I rush back to the suite, sobering up along the way from all the adrenaline flooding through my body. When I get inside, I lock the bolt and security latch, then back away from the door, expecting Callum to burst through any second.
When he doesn’t, I spin around and run into the bedroom.
Which is where I find the manila file of photos on the bed.
There are dozens of them. Full color close-ups and distance shots. In every picture, the subjects are the same.
My ex, Ben, and a pretty blonde girl I recognize because he introduced me to her once at his company’s July barbecue. Her name is Bethany. They worked together.
Apparently, they did lots of other stuff together too.
All over the place.
Inside and outdoors, in hotel rooms and parked cars, they had sex with a reckless passion that appears to have overtaken them anywhere.
Killian sure wasn’t concerned with sparing my feelings when he took these.
Or was it Callum? Or someone related to their mysterious “cause?”
Whoever it was, I suppose I owe him my thanks. I might have tried finding Ben and getting back together with him if it weren’t for this harsh evidence of his betrayal. And I know these pictures aren’t fabricated or digitally altered, because I recognize certain details that couldn’t be faked.
The worst is the Christmas tree in my apartment with the James-Fraser-dressed-as-Santa-Claus topper I bought online. Ben kissed Bethany next to that tree in front of the open window.
In my apartment.
I wonder if he fucked her in my bed?
Remembering how Callum said he held a knife to Ben’s throat makes me smile.
“Oh God. I’m sick!” I let the folder slip from my hands as I cover my face, groaning. When the room tilts sideways, I groan again, then crawl up the bed and bury my face in a pillow.
I’ll just rest for a minute, then I’ll pack.
I have no idea how long I’m passed out, but I wake up sometime later after the sun has set. I’m lying on my side, facing the sliding glass doors, which are open. A gentle ocean breeze stirs the gauzy white drapes. It’s quiet and dark in the suite, except for a single lamp burning in the living room.
A large, heavy arm is draped over my waist. Another one cradles my neck. Warm breath tickles my nape. A heartbeat thuds steadily in the space between my shoulder blades.
Callum murmurs, “Don’t scream.”
I consider it, lying there as my pulse accelerates. Then I draw a deep breath and close my eyes. “I want you to leave.”
“No, you don’t.”
The ego on him. Unbelievable.
It’s also incredibly unfortunate that he’s right.
Sighing heavily, I snuggle down into the bedding. I hate to admit it, but his big arm makes a pretty great pillow. If I wasn’t so mad at him, I might go back to sleep.
He brushes the gentlest of kisses on my nape, making me shiver involuntarily. Then he whispers, “What do you want me to do?”
“Jump off a bridge.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Fine. Tie a rope to one ankle, then jump off a bridge and dangle over the side for a few days until somebody notices you hanging there and rescues you.”
When he kisses the back of my neck again, I say, “I swear on all things holy, if you try to fuck me right now, I will end your penis’s life.”
That muffled sound behind me is laughter. Then he composes himself and says seriously, “I promise I won’t try to fuck you right now.”
I say with withering scorn, “Oh, you promise? How reassuring.”
After a moment, he sighs. “If I say I’m sorry, will you believe me?”
“I don’t know. Try it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He sighs again. “Good. Because it was a lie.”
I pound a fist on the mattress in frustration. Now I’m wide awake, vibrating with anger, wishing I had the strength to rip off his head and throw it over the balcony into the sea.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you. That part is true. But I’m not sorry that you’re my wife.”
“Or that I can apparently never divorce you either, huh? How the hell did you arrange that, anyway?”
“Our family is tight with the Pope. We called in a favor.”
“The Pope owed you a favor?”
“We kept a potentially embarrassing personal story out of the news.”
I can’t believe this is my life.
Callum starts to massage the tension from my neck and shoulder, kneading his strong fingers into my muscles until I hate him a little less.
“I have questions.”
“Ask me anything. I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Don’t throw that word around so recklessly, billionaire. I’m not sure you understand the definition.”
“I’ll never lie to you again. I’d rather die than hurt you. I swear on my life.”
I want to accuse him of being melodramatic and ridiculous, but he sounded convincingly contrite, so I just growl a little in the back of my throat instead.
Then I say, “Do you think I’m so stupid that I’d never find out?”
“No. I know how intelligent you are. I just thought I’d have a little more time before you did.”
“Time for what?”
“To make you fall in love with me.”
This again. The man needs more therapy than I do. “You do realize that manipulating someone into having feelings for you is unethical, right?”
There’s a long pause.
“Forget it. Next question. What would you have done if I didn’t agree to the contract?”
Another pause, this one more fraught. “Maybe we should leave this until the end.”
“You better start talking before I start screaming.”
“You’ll probably start screaming when I give you the answer though.”
I growl again. He says, “Okay. Here’s the truth. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. My backup plan was to kidnap you and hold you hostage until you fell in love with me from Stockholm Syndrome.”
I gasp in disbelief. “What?”
“I’m confident you would’ve eventually come around. As you know, I can be very charming when I need to be.”
“You should leave now.”
“You can’t hold it against me that I did exactly what you asked me to.”
“No, but I can hold it against you that you’re insane!”
His tone turns reasonable. “I’m not insane. I’m perfectly rational. My ethics are just a little more bendy than other people’s.”
“Bendy?”
“No, don’t try to turn over. This conversation is going pretty well so far, so let’s keep you on your side facing away from me. That way you can’t claw out my eyes.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do when I’m upset.” I huff out a hard, angry breath, then start again. “My other two boyfriends I’ve had over the past four years, Chris and Brandon. Did you run them off with a knife to their throats too?”
“Not Chris. He left you on his own.”
When he doesn’t continue, I turn my head, craning it to try to see his face. “What about Brandon?”
“He was the one who stole your Visa and racked up all those charges.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“How did you find out?”
“I’m not sure you want to know that. But I did have a chat with him to let him know it was in his best interests to disappear from your life.”
A chat. Picturing him holding Brandon by his ankles upside down off the side of a building, I sigh. “What about the gun in your dresser and all that other stuff in the cases?”
“Killian keeps stashes of his supplies all over the world. My home is one of probably dozens. Hundreds even, I’m not sure, but what I do know is that he hasn’t asked me to hold anything too egregious yet, so I accommodate him.”
“Egregious like what?”
“A suitcase nuke.”
My eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
“So he’s an arms dealer?”
“No, but he occasionally has to remove weapons of mass destruction from the possession of certain people who shouldn’t have them. Dictators, for instance. Despots. They’re overly fond of suitcase nukes for some reason.”
My head reeling, I say faintly, “Sure. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re so portable.”
Callum’s lips brush my cheek, raising all the hair on my arms. He whispers into my ear, “Ask me why I’m so obsessed with you.”
Nervous now, I swallow and turn my head. “No. Let’s not go there. I’m not ready for you to turn on the charm yet. I’m probably still tipsy from all the Mai Tais. Here’s another question: what’s the unresolved father-son shit you mentioned between you and your dad? And that stuff I overheard you talking about that night in the kitchen, what was that all about?”
He sighs, stirring my hair. Then he smooths a hand down my arm, threading his fingers through mine.
I allow it, though I know I shouldn’t.
“My father’s been involved with Killian’s organization for years, long before I knew anything about it. When he was diagnosed with diabetes six years ago, he decided I should step in for him and take his place. I didn’t want to. I’m not the world-saving type by nature, but I wasn’t given a choice.”
I remember how Arlo slipped and said Callum was inducted into something. That must’ve been what he meant.
“What’s Killian’s organization?”
“It’s a thirteen-member cabal of powerful people. Connected people. Heads of families like mine whose reach extends globally, or individuals like Killian who know everyone and everything and can get anything done. We work around the law, doing what law enforcement often can’t.”
I recall Killian saying his job was saving the world and marvel at the hubris.
“So…God, I don’t even know what to ask next. Does this organization have a name?”
“The Thirteen.”
I ponder that for a moment. “What if you add more members? Would it then become the Fourteen or the Fifteen? The name changes could be never ending.”
He chuckles. “That’s exactly what Reyna said.”
“Who’s Reyna?”
“Someone you should definitely meet.”
“No, do better than that.”
“All right. She’s the head of the Italian crime syndicate.”
I frown, then sit up, turn, and look down at him. “Crime syndicate? Meaning mafia? I thought Killian’s thing was saving the world. Isn’t the mafia the bad guys?”
Gazing at me with soft eyes, Callum reaches up and cups my jaw gently in his big rough hand.
“Questions of good and bad are never simple. Nothing is purely black, just as nothing is purely white. It’s the intention that matters, even if blood gets spilled along the way.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Ever heard that saying?”
“Of course. But it’s bullshit. The road to hell is actually paved with the prayers of cowards who think sitting on a church bench once a week is sufficient. If there is a god, he doesn’t give a shit about prayers. He wants to see if you’re willing to put skin in the game, not just give Him lip service with a few pretty hymns on Sunday, then go home and hide while evil runs rampant through the streets.”
I stare at him for a moment until I can’t stand to look at his handsome face anymore because it’s making me want to kiss him. Then I lie down facing the sliding doors again, heaving a sigh.
Callum squeezes my shoulder. He kisses my neck. He slides his palm down my arm and threads his fingers through mine again, which is when I notice his new tattoos.
Below the first knuckle, every finger on his right hand has a letter, inked in black, of my name.
I close my eyes and whisper, “You tattooed my name on your hand?”
“I wanted to get ‘I Love My Wife’, but I didn’t have enough fingers.”
“Oh God, Callum.”
“Wait until you see what I have on my chest.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s an image of my face.”
After a pause, he says, “Okay. I won’t tell you.”
I bury my face in the pillow and groan. “This is crazy. You’re crazy.”
“Sometimes love doesn’t make any sense. But it doesn’t have to. When you find someone who makes your soul sing, all that matters is joining in the song.”
Oh, my heart. My poor, tender heart wasn’t made for such things.
“You could have just walked into my shop like a normal person and asked me out, you know. You didn’t have to concoct such an elaborate scheme to trap me.”
Squeezing me closer, he whispers, “If I had, you would’ve rejected me again. You would’ve looked at my suit and my watch and my car and told me to get lost, because you have a thing against wealth.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Why don’t you carry billionaire romance in your shop?”
“Because I like all the other tropes more!”
“No, because you think men with too much money are deficient in character. And before you lie to me and deny it, I’ve heard you say it more than once.”
“Wait. You’ve heard me say it?”
“I bugged your shop.”
Outraged, I demand, “You’ve been listening in on me too?”
“Yes. Not all the time, only when the yearning gets really bad and I need to hear your voice. I love your voice, by the way. It’s beautiful.”
Now I’m mad all over again. “You know what? You’re right. I do think men with too much money are deficient in character, and you’re proof. Now get the hell out. I never want to see you again.”
I try to rise from the bed, but he pulls me closer against his body and keeps me there, his strong arms like a vise. His mouth next to my ear, he growls, “No more lies. From now on, it’s truth between us only. You do want to see me again. Admit it.”
So angry, I’m shaking, I say through gritted teeth, “I’d rather be boiled alive than see you again.”
“Wife. Don’t make me punish you.”
I should scream some clever epithet at him for that, but his words send a little thrill through me, making me shiver. I say nothing, clamping my mouth shut.
“Now listen to me. No, I’m not a knight in shining armor. I’m the bad guy. I’m the dragon the prince tries to slay in fairy tales. But this dragon is your slave whether you like it or not, and I always will be. We made a vow that included the words ‘til death do us part’.”
“Under duress!” I exclaim. “Because you tricked me!”
“Nobody forced you to sign the contract. You did that all on your own, little lamb.”
“Yes, and if I hadn’t, you admitted you’d have kidnapped me!”
His voice loses the intensity of before and turns pragmatic. “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Gah!” I squirm, trying to escape, but it’s useless. He’s too strong.
He rolls me onto my back and flattens me by lying on top of me and taking my face in his hands. Gazing down at me with blazing intensity, he says, “Do you remember that night in your apartment when I said you were something much better than beautiful?”
I do, but won’t admit it. I glare at him instead.
He says, “You are beautiful, Emery, but that’s the least interesting thing about you. What I meant then is that you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive. I was dead before I met you, but I looked into your eyes, and you brought me back to life. What you are is my reason for being. My center of gravity. The fixed point around which everything else turns. You feel like sunlight to me. You feel like a sky full of stars. I loved you before I even knew your name, when you were wearing cat ears and spitting fire at me. You ripped my heart out of my chest the first time we met, and you’ve been carrying it around with you ever since, bloody and beating in your hands. If you truly want me to leave you alone, I’ll do it. But be prepared to have a ghost for the rest of your life, because I’ll never stop haunting you. Which is only fair, considering you’ll always haunt me.”
My heart pounds so hard, I can’t catch my breath. My eyes are full of water. I hate him but I also don’t, and I despise myself for this wretched ambivalence.
Turning my head, I close my eyes and sniffle.
He kisses my throat. His voice husky, he says, “I know I’m damaged. But all my broken pieces belong to you.”
I don’t understand how he can be so wrong but feel so right.
I don’t understand any of this.
“Final questions,” I whisper, trembling all over. “Prague?”
“Headquarters of the Thirteen is there.”
“And so are the headquarters of Sassenach. That’s a shell corporation?”
“Yes.”
“Like Dolos, the one you used to buy ValUBooks.”
“Yes, but Sassenach isn’t defunct. I use it occasionally for Thirteen business.”
“Do your brothers know about the Thirteen?”
“No. And I want to keep them out of it. It’s too dangerous.”
That’s why Cole had no idea what I was talking about when I asked him if McCord Media was involved in anything dangerous. He has no idea what his father and big brother are up to.
Talk about weaving tangled webs.
“Why is the head of Sassenach named James Fraser?”
“He’s your hero. Something I know I’ll never be. So, since I couldn’t list myself as CEO for obvious reasons, I gave him the position.” He chuckles. “Considering the position is fictional and so is the character, it seemed fitting.”
This is so fucked up, I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around it.
“Okay. My clones—the three housekeepers and your secretary. What’s that about?”
His voice wistful, he says, “I like having people around who remind me of you.”
Where do I go with that? It’s strangely sweet, in a completely wrong sort of way. I decide to just keep asking questions.
“Why is your house decorated in French country style?”
“I had it redone when you posted on your shop’s blog how much you loved the novel Madame Bovary and wished you had a house like hers in the French countryside.”
“Oh God,” I whisper, rocked. “That was right after my dad’s funeral.”
Knowing I’m freaking out all over again about how long he’s been watching me, Callum wisely remains silent. He rolls off me, rolls me onto my side, and positions himself so I’m tucked into him, back to front, cradled in his arms.
“Thank you for not throwing me out,” he murmurs into my ear.
“I tried. You didn’t listen.”
“Go back to sleep now. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Or I’ll fling myself off the balcony.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Considering the situation, it’s an appropriate response.”
We lie in silence for a while. I try to unfuck my brain and ignore the hard length of Callum’s cock, which is poking into my ass. He makes no move to do anything about it, however, earning him the tiniest of gold stars.
I don’t think there’s any possibility I’ll be able to sleep, but suddenly I find myself opening my eyes to brightness and blinking into a sunny room.
A sunny, empty room. Callum is gone.
His huge diamond engagement ring sparkles on my left ring finger.
A note lies on the pillow beside me. I pick it up and read.
Not all happily-ever-afters are for white knights, darling. Sometimes the villain gets the girl. And isn’t that a much more interesting ending to the story?
With all my black heart,
Your monster
I read it over and over until I realize I’m smiling.
Then I rip the note into pieces, flush it down the toilet, and pack my bag.
