilla envelops me as soon as I put them on, and I step out of the bathroom without bothering to dry my hair.
Martha stands there with her hands clasped above each other.
“Are these…Gwen’s?”
“Yes. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
My heart squeezes, and even though I have to tug on the dress to make it cover more than my butt, I don’t consider removing it.
It might sound creepy, but I want to smell her close, even if it’s like this.
All of a sudden, I miss her so much.
Or maybe it’s not sudden at all. Even when I thought she’d died, I still missed her with every fiber of my being.
In the nightmare I had a while ago, my father was coming to kill me and all I could think about was that I’d abandon her again.
I mean, yes, she’s older now, married, and probably doesn’t need a mother, but I need her.
I always have.
The memory of her is what’s kept me going for decades. Ever since I ran away from home and carved my own path like a rolling stone.
“Would you like to see her room?” Martha asks.
“You mean Gwen’s?”
“Yes. She took almost everything she considers valuable, but there are a few of her belongings around if you want to look around.”
“I would love that.”
Though I hate to have Kingsley fire the woman for it, I wouldn’t miss the chance to take a tour in the place my daughter called home.
Martha delivers a speech that’s worthy of a real estate mogul as she shows me around first. She breezes past Kingsley’s room and office, though. Not even bothering to open their doors.
Then she motions at Gwen’s room. “You can stay here as long as you like. I have to prepare dinner.”
I thank her and she nods, going about her chores.
My greedy eyes take in the princess-like decor. The lace comforter on the bed, the muslin curtain that surrounds it. The wallpaper with vanilla orchids, no surprise there.
In fact, her entire room is vanilla-themed, from the carpet to the doors of her walk-in closet, even the desk and the multi-colored pens.
She’s definitely more girly than I’ve ever been—not sure who she takes after. Not me or her father, that’s for sure.
Probably Caroline. She rubbed her stupid fluffy energy on me before I even found out I was pregnant.
I sit on the bed, running my hand over the sheet, then I spot a framed picture on her bedside table.
It was taken on her high school graduation day, judging by the clothes and the hat.
Kingsley is holding her up by the waist in the air as if she’s flying and Gwen is laughing uncontrollably.
They look at each other with so much love that it cuts me in two. At that point, I’d already met her and categorized her as the asshole’s daughter.
It never occurred to me that she was my daughter, too, and that I was missing a moment of her life that I’d never get back.
I run my fingers over her face, feeling the bitter emotions gathering in my eyes.
Accidentally, I touch Kingsley’s face and it startles me. Not the contact itself, or how illegally attractive he is, but the fact that right now, I can’t hate him.
If it weren’t for him, Gwen wouldn’t have grown into the fine young lady she is. It takes a man of stone to raise a baby all on his own from the time he was seventeen.
You’re not supposed to idolize someone you hate, bitch. I hear Caroline’s voice in my head and put the frame back where I found it.
I can’t resist opening the drawer. Inside it, there are sleeping buds, a collection of them, more vanilla-colored things, and an album.
Excitement courses through me as I pull it out. From the moment I open it, it feels as if I’m transported down memory lane.
It’s filled with pictures of toddler Gwen, her birthdays, her first tooth. Her first steps. First day at school. All of them are documented with Post-it Notes at the top in Kingsley’s surprisingly neat handwriting.
He’s in almost all the pictures, either carrying her, cheering her on, or laughing with her at the camera. It hits me then that he’s only ever carefree when around his daughter. It’s like she’s the only person allowed within his walls.
Hell, I didn’t even know this side of him existed until I saw him laughing out loud when she brought lunch to his office a few years back.
I remember being struck by the view, his laughter, his joy, and how the rareness rivaled an eclipse.
Through the album, I can clearly see that he has a version he shows the world and a version that’s exclusively for her.
And I don’t know why bitter emotions keep mounting in me. Probably because I missed the most important parts of Gwen’s life while he’s been there during all of them.
I continue flipping, going through the phases of her life like it’s a movie.
Even Nate is present in some of the pictures, mostly her birthdays, as solemn-faced as ever.
The green-eyed monster rears his head inside me and I couldn’t chase away the pain even if I wanted to.
But I go through the whole album. Twice. On the third run-through, I find myself pausing on certain pictures.
Like Gwen’s fifteenth birthday. She’s smiling, but it appears more forced than the government’s wars. Her eyes appear a bit puffy, her expression mechanical.
I cried on my birthdays because they reminded me of my mother who abandoned me on them.
Her words from when she first found out I was her mother, which coincidentally happened to be the same day I found out, rush back to me.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper to her picture.
“Shouldn’t you be more sorry for breaching someone’s privacy?”
My head snaps up and I grunt when pain explodes in my shoulder. Then I wipe the moisture that’s gathered in my eyes because showing even a hint of weakness in front of a predator is a sure way to have them attack. Ruthlessly.
And Kingsley is the worst predator I’ve come across. Right up there with my father.
The fact that he took care of me doesn’t fool me. It could be a mere sham to hurt me later.
He stands in the entryway, clad in his usual black suit that shouldn’t look this good on him.
Kingsley has always been physical perfection and it’s not only because of his face, piercing eyes, or well-honed body.
It’s the charisma that comes with it. The silence that harbors storms as deep as the color in his eyes.
A few cuts decorate the backs of his hands, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I know he fights with Nate as a hobby, but he’s not around, so how did he get those?
Don’t they bandage their hands before any fight? Also, I’m pretty sure that isn’t the same suit he was wearing this morning. It’s still black, but the cut is different. Not that I’m focused on his clothes or anything.
I still can’t help the nagging feeling of wondering where he could’ve been that he had to change suits.
He’s casually leaning against the frame with his legs crossed at the ankle as if he’s been there for a while, watching, biding his time as all predators do.
Unlucky for him, I’m no prey.
“I breached no one’s privacy.” I’m surprised at my cool tone as I calmly place the album back in the drawer. “You willingly brought me inside your house and forgot to post rules about freedom of movement where I can see them.”
“You must be better if your tongue is back to its favorite hobby of talking back.”
Actually, my tongue is sore and hurts like a mother, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go down without a fight.
I stand up, holding my head up with effort. “Sorry to ruin your twisted fantasies of seeing me on my knees. Better luck next time.”
He pushes off the door frame and reaches me in a few determined strides. The force behind them knocks the living breath out of my lungs, but not more than when his chest nearly grazes mine.
The distance that separates us is merely a hair’s breadth, and even that is crowded with the smell of cedarwood mixed with the potent scent of his masculinity.
All my attempts to breathe properly splash on the floor and shrivel to a slow death when he grabs my chin with his thumb and forefinger, slowly tilting it up until he has my full attention and then some.
His other hand lands on my waist, controlling and so possessive that I can barely feel the fabric separating us.
“As I insinuated this morning and you refused to accept in your pretty head, seeing you physically beaten brings me no sense of victory whatsoever. The only position where you’d look good on your knees is when you’re choking on my cock, sweetheart.”
My lips part and it has nothing to do with how swollen they feel. I scramble for a scathing reply and come up embarrassingly empty-handed.
“If your tongue is healed, we can start right away.”
“In your dreams, asshole.”
“In my dreams, you’re taking my cock up your ass like a pro.”
“Good thing it’s a dream, because it won’t be happening in this lifetime. And for the record, you’re a damn pervert.”
“The number of fucks I have to give about your opinion of me is in the negative.”
“And yet, you still want a piece of me.”
“Not a piece. Pieces.” His voice drops and so does his hand—from my waist to my hip and then to my ass.
I yelp when he squeezes the flesh, pulling me straight into his chest. The pain that explodes in my body has no bearing whatsoever on my reaction.
Logically, I should be appalled to my bones, but that’s shamelessly absent. Instead, my heart starts a war as if intending to jump straight between us.
My thighs shake against his and I’m sure he feels how much of an effect he has on me.
Something I don’t like.
The weakness. The being at someone else’s mercy.
The only sex I take part in is when I’m riding. Never when I’m dominated.
Not after that first time, at least.
It scared the shit of me, the power he had and continued to have on me when he was nothing more than an Anonymous mask. Now that he has a face, an illegally gorgeous one at that, it’s even more dangerous.
So I slam a palm on his shoulder, trying, and failing, to push him away.
“Kingsley,” I attempt to warn, but my voice is too soft, even to my own ears.
“The way you say my name is nothing short of a ‘come and fuck me’ invitation.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll get to that in a bit, but first…” He kneads the flesh of my ass and audaciously rubs his massive erection against my lower stomach.
I want to remain unaffected, to curse him to a special nook in hell, but I’m crumbling.
My core is clenching, and even the pain in my face and shoulder pales in comparison to the wild desire spreading through me.
But why?
Just why am I inexplicably turned on by his touch?
Please let this be a twisted case of gratitude and not something entirely different and disastrous.
As if sensing my inner turbulence, Kingsley tilts my head further back to stare into my eyes with his savage ones. “Remember that challenge?”
“What challenge?” I’m thankful that I’m able to regain some of my composure, considering the circumstances.
“The one where you avoided me after for a week because you were scared to give in to what we both want.”
“I don’t want you.”
“Are you telling me that if I reach under this dress, I won’t find your cunt swollen and wet and ready to be pounded into?”
“No.” The word is so quiet, I’m surprised he hears it.
A devilish grin splits his face. “Let’s test that then.”
Before I can object, the world is pulled from beneath my feet.
