“You look beautiful in everything. I’m not going to boss you around about it.” I give him a little sideways smirk and whisper up to him, “But what if I kind of like it when you boss me around?” He grabs my arm and growls into my ear. “Then go put on that little blue sundress I bought for you and see how I reward you.” As soon as he gets that controlling tone, the tiny hairs rise up on my arms, and I get that warm, throbbing, nervous feeling. Part of me wants to disobey him. The other part wants to see what will happen if I play along. So I go into the walk-in closet, find the requested dress, and put it on. Then I brush my hair, pin it back with a clip, put on some earrings shaped like little white daisies, and slip my feet into sandals. By the time I finish, Callum is waiting downstairs for me. I descend the staircase like a prom queen, trailing my hand along the railing and trying to look graceful. Callum grins up at me, looking extremely handsome himself in his pale blue dress shirt and slacks. He’s shaved his face clean, making his jaw look sharper than ever. Now I can see the flawless shape of his lips, and the way they smile just a little, even when his eyes look stern. “Where’s everybody else?” I ask him. “I told them to go ahead in the other car. Jack’s driving us.” He takes my hand, pulling me close. “Nothing under that skirt, I hope,” he murmurs. “Of course not,” I say primly. Jack is already waiting by the town car, holding the door. He’s been marginally nicer to me since robbing the casino with my brothers and cousin. I don’t know if it’s because he likes my family or because he’s scared of them. But he hasn’t made a single rude comment since. And I haven’t had to shoot him at all. Callum and I slide into the backseat. I can see that Cal already put the partition up. He turns on the music too, louder than usual. “How far is the restaurant?” I ask him. “I think I’ll have just enough time,” he says. Not bothering with his seatbelt, he gets down in front of me and puts his head under the skirt of my sundress. I gasp and turn the music up a little
more. Then I lay back against the seat. Callum is licking my puss* with long, slow motions. His mouth feels incredibly soft with the fresh shave. His lips caress my skin, and his tongue slides between my folds, warm and wet and sensual. I love f*cking him in the car. I never knew why people had chauffeurs, and now I realize it’s one hundred percent for this reason—so you can turn a boring commute into the best part of your day. Someday, when we all have robot cars, you’ll look into the other windows and that’s what you’ll see—everybody banging. I’m starting to get a Pavlovian response to the smell of leather conditioner. Suddenly it’s the most erotic scent in the world. I love the feel of the seats against my bare skin, and the way the motion of the car rocks me and presses me all the tighter against Callum’s tongue. He’s so f*cking good at this. He looks so cold and stiff, but actually his hands and mouth are like warm butter. He can tell exactly how hard to lick and suck, so it’s maximum stimulation without tipping over into too much. I’m rocking my hips, riding his face, trying hard not to make any noise. I may have given up my vendetta with Jack, but that doesn’t mean I want to put on a show for him. But it’s hard to stay quiet when Cal slips his fingers inside of me. He gently twists and slides them in motion with his tongue, finding all the most sensitive spots. I squeeze around his fingers, my breath quickening and my skin tingling. Warmth spirals outward from my belly. My puss* is soaking wet and extra sensitive. With his other hand, Callum reaches up and pulls down the front of my dress. Freeing one of my breasts, he caresses it with his hand, gently pinching and tugging on the nipple. He gradually increases the pressure, until he’s roughly squeezing my tit*, pinching and pulling at the nipples. For some reason, this feels f*cking fantastic. Maybe it’s because I’m already so aroused, or maybe it’s just because I like when Cal is a little rough in bed. There’s so much tension between us that it gives relief to the aggression. It gives us somewhere to channel it. I’ve never had a relationship quite like this. There were always people I hated, and people I liked, and those two categories were polar opposites.
My boyfriends always fell in the “sweet and fun” category, not the “drive me f*cking insane” one. Callum is becoming a little bit of both. And somehow that makes my attraction to him ten times stronger. He captures all my emotions: resentment. Jealousy. Rebelliousness. Desire. Temper. Curiosity. Playfulness. And even respect. He bundles it all together in one package. The result is absolutely irresistible. It captivates me entirely. Cal keeps licking my puss*, fingering me, and squeezing my tit* all at the same time. Stimulating every part of me until I’m squirming and grinding against him, ready to explode. I can feel the car turning, starting to slow. It’s now or never. I let go, cumming over and over again on the flat of Cal’s tongue. The rolling waves of pleasure crash over me. I have to bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tight shut to keep from screaming. Then the car stops, and Cal sits up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Just in time,” he says. I’m panting like I ran a mile. “Your hair is crazy,” I tell him. He smooths it back with the palm of his hand, smirking at me. “Yes, yes, you did a great job,” I say, laughing. “I know,” he says. He takes my hand to help me out of the car. We take the elevator up to the fortieth floor of the Stock Exchange Building. I haven’t actually been up here before, though I know the restaurant is supposed to be nice. The view really is stunning. Imogen has, naturally, snagged the best table in the place. We have a panoramic view of the city laid out below, and part of the lake as well. The others are already seated. Nessa’s wearing a flowered romper, her light-brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She’s got more freckles now that it’s getting hotter. Riona has her hair down—unusual for her. She really does have the most stunning hair I’ve ever seen. Thick, wavy, deeply hued. I think she dislikes how vivid it looks. How much attention it steals. Tonight, however, she’s almost in as good a mood as everybody else. We’re all talking and laughing, ordering decadent things off the menu. I
look around at Cal’s family and for the first time I don’t feel like a stranger. I feel comfortable at the table. Happy to be there, even. We’re talking about the longest book we ever read. “I read War and Peace!” I tell them. “I’m the only person that ever did, I think. I was stuck at this cabin and it was the only book on the shelf.“ “I think The Stand might be my longest,” Riona muses. “Unabridged version, obviously.” “You read Stephen King?” I ask her in astonishment. “I’ve read every one,” Riona says. “Up until the most recent one, because I haven’t had time—” “She was so scared of It,” Callum interrupts. “She’s still terrified of clowns.” “I’m not scared of them,” Riona says loftily. “I just don’t like them. There’s a difference . . .” “Do you want more wine?” Cal asks me, holding up the bottle. I nod, and he refills my glass. When he sets the bottle down, he drops his hand down to my lap. He finds my hand—the one not in a cast—and intertwines his fingers with mine. His hand is warm and strong, squeezing just the right amount. His thumb gently strokes mine, then goes still again. Cal and I have f*cked plenty of times. We kiss, too. But this is the first time we’ve ever held hands. He’s not doing it for show because we’re at an event. And he’s not grabbing me to pull me close. He’s holding my hand because he wants to. Our relationship has proceeded in such a funny, backward way. Marriage first. Then sex. Then getting to know each other. And finally . . . whatever this is. A feeling of warmth and desire and affection and connection spreads through my chest, a feeling that burns and grows stronger by the moment, especially when I glance over at the man sitting next to me. I can’t believe it. I think I’m falling in love.
24
I CALLUM ’m sitting at the table, surrounded by my family, basking in the glow of victory. My parents look happier and more proud than I’ve ever seen them before. My sisters are in good spirits, laughing and joking about some guy who’s been chasing after Nessa. It’s a scene I’ve been working toward for months. And yet, I find myself tuning out of the conversation because I want to look at Aida instead. I can’t believe she stayed at Zajac’s warehouse, looking for me. She could have been killed, or at the very least, recaptured and held hostage until her brothers returned the money they stole. She could have just run the moment she escaped the office. But she didn’t. Because she knew I was somewhere in the building, probably being tortured, possibly being killed. That would have been an easy way for her to get out of our marriage contract. But I don’t think she wants to get out of it anymore. Or at least, not as much as before. I know I don’t want to lose her. I’ve come to respect Aida, and like her, too. I like the effect she has on me. She makes me more reckless, but also more focused. Before I met her, I was going through the motions. Doing what I was supposed to without really caring. Now I want to achieve all the same things, but I want it so much more. Because I want to do it with Aida by my side, bringing life to the whole
enterprise. I take Aida’s hand and hold it, gently running my thumb over hers. She looks up, surprised, but not annoyed. She smiles up at me, squeezing my hand in return. Then her phone buzzes and she sneaks it out of her bag to read the message. She’s looking at it under the table, so I can’t see the screen. But I notice the immediate change in her expression—how she sucks in a little breath of excitement, her cheeks flushing with color. “What is it?” I ask her. “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Just a text from my brother.” She quickly stows the phone away. But I can tell she’s lit up with excitement, barely able to sit still now. I take my hand back and drink my wine, trying not to let my irritation show. What would it take to make Aida be completely honest with me? When will she open up to me and stop treating me like an annoying overseer? She’s too happy to notice the change in my mood. “We should order dessert!” she says. “What’s your favorite?” “I don’t eat sweets,” I say sulkily. “They have a grapefruit gelato,” she teases. “That’s pretty much health food.” “Maybe I’ll have a bit of yours,” I say, relenting. “I’m not eating that,” Aida laughs. “I’m getting chocolate soufflé.” THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’m supposed to go see my new office at City Hall. I swing by the house to see if Aida wants to come along with me. To my surprise, she’s already dressed and getting into Nessa’s Jeep. “Where are you going?” I ask her. “I’ve got some errands to run,” she says vaguely. “What kind of errands?” “All kinds,” she says, climbing into the car and closing the door. She’s wearing a little crop top and cut-off shorts, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail and heart-shaped sunglasses on top of her head. By Aida’s standards, this is fairly dressed up. My curiosity is inflamed.
I lean against the windowsill, annoyed that she’s not coming with me. I wanted to show her all of City Hall, and maybe go for a late lunch together. “Can’t it wait?” I ask her. “No,” she says regretfully. “Actually, I’ve got to get going . . .” I step back, letting her start the engine. “What’s the hurry?” I say. “No hurry. See you tonight!” she calls, putting the car in reverse. Aida is f*cking maddening when she won’t answer my questions. I can’t help thinking that she looks way too cute just to be running to the post office or whatever the f*ck. And what kind of errands could she possibly have that are time-sensitive? And who messaged her last night? Could it be Oliver Castle? Could she be going to meet with him right now? I’m burning with jealousy. I know I should just talk to her when she comes home tonight, but I don’t want to wait until then. I wish I’d remembered to steal her phone. I figured out her passcode by watching over her shoulder while she entered it—it’s 1799, not hard to remember. But in the craziness of our encounter with Zajac and the election right after, I forgot to look through it. I should have done it last night while she was sleeping. Now it’s f*cking eating me alive. I grab my own phone out of my pocket and call Jack. He picks up immediately. “What’s up, boss?” he says. “Where are you right now?” “Ravenswood.” “Is there a GPS tracker on Nessa’s Jeep?” “Yeah. Your dad’s got them on all the vehicles.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I want you to follow it. Aida’s running errands—I want you to see what she’s doing, where she goes.” “You got it,” Jack says. He doesn’t ask why, but I’m sure he can guess. “Keep me posted. Tell me everything she does. And don’t lose track of her.”
“Understood.” I hang up the phone. I don’t feel great about siccing Jack on Aida—especially knowing how she feels about him. But I have to know what she’s doing. I have to know, once and for all, if Aida’s heart belongs to someone else, or if it might be available. Maybe even for me. I still have to go to City Hall, so I take my father instead. He’s already talking about how we’ll parlay this into a mayoral campaign in a couple of years. Plus, all the ways we can use the Aldermanship to enrich ourselves in the meantime. I can barely pay attention to any of it. My hand keeps sneaking back into my pocket, clenching my phone so I can pick it up the moment Jack calls. After about forty minutes, he texts me to say: She’s somewhere around Jackson Park. I see the car, but I haven’t found her yet. Looking in the shops and cafes. I’m strung tighter than a wire. What’s in Jackson Park? Who is she meeting? I know she’s meeting someone, I can feel it. My father puts his hand on my shoulder, startling me. “You don’t look pleased,” he says. “What’s wrong, you don’t like the office?” “No.” I shake my head. “It’s great.” “What is it, then?” I hesitate. My relationship with my father is based off of work. All our conversations center around the family business. Problems we need to fix, deals we need to make, ways we can expand. We don’t talk about personal things. Emotions. Feelings. Still, I need advice. “I think I might have made a mistake with Aida,” I tell him. He peers at me through his glasses, thrown off balance. That’s not what he expected me to say. “What do you mean?” “I was cold and demanding. Cruel, even. Now it might be too late to start over . . .”
My father crosses his arms, leaning against the desk. He probably doesn’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it, either. But it’s eating me alive. “She didn’t seem to be holding a grudge last night,” he says. I sigh, looking out the window at the high rises opposite. Aida always rolls with the punches. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t hurt. And that doesn’t mean it will be easy to win her over. She’s a tough nut. What will it take to truly crack her open, to find that vulnerable core inside? “When did you fall in love with Mom?” I ask, remembering that my parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly traditional, either. “I’m not a sentimental person,” my father says. “I think we’re alike in that way, you and I. I don’t think much about love, or what it means. But I can tell you that I came to trust your mother. She showed me that I could rely on her, no matter what. And that’s what bonded us. That’s when I knew I wasn’t alone anymore. Because I could count on one person, at least.” Trust as the essence of love. It doesn’t sound romantic, not on the surface. But it makes sense, especially in our world. Any gangster knows that your friends can put a bullet in your back just as easily as your enemies— even easier, in fact. Trust is rarer than love. It’s putting your fate, your happiness, your life in someone’s hands. Hoping they keep it safe. My phone vibrates again. “Give me a minute,” I say to my father, stepping out into the hall to take the call. “I saw her for a second,” Jack says. “She was at a restaurant with some guy. He gave her something, a little box. She put it in her bag.” “Who was the guy?” I ask, mouth dry and hand clenched tight around the phone. “I don’t know,” Jack says apologetically. “I only saw the back of his head. He had dark hair.” “Was it Castle?” “I don’t know. They were sitting on the patio. I went into the restaurant —I was going to try to get a table so I could get closer and listen in. But while I was inside, they left. And I haven’t been able to find her again.” “Where’s her car?” I demand.
“Well, that’s the weird thing,” I can hear Jack breathing heavy, like he’s walking and talking at the same time. “The Jeep is still in the same parking lot. But Aida’s gone.” She must have left with the guy. f*ck! My heart is racing, and I feel sick. Is she with him right now? Where are they going? “Keep looking for her,” I bark into the phone. “I will,” Jack says. “There’s just one other thing . . .” “What?” “I found a shoe.” I’m about to explode and Jack isn’t making any sense. “What the f*ck are you talking about?” I say. “There was a sneaker in the parking lot, over by the Jeep. It’s a woman’s shoe, Converse slip-on, size eight, cream-colored. The left foot.” I wrack my brains, trying to remember what Aida was wearing when she stepped into the Jeep. A lavender-colored crop top. Jean shorts. Bare legs. And then, down on her feet . . . sneakers, as usual. The kind you can slip on without tying the laces. White or cream, I’m almost certain. “Stay there,” I say into the phone. “Stay by the Jeep. Keep the shoe.” I hang up the phone, hurrying back into the office. “I’ve got to go,” I say to my father. “Do you mind if I take the car?” “Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll take a cab back to the house.” I hurry down to the main level again, my mind racing. What the f*ck is going on here? Who was Aida meeting? And how did she lose a shoe? As I drive to meet Jack, I try calling Aida again and again. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t pick up. The fourth time I call, it goes straight to voicemail without even ringing. Which means her phone is switched off. I’m starting to get worried. Maybe I’m a fool and Aida is shacked up in some hotel room right now, ripping the clothes off some other man. But I don’t think so. I know what the evidence looks like, but I just don’t believe it. I don’t think she’s cheating on me.
I think she’s in trouble.
25
I AIDA ’m sitting across the table from my new best friend, Jeremy Parker. He passes me the little box I’ve been waiting and hoping for all week long, and I open the lid to peek inside. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it,” I breathe. “I know,” he laughs. “This was the hardest one I’ve ever done. Took me three whole days.” “You’re a miracle worker. Honestly.” He grins, almost as gleeful as I am. “You mind if I put the whole thing up on my YouTube channel?” he says. “I was wearing my GoPro the whole time, got some great footage.” “Of course!” I say. I close the box, still hardly believing what I’m holding in my hand, and I stow it back in my purse. I give Jeremy a slim envelope of cash in return —the amount we agreed upon, plus a bonus for saving my f*cking ass. “Well, call me if you ever need me again,” he says, giving me a little salute. “I hope I won’t need you,” I laugh. “No offense.” “None taken,” he chuckles. He raises his hand to signal for the waitress. “I already paid for the meals,” I tell him. “Oh, thanks! You didn’t have to.” “It was the least I could do.” “Alright, I’m off then.”
He gives me a wave and leaves through the restaurant. I cut straight through the patio, then cross the street, because that’s the quickest route to the lot where I left the Jeep. I feel like my feet are barely touching the sidewalk. This is so f*cking fantastic, it’s got to be some kind of sign. A bona fide miracle. It’s a gorgeous day, too. Sun beaming down, the tiniest breeze blowing in off the lake, the clouds so puffy and uniform that they look like a child’s painting. I’m so excited to see Cal. I felt bad not going to see his new office, but this couldn’t wait. I couldn’t chance something else going wrong. He won’t be mad about it when he sees what I’ve got. Nessa’s Jeep looks brilliantly white in the sunshine. I washed it and filled it up with gas on the way over, as a thank-you to Nessa for letting me borrow it so many times. I even vacuumed the seats and threw away all her empty water bottles. Still, the Jeep is outshone by the car parked next to it. A very familiar car. I stop mid-stride, frowning. I don’t see anyone around. Probably the best thing to do is get in the Jeep and drive away as quickly as possible. As soon as my fingers touch the door handle, I feel something hard and sharp poke between my ribs. “Hey baby girl,” a deep voice whispers in my ear. I stand perfectly still, running through my options in my mind. Fight. Run. Scream. Try to dial my phone. “Whatever you’re thinking about, just don’t,” he growls. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” “Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible. “You’ll be getting in my car.” “Alright.” “In the trunk.” f*ck. I’m cooperating because it seems like the best option right now—the one most likely to keep him calm. But I’ve got to do something. He presses the button on his key fob, popping open the trunk.
I try to glance around without him noticing. The lot is jumbled and halfempty. There’s nobody in the immediate vicinity to see me being stuffed into the back of the car. So I do the only thing I can think of. I slip off one of my sneakers, the left one. As I sit down in the open trunk, I flip my foot to kick the shoe off under the Jeep. Then I bring my knees up and hide the barefoot under me, so he won’t notice. “Lay down,” he says. “I don’t want to hit your head.” I do as he says. He slams the trunk shut, closing me up in the darkness.
26
I CALLUM ’m standing in front of Nessa’s Jeep, turning the sneaker over and over in my hand. It’s Aida’s, I’m sure of it. How did she lose her shoe? It’s been over an hour since Jack lost sight of her, but she hasn’t come back to the Jeep. I’ve called her phone twenty times. It keeps going straight to voicemail. Dante and Nero pull up in a vintage Mustang. They jump out of the car, not bothering to close their doors after them. “Where was she?” Dante says at once. “At that restaurant over there,” I point to the patio on the far side of the street. “She was meeting a friend. After they ate, she disappeared.” “What friend?” Dante asks. “I don’t know,” I say. He gives me a strange look. “Maybe she left with the mystery friend,” Nero says. “Maybe,” I agree. “But she lost a shoe.” I hold it up so they can look at it. They obviously recognize it, because Nero frowns, and Dante starts looking around like Aida might have dropped something else. “That’s weird,” Nero says. “Yeah, it is,” I agree. “That’s why I called you.” “You think the Butcher took her?” Dante says, his voice low and rumbling.
“Why the f*ck are we standing here, then!” Nero says. He looks like a current just ran through his body. He’s agitated, spoiling for action. “I don’t know if it was Zajac,” I say. “Who else could it be?” Dante frowns. “Well . . .” it sounds insane, but I’ve got to say it. “It could be Oliver Castle.” “Ollie?” Nero scoffs, eyebrows so high that they’re lost under his hair. “Not f*cking likely.” “Why not?” “For one, he’s a little bitch. For two, Aida’s done with him,” Nero says. Even under the circ*mstances, his words give me a glow of happiness. If Aida still had feelings for her ex, her brothers would know. “I didn’t say she went with him. I said he could have taken her,” I say. “What makes you think that?” Dante asks, scowling. “The shoe,” I hold it up. “I think she left it as a sign. Based off something she said to me once.” Oliver and I didn’t fit together. Like a shoe on the wrong foot. It sounds crazy, I realize that. I don’t have to look at her brother’s faces to know they’re not convinced. “Anything’s possible,” Dante says. “But we need to focus on the biggest danger first, which is Zajac.” “It’s Tuesday,” Nero says. “So?” “So that means the Butcher is visiting his girlfriend.” “Assuming he stuck to his normal schedule and isn’t taking a night off to murder our sister,” Dante says, grimly. “Aida’s friend gave us the address,” I say. “Assuming she was telling the truth. She did drug us right after . . .” “I’ll go to the apartment,” Dante says. “Nero, you can check Zajac’s pawn stores and chop shops. Cal—” “I’m going to look for Castle,” I say. I can tell Dante thinks that’s a waste of time. He glances over at Jack, his expression wary. He suspects that I sent Jack to follow Aida. He thinks I’m jealous and irrational. He might be right. But I can’t shake the feeling that Aida was trying to tell me something with this shoe.
“I’m going to Castle’s apartment,” I say firmly. But then I pause, really trying to think this through. Oliver lives in a high-rise in the middle of the city. Would he kidnap Aida and take her there? One scream and his neighbors would call the cops. “Jack, you go to his apartment,” I say, changing my mind. “I’m going to check a different place.” “Everybody, stay in contact,” Dante says. “Keep trying to call Aida, too. As soon as someone finds her, let the others know, and we’ll all go in together.” We all nod in agreement. But I know right now, if I find Aida, I’m not waiting a moment for anybody else. I’m going to go in and get my wife back. “Here, take my car,” I say to Dante, throwing him the keys. “I’ll take the Jeep.” Dante and Nero split off, and Jack heads back to his truck. I climb up into the Jeep, smelling the familiar, feminine scent of my little sister— vanilla, lilac, lemon. And then, fainter but perfectly clear, the cinnamon spice scent of Aida herself. I leave the city, heading south on Highway 90. I hope I’m not making a horrible mistake. The place I’m going is over an hour away. If I’m wrong, I’ll be too far away from wherever Aida actually is to help her. But I feel propelled in this direction, pulled by an invisible magnet. Aida is calling to me. She left me a sign. Oliver Castle took her, I know it. And I think I know exactly where he’s headed—the little beach house that Henry Castle just sold. The one that Oliver loved. The one that’s completely empty right now, without anyone around.
27
I AIDA wouldn’t have gotten in the f*cking trunk if I knew how far Oliver was going to drive. I feel like I’ve been in here forever. Also, I drank a lot of water with lunch, and I really have to pee. Also, I’m worried about what Oliver might have done with my purse. He wasn’t stupid enough to put it in here with me, unfortunately. I’m anxious that he just chucked it out of the window or something, which means that my precious little package is already missing again. For a long time, I can feel that we’re on the freeway – smooth, steady progress in the same direction. Eventually, we turn off and start driving slowly and erratically down roads that are obviously narrower and less well-maintained. A couple of times the car jolts hard enough that I do hit my head on the top of the trunk. I’ve been hunting around in the dark, looking for anything useful. If there was a tire iron back here, I’d use it to brain Oliver the second he opened the trunk. At last the car slows down. I think we’ve arrived at wherever the hell we were going. I haven’t found any weapons, but that’s not going to hold me back. I wait, crouched and ready, for Oliver to pop the trunk. The tires crunch over gravel and roll to a stop. I hear the car door opening, and I feel the suspension lift as Oliver removes his considerable bulk from the front seat. Then I hear him walking around to the back of the car. The trunk pops open.
Even though the sun is going down, the light is still brilliant compared to the darkness of the trunk. My eyes are dazzled. Still, I kick out with both feet, as hard as I can, right toward Oliver’s crotch. He jumps backward, my feet barely making contact with his thigh. Those goddamned athlete reflexes. “So predictable, Aida,” he sighs. “Always fighting.” He grabs my foot and yanks me halfway out of the trunk. He pauses when he notices the lack of a sneaker on one foot. “What happened to your shoe?” he says. “How should I know?” I say. “I was busy being kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk. You better not have lost my purse, too.” “I didn’t,” Oliver says. He lets go of my foot and I stand up, looking around. We’re parked in front of a little blue beach house. The water is only a hundred yards away, across smooth, cream-colored sand. The house is bracketed by thick stands of trees on both sides, but the view down to the water is clear from the back. I’ve never been here before. Still, I know exactly where we are. Oliver talked about it all the time. It’s his family’s cabin. He wanted to bring me here. We’d been to another cabin, right on the edge of Indiana Dunes State Park. That was the night Oliver was talking about at the fundraiser—when I wore the white bikini and we had sex out on the sand. Apparently, he thinks that was some magical night. To me, it was cold and uncomfortable, and I got a sh*t-ton of mosquito bites. Now we’re back here, this time at the Castle residence. Oliver came here as a child. He said it was the only time he got to see his parents for more than ten minutes in a row. Which is sad, but not sad enough to make me forget the kidnapping part. “What do you think?” Oliver says, his expression hopeful. “It’s, uh . . . exactly how you described,” I say. “I know!” Oliver says happily, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm. “Don’t forget my purse,” I tell him. He opens the driver’s side door again, so he can retrieve my purse from the front seat. The moment he leans over, I sprint away from him, running down toward the water.
It would have been easier to run to the road, but then he’d find me in two seconds. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to hide somewhere in the trees or the dunes. As soon as my feet hit the sand, I realize what a stupid plan this was. I don’t run at all, let alone through soft, mushy sand. It’s like a nightmare where you sprint as hard as you can, yet you barely move. Meanwhile Oliver used to run the forty in 4.55. He may have put on a few pounds since his glory days, but when he puts his head down and pumps his arms, he still charges through the sand like a linebacker. He tackles me so hard that it knocks every last molecule of oxygen out of my lungs. They’re so deflated that I can only make a horrible gagging sound before I can finally drag in a sweet breath of air. My head is pounding. I’m covered in sand, it’s in my hair and in my mouth. And worst of all, in my cast, which is gonna drive me f*cking bonkers. Oliver is already on his feet again, watching me with pitiless eyes. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself, Aida,” he says. “You’re so self-destructive.” I want to tell him that I didn’t f*cking tackle myself, but I’m barely breathing, let alone able to speak. While I’m gasping and gagging, Oliver rummages through my purse. He finds my phone. Kneeling down on the sand, he picks up a rock the size of his fist and smashes the screen. His face is red with effort, the muscles straining on his arm and shoulder. My phone practically explodes under the rock, while Oliver keeps hitting it again and again. Then he picks up the broken metal and glass, and he flings it into the water. “Was that really necessary?” I ask him once I’ve recovered my breath. “I don’t want anyone tracking you,” he says. “Nobody—” I break off, my mouth hanging open. I was about to say, “Nobody has a tracker on my phone,” but I realize that isn’t true. Oliver put a tracker on my phone. He must have done it when we were dating. That’s how he always knew where to find me. At restaurants, at parties. And later, at Callum’s fundraiser. That’s probably how he found me today. He’s been watching where I go. Most of the time it’s completely boring places like school. But it still
gives me a sick feeling, knowing that I was a little dot on a screen, always under his eye. Oliver leaves my purse laying in the sand. “Come on,” he says. “Back to the house.” I don’t want to get up, but I don’t really want him to carry me either. So I drag myself up and shuffle after him, with only one shoe and an itchy sand-filled cast that’s already driving me crazy. I try to shake it out. Oliver says, “What happened to you?” “Got my hand slammed in a trunk,” I say. A perverse giggle bursts out of me, as I realize that I’ve been shoved in a trunk twice this week. A new record, over the zero times it had happened in my entire life before this. Oliver watches me, unsmiling. “I knew this would happen,” he says. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to take care of you.” I scowl, stomping through the sand. I never wanted anybody to “take care” of me. Oliver was always trying to do it, and that’s one of the things that annoyed me about him. Once we played pickleball with another couple, and Oliver almost got in a fistfight because the guy slammed the ball right at me. Oliver wanted a chivalrous game. I wanted a challenge. He was always calling me “princess” and “angel.” And I always thought, “Who in the f*ck are you talking about? Because that sure ain’t me.” But I guess I misread Oliver, too. Because I never thought he’d do something as crazy as this. I follow him up to the back of the beach house. We climb the weatherworn steps. Oliver holds the door for me. I’m surprised to find the house almost entirely empty inside. We’re in the living/dining/kitchen area, but there’s no table or chairs or couches. Just a bare mattress on the floor, with a blanket on top. I can’t say I like the look of that any better. “Why’s it so empty in here?” I ask Oliver. He looks around resentfully, as if counting all the things that are missing. “My father sold the house,” he says angrily. “I asked him not to, but he said the value is as high as it’s going to get, and now’s the time to sell, before they build more properties in Chesterton. As if he needs the money!”
He gives a harsh, barking laugh. “This place didn’t mean anything to him,” he says darkly. “I was the only one who cared about coming here.” I’m very familiar with Oliver’s spoiled-yet-neglected only-child upbringing. He told me how jealous he was that I had brothers. He had no siblings, and no real friends either—just the schoolmates he was “supposed” to associate with. He told me how jealous he was that I had brothers. He never met my brothers, though. I couldn’t see them getting along. “Well,” I say, trying to mollify him. “I’m glad I got to see it, finally.” He turns to look at me, his eyes very dark in the dim light. His face looks mask-like. He’s gained probably thirty pounds since we dated, which has made his face wider and older-looking. More like his father’s. He’s still big and muscular—in fact, the extra weight makes it all the easier for him to overpower me, as evidenced by our short-lived struggle on the beach. I’m not sure how the f*ck I’m going to get away from him when he’s stronger and faster than me. “I wish you could have seen it how it used to be,” Oliver says. “With all the pictures and books. And couches. It’s alright, though. I brought this here, so we have somewhere to sit, at least.” He sits down on the mattress, which creaks beneath his weight. “Come on. Sit,” he says, patting the space beside him. “Uh, actually, I’ve got to pee really bad,” I say. It’s true. My bladder feels like it’s about to burst, especially after Oliver body-slammed me on the beach. For a moment he stares at me suspiciously, like he doesn’t believe me. I shift my weight from my barefoot to the one with the shoe, not exaggerating my discomfort. “The bathroom’s over here,” Oliver says at last, standing up again. He leads me down the hall to a pretty little bathroom with wainscoting all over the walls and a shell-shaped sink. I’m sure there were nauticalthemed towels and soap in here when the house was furnished. When I try to close the door, Oliver stops it with one meaty hand. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I need to pee,” I tell him again, like he forgot. “You can do it with the door open,” he says.
I glare at him, in a stand-off between his stubbornness and my throbbing bladder. I can only last a few seconds. I drop my shorts and sit down on the toilet, letting go. The pee comes thundering out, with more pain than relief. Oliver stands in the doorway, watching me. There’s a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. His eyes look hooded and pleased. I wish he would turn the f*ck around and give me some privacy. Or at the very least, I wish I wasn’t peeing so long. It seems to go on forever, and it’s f*cking humiliating. He’s right, though—if he’d left me alone in the bathroom, I would have climbed out the window in five seconds. When I’m finished at last, I pull up my shorts and wash my hands, wiping them dry again on my clothes, since there aren’t any towels. Oliver watches this too, with a scowling expression. I think he’s looking at the cast again. Then I realize he’s actually looking at my left hand, at my engagement ring. I’ve started wearing it more often, not just when I’m going to an event with Cal. I can tell Oliver hates the sight of it. In fact, as soon as we’re back in the living room, he barks, “Take that off.” “This?” I say, holding up my left hand. “Yes,” he hisses. Reluctantly, I slip it off my finger. I hated that ring when I first got it. I don’t mind it so much anymore. It’s kind of pretty, how it sparkles in the sunshine. And it doesn’t look as strange and false to me as it did at first. I’m about to slip it in my pocket for safekeeping, but Oliver says, “No. Give it to me.” I don’t want to hand it over to him. It feels like a betrayal. But if I refuse, it’s not like I can stop him wrenching it out of my hand. So I pass it to him, silently. There’s a tool bag sitting on the kitchen floor, next to a slightly paler patch of wall that probably had water damage, until someone fixed it. Oliver opens the bag, taking out a hammer. He sets my ring on the kitchen countertop. Then, like he did to my phone, he smashes it over and over again with the hammer.
The metal bends, the claws coming loose around the diamonds and the stones scattering. Still he keeps hitting it, until the band is twisted and ruined, and the main stone has rolled away. It hurts more than I expect, seeing that ring destroyed. But what really disturbs me is how the hammer is taking huge chunks out of the butcher block countertop. Oliver doesn’t give a damn how much damage he’s doing. Knowing how he feels about this house, that can’t be a good thing. As he swings the hammer, his fury is terrifying. His eyes are glittering, his face is flushed. He’s sweating, dark patches showing through on the chest, back, and underarms of his t-shirt. He hits the ring about a hundred times. Finally, he stops. He’s standing there panting, looking at me. Still holding the hammer. He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, my heart racing. I really think he’s losing it. When I knew Oliver before, he seemed like a nice enough guy. Sometimes a little shallow. Sometimes a little clingy. But mostly normal, with only little swings into oddness. Now, it’s the opposite—he seems to be dangling on the precipice of madness, only hanging on by a thread. But I’m not sure what that thread is —is it this house? Is it his affection for me? Or is it just the appearance of calm—fragile, and easily shattered? He takes one more step, then seems to remember that he’s holding the hammer. He sets it down on the counter, pulling his phone out of his pocket instead. “Let’s have a little music,” he says. He scrolls through his playlist, selecting a song and setting the phone down on the counter to play. The tinny sound of “Make You Feel My Love” fills the little room. When the rain is blowing in your face And the whole world is on your case I could offer you a warm embrace To make you feel my love
Oliver advances on me. There’s not really any way to refuse. He takes my cast in his left hand, putting his other hand around my waist. Then he sways us back and forth, a little off the beat. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand is sweaty, wrapped around mine. There’s a slight metallic tang to his sweat. I don’t know if it was always like that, or if this is new. In sharp contrast to our apparently romantic position, every muscle of my body is tense, every nerve is screaming that I’m in danger, that I need to get away from this man. There is nothing romantic about this at all. I’m struggling to understand how I ever dated Oliver. I guess I never paid that much attention to him. I was looking for fun; he was just along for the ride. Now that I’m really looking into his eyes, I don’t like what I see there: need. Resentment. And a little madness. “We never went dancing together,” Oliver says sulkily. “You always wanted to go with your friends.” “Oliver, I’m sorry that—” He interrupts me. “You used to call me ‘Ollie.’ I like that much better than Oliver.” I swallow uncomfortably. “Everybody called you that,” I say. “But it sounded so beautiful when you said it . . .” He’s pulling me closer against his body. I try to keep the space between us, but it’s like swimming against the tide. He’s so much stronger than me. He pulls me right up against his chest so I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “Say it,” he orders. “Call me Ollie.” “Okay . . . Ollie . . .” I say. “Perfect,” he sighs. He bends down his head to kiss me. His lips feel thick and rubbery against mine. They’re too wet, and that metallic note is in his saliva as well. I can’t do it. I can’t kiss him. I shove him away from me, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm atavistically. Oliver folds his arms over his broad chest, frowning.
“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” he says. “I know you’re miserable with the Griffins. I took you away from that. I brought you here instead, to the most beautiful place in the state. Look at that view!” He gestures out the window to the pale, moonlit sand, and the dark water beyond. “You won’t kiss me, but you kiss him, don’t you?” he says, eyes narrowed. “You’ve probably f*cked him, too. Haven’t you? HAVEN’T YOU?” I know it’s only going to make him angrier, but there’s no point lying about it. “We’re married,” I remind him. “But you don’t love him,” Oliver says, eyes gleaming. “Say you don’t love him.” I should just go along with it. The hammer is still laying on the counter, only a couple of feet away. Oliver could snatch it up again any moment. He could bring it down on my skull with the same fury he applied to the ring. I should say whatever he wants. Do whatever he wants. I never told Callum I loved him. It shouldn’t be hard to say that I don’t. I open my mouth. But nothing comes out. “No,” Oliver says, shaking his head slowly. “No, that’s not true. You don’t love him. You only married him because you had to. You don’t care about him, not really.” I press my lips together hard. I’m thinking about Callum pushing me back against the leather seats and putting his face between my thighs in the back of the town car. I’m thinking about how he wrapped his arms around me and jumped down in that pipe without hesitation when the Butcher’s men had their guns pointed at us. I’m thinking how he said we should work together every day. And how he took my hand at dinner last night. “Actually . . .” I say slowly. “I do. I do love him.” “NO, YOU DON’T!” Oliver roars. He backhands me across the face, knocking me to the floor. It’s like being swiped by a bear paw. There’s so much force behind it that my whole body goes limp, and I barely catch myself before I hit the floor. I can taste iron in my mouth. My ears are ringing. I spit a little blood out on the floor. “Just take me home,” I mutter. “You’re not going to get what you want.”
“You’re not going home,” he says flatly. “You’re all the same. You, my father, f*cking Callum Griffin . . . you think you can just give somebody something and let them have it and use it and believe it’s theirs forever. Then you rip it out of their hands again, just because you feel like it. Well, that’s not happening.” Oliver goes back to his tool bag and pulls out a coiled rope. I don’t think that’s a tool bag, not really. Because why the f*ck does he have rope in it? I think Oliver’s been planning much more than a home repair for quite a while now. I try to run, but I can barely stand. It’s easy for Oliver to truss me up like a chicken, and stuff a rag in my mouth. He crouches down in front of me, his face inches from mine. “Here’s what you have to understand, Aida,” he says, his voice low and crooning. “I can’t make you be mine. But I can stop you from belonging to anyone else.” I mutter something around the gag. “What?” Oliver says. I say it again, no louder than before. Oliver leans in even closer. I rear my head back and smash my forehead into his nose, as hard as I can. “Oww, f*ck!” Oliver howls, cupping his hand over his nose as blood pours through his fingers. “f*ck, Aida, you BITCH!” Oliver hits me again. This time when I topple over, I sink right through the floor into thick, quiet, darkness.
28
I CALLUM don’t have the exact address for the Castles’ cabin, but I know it’s outside of Chesterton, and I know its rough position to the lake. So, I’m thinking I’ll be able to spot it, based off the color and general location. Unfortunately, there are a f*ck ton of little blue beach houses along this stretch of the lake. Plus, it’s getting dark and there aren’t that many streetlights along this route. I can barely tell which houses are blue, and which are gray or green. I’m looking for Oliver’s Maserati, but I can’t count on that since he might have been driving something else. I can at least bypass the places that are lit up with noise and laughter and partygoers—wherever Aida is, the house will quiet and relatively secluded, I’m sure of it. I roll down the window to try to get a better look at some of the cabins that are set back from the road, half-hidden in trees. Some of the driveways are so faint I can barely see them. In fact, I almost pass one by, failing to see the faint tracks through the grass. Until I smell a hint of smoke. It’s so mild that I hardly know what scent I caught. Then I feel the automatic reaction—the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my heart starting to race. It’s a primal, terrifying smell. A warning of danger. I slam on the brakes, whipping the wheel to the left. I follow the long, winding path toward a double stand of trees. Between those trees sits a small blue beach house that I’ve seen once before in a battered photograph.
Sure enough, Oliver’s silver Maserati is parked alongside the house. The trunk stands open. I f*cking knew it. I stop my car, hoping Oliver hasn’t already heard the engine or seen me driving up the road. I slip out of the driver’s side and crouch down behind the car, trying to peer around at the house. I send a quick text to Aida’s brothers. I’m an hour outside Chicago. They won’t be getting here anytime soon. I can smell smoke for certain now. In fact, over the sound of the wind in the trees, I think I hear the crackling wood burning. All the lights are off, but an alarming orange glow emanates from the back of the house. f*ck it, I can’t wait. If Aida’s in there, I have to get her out now. I run toward the house, trying to stay low. I’ve got my Beretta with me and I draw it. I’m leery of actually using it in the dark, without knowing where Aida is. Even a stray bullet through a wall could accidentally hit her. I go around the back of the house, trying to peer in the windows. I can’t see sh*t. So, I try the back door, finding it unlocked. The moment I open it, a cloud of thick, black smoke comes rolling out, and I have to drop even lower, stifling my cough in the crook of my arm. The infusion of fresh air invigorates the fire. I hear it sucking up the oxygen, expanding in heat and size. The kitchen is ablaze, the cabinets, countertops, floor, and ceiling all burning. As I try to skirt the fire, I trip over something on the floor. It’s relatively soft. For a second, I hope that it’s Aida, but then I realize it’s just an old mattress. I want to call out for her, but I can’t risk alerting Oliver, wherever he might be. I try to search the main level as best I can in the smoke and darkness. I can’t go anywhere near the kitchen, or the hallway beyond. She’s got to be upstairs. She’s got to be, because otherwise this whole place is going to burn down before I find her, and I can’t think about that. So I pull my shirt partly over my face and run up the stairs, thinking only of Aida. I let my guard down. I’m not holding my gun up. As soon as I reach the head of the stairs, Oliver charges me from the side, with all the speed and technique of the athlete he once was. He barrels into me so hard that we slam into the opposite wall, smashing into the
drywall. My gun goes spinning off down the hallway, hitting the doorjamb and disappearing into one of the rooms. Oliver is hitting me with both fists, throwing wild haymakers and body shots. By bad luck, one of his blows lands directly on my amateur appendectomy, ripping open the stitches and making me roar with pain. He’s an inch shorter than me, but probably thirty pounds heavier. Plus, he’s been in plenty of frat-boy brawls. He’s not a trained fighter, though. After the initial shock and the wild onslaught, I get my hands up and block several of his punches, before hitting him in the stomach and jaw. The hits barely seem to faze him. His face is almost unrecognizable— his hair is a tangled mess, he’s got a manic gleam in his eyes, and dried blood has run from his nose down around his mouth and chin, like some macabre goatee. “Where is she, you f*cking psychopath?” I shout, fists up. Oliver swipes the back of his hand across his face as fresh blood seeps from his nose. “She belonged to me first, and she’ll belong to me last,” he growls. “She was never yours!” I shout. Oliver dives at me again, grabbing for my knees. He’s so reckless and inflamed that he knocks me backward down the stairs. We go tumbling end over end, the side of my head slamming against one of the bare wood steps. Oliver gets the worst of it, though. He’s on the bottom when we crash down on the landing. It knocks him out cold—or, so it appears. The smoke in the air is thicker than ever, and I’m breathing hard from the fight. I double over with a fit of coughing, hacking so hard that I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, like I just popped one out of place. Or Oliver broke it when he threw his giant body at me. I drag myself back up the steps, shouting, “AIDA! Aida, where are you?” The shouting scratches my smoke-filled throat. I cough harder than ever, tears streaming out of my eyes. Oliver seizes my ankle and yanks, pulling my feet out from under me. I fall straight down on the top stair, my jaw slamming against the wooden edge. I kick out hard with my foot, wrenching it out of Castle’s grasp and ramming the heel of my dress shoe directly into his eye. Oliver goes tumbling backward, back down to the landing.
I’m scrambling up the steps again. The upper part of the house is filling with smoke and I can feel the heat rising up from the kitchen. The fire must be all across the first floor now. I don’t even know if we’ll be able to get back down the stairs. Assuming Aida is even up here. She’s got to be up here. Because if she’s anywhere else in the house, she’s already dead. I run down the hallway, opening every door and looking in every room as I pass. Bathroom. Linen closet. Empty bedroom. Then at last, at the end of the hall, I find the master suite. It’s devoid of furniture like all the rooms, the house cleared out for sale. But there’s a figure laying in the middle of the floor, hands tied in front of her, feet bound with rope, head propped up on a pillow. Nice. I’m glad he made sure she was comfy before he tried to burn her alive. I run over to Aida, lifting her head and turning her face so I can make sure she’s alright. I press my fingers against the side of her throat. I can feel her pulse at least. As I tilt up her face, her lashes flutter against her cheek. “Aida!” I cry, stroking her cheek with my thumb. “I’m here!” Her eyes open, clouded and dazed, but definitely alive. “Cal?” she croaks. There’s no time to untie her. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. As I turn toward the doorway, I see a hulking shape blocking our way. Gently, I set Aida back down on the bare floorboards. I can feel the heat radiating upward, and I can hear the fire getting louder and louder. We must be right over the kitchen. The wallpaper is starting to blacken and curl. The fire’s in the walls, too. “It’s enough, Oliver,” I tell him, holding up my hands. “We have to get out of here before the whole house collapses.” Oliver gives his head a weird, twitching shake, like there’s a fly buzzing around his ear. He’s hunched over, limping a little on one leg. Still, his eyes are fixed on me, and his fists are balled at his sides. “None of us are leaving,” he says. He charges at me one last time. His shoulder hits my chest like an anvil. We’re grappling and clawing at each other. I’m swinging punches at his face, his ear, his kidneys, any part of him I can reach.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aida slamming her hands down against the windowsill. No, not her hands—her cast. She’s trying to break the cast off her right hand. Grunting with pain, she bashes the cast down one more time, breaking the plaster. Now she can pull her hand loose from the rope, and she begins to fumble with the ties around her ankles, her broken fingers clumsy and the knots too tight. I lose sight of her as Oliver and I roll over again, each of us grappling with all our might. We’re both big men—I can feel the floor groaning dangerously beneath us. It’s getting hotter by the minute, the air so black and dense that I can barely see Aida at all. She jumps to her feet and I shout, “Get the gun, Aida! It’s in one of the rooms . . .” She won’t be able to find it, though. I couldn’t see it before, and it’s ten times smokier now. Really, I just want her out of here. Because the fire is raging beneath us, and I have a feeling I’m about to plunge down to hell. I get my hands around Castle’s throat and I pin him down, squeezing as hard as I can. His eyes are popping. He’s clawing at my arms, reigning blows on my face and body, weaker and weaker each time. I tighten my grip, even as I feel the floor starting to shift and groan beneath us. The whole corner of the room gives way. The floor becomes a titled platform, a slide leading from the door down into the fiery pit that’s opened up beneath us. We’re sliding down, Oliver Castle and me on top of him, sliding and falling into the bonfire that once was a kitchen. I let go of Castle and try to scramble backward, but it’s too late. I’m sliding faster than I can climb. There’s no way to save myself. Until something seizes my sleeve. I see Aida, clinging to the doorframe with one hand, and my wrist with the other. Her teeth are bared with effort, her face a rictus of pain as she tries to hang on to the frame with her broken hand. I don’t grab her arm, because I can see how weak her grip is. I’m not dragging her down with me. “I love you, Aida,” I say. “Don’t you f*cking dare!” she yells back at me. “You grab my arm, or I’ll jump in after you!” With anyone else, it would be an idle threat. Aida is the only person I know who’s stubborn enough to actually do it.
So I grab her arm and I haul myself upward, right as the joists give way and the whole room collapses. Oliver howls as he tumbles down into the flames. Aida and I fling ourselves through the doorway, scrambling down the hallway hand in hand. There’s no going down the stairs again, that much is obvious. We run to the opposite end of the house instead, finding a child’s room with sailboat decals still stuck to the walls. Oliver’s old room. I wrench up the windowsill and climb out, letting out a fresh pillar of dark smoke. I hang from the window frame and then drop down. Then I put up my hands to catch Aida. She jumps down into my arms, still only wearing one shoe. As we sprint away from the house, I can hear the distant wail of sirens. I’m pulling Aida down the drive to the Jeep. Aida yanks her hand out of my grip, yelling, “Wait!” She runs in the opposite direction, past the inferno of the house, out on the sand toward the water. She pauses, stooping to pick something up—her purse. Then she runs back to me, her white teeth brilliant against her filthy face as she grins at me. “Got it!” she says triumphantly. “I can buy you a new purse,” I tell her. “I know,” she says. I’m about to start the engine, but there’s something I can’t wait another second to do, either. I grab Aida and I kiss her, tasting blood and smoke on her lips. I kiss her like I’ll never let her go. Because I won’t. Not ever.
29
C AIDA allum and I turn onto the main road right as the fire truck comes roaring up the lane, headed for the Castle’s beach house—or what’s left of it, anyway. I can see the firemen’s faces as our car passes their truck—they’re looking down at us, eyebrows raised, but unable to stop us fleeing the scene. “What a f*cking trip!” I shout, my heart still galloping like a racehorse. “Did you know Ollie was that crazy? I thought he was just normal crazy, like ‘I don’t want my food to touch,’ or ‘talking to yourself in the shower’ crazy, not like full-out Shining.” Callum is driving way too fast, hands locked on the steering wheel. Improbably, he’s grinning almost as much as I am. Could my uptight husband actually be starting to enjoy our adventures? “I can’t believe I found you,” he says. “Yeah, holy sh*t! Did you find my shoe?” “Yes, I found it! And I remembered.” He looks over at me, his blue eyes brilliant against his smoky skin. I don’t know how I ever thought his eyes were cold. They’re f*cking beautiful. The most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen. Even more striking is the fact that he understood me, that he remembered our conversation. It almost means more to me than the fact that he came to rescue me. “Actually, I’ve got the other one in here somewhere,” Cal says, twisting around to search the back seat.
“Eyes on the road!” I tell him. I find the sneaker a minute later, slipping it back on my foot. It’s comically cleaner than the other now, so they no longer look like a matching set. “There,” I say. “Fully dressed again.” Cal’s eyes alight on my bare left hand. “Not entirely,” he says. “Oh, f*ck,” I say angrily. “I forgot about that.” “Is it back at the house?” Cal asks. “Yes. But Oliver smashed it.” “I don’t think it would have survived either way,” Cal says. He squeezes my thigh with his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I wanted to get you another anyway. You know I didn’t pick that one out.” “I know,” I grin. “I’m getting to know Imogen’s taste pretty well.” Cal turns onto the highway, heading north toward the city again. “You better call your brothers,” he says. “They thought Zajac stole you.” “I might have been better off if he did,” I say, wrinkling up my nose. “Honestly, I think his villain speeches were better. He’s a proper badass, you know? Whereas Oliver was so whiny, putting on the guilt trips . . . like Jesus dude, get on Tinder, get over it.” Callum stares at me for a second, then he starts laughing so hard that his shoulders shake. “Aida, you’re out of your f*cking mind,” he says. I shrug. “Just a helpful critique.” I dial Dante’s phone, but it’s Nero who picks up. “Aida?” he says. “Yeah, it’s me.” “Thank f*cking hell. I thought I was gonna have to drive over there in a second.” “Why, where are you?” “At the hospital. Dante’s been shot. He’s alright though!” he hastens to add. “Zajac got him in the side—he didn’t hit anything crucial.” “That filthy sh*t!” I seethe. “He’ll pay for that.” “He already did,” Nero says blandly. “He’s dead. Dante’s got better aim than the Butcher.” “Dead? Are you sure?”
Cal looks over at me, following my side of the conversation, but equally disbelieving. “Totally sure,” Nero says firmly. “Unless he’s got a spare head laying around somewhere, he’s done for.” “Well, sh*t,” I say, leaning back against my seat. This really was an eventful night. I look over at Callum, whose face looks pale beneath the soot. He’s got a nasty cut over his right eyebrow, and he winces a little every time he takes a deep breath. Come to think of it, I’m not exactly in tiptop shape myself. My hand is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and my ring and pinky fingers have swollen up again. I’m probably going to need another cast. “What hospital are you at?” I ask Nero. “We might need to join you.” IT TAKES a couple of hours for Callum and me to get cleaned up and patched up at St. Joseph’s. Dante will be there a few days at least—they had to put three pints of blood back into him. Jack and Nero are keeping him company. I’m shocked to see their bruised and battered faces. “What the hell happened to you?” I ask them. “While Dante was having a shootout at the mistress’s apartment, Jack and I were NOT finding the Butcher and getting our asses kicked by his lieutenant instead.” “Not just the lieutenant,” Jack says. He’s got a black eye so bad he can’t even see on the left side. “There were at least four of them.” “Jack here is a serious brawler,” Nero says, in an impressed tone. “He gave em the old ground and pound, didn’t ya, Jackie boy?” “I guess he’s not so bad when he’s on our side,” I say. Jack gives me a half-grin—only half because the other side of his face is too swollen to move. “Was that a compliment?” he says. “Don’t let it go to your head,” I tell him. “You two aren’t looking so hot, either,” Nero informs me. “Well that’s where you’re wrong,” I snicker. “If we were any hotter we would have been charcoal briquettes.”
Fergus Griffin comes to pick us up, even though we have the Jeep parked outside. “Two hospital visits in one week,” he says, giving Cal and me a stern look through his horn-rimmed glasses. “I hope this isn’t becoming a hobby for you two.” “No,” Cal says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in the backseat of the Beamer. “I don’t think we’re going to do anything too crazy next week. Except maybe look for an apartment.” “Oh?” Fergus pauses, before putting the car in reverse. He glances back at us in the rearview mirror. “You want to get your own place together?” Callum looks down at me. “Yeah,” he says. “I think it’s time.” My heart feels heavy and warm in my chest. I love the idea of finding a place with Cal—not my house, or his, but one we chose together. “That’s good,” Fergus says, nodding. “I’m glad to hear it, son.” Funnily enough, when we pull up in front of the Griffin mansion, for the first time it actually feels like home. I get that wash of comfort. I know it’s a safe place to lay my head. And damn am I exhausted all of a sudden. I stumble a little, getting out of the car. I’ve gotten stiff and sore all over from sitting. Even though I know he’s just as exhausted, and probably more injured than I am, Cal scoops me up in his arms and carries me into the house, like a groom carrying the bride over the threshold. “Shouldn’t you save that for our new apartment?” I tease him. “I’m going to carry you everywhere like this,” Cal says. “For one, I like it. And for another, it will keep anybody else from snatching you.” “You got snatched too, one of those times,” I remind him. He carries me all the way up the stairs. “You’re going to break your ribs again!” I tell him. “Oh, they’re still broken right now,” he assures me. “They didn’t do much about it at the hospital. Didn’t even tape me up. Just gave me a couple Tylenol.” “Did that help?” “Not a f*cking bit,” he says, puffing and groaning as we finally reach the top of the stairs. Then he does set me down. I go up on tiptoe to kiss him softly on the lips. “Thank you,” I say.
“I’m not done taking care of you yet,” he says. “You still need to get cleaned up.” “Oh nooooo,” I moan, remembering that I’m utterly filthy. “Just let me go to bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” “Go brush your teeth,” he says. “Or you’ll hate yourself in the morning.” Grumbling, I head into the bathroom to brush and floss. By the time I’ve finished, Cal has the shower running and fresh, fluffy towels waiting for us. He soaps my whole body, lathering me up until the suds running down the drain switch from black to gray to while. His fingers knead into my stiff neck and shoulders. Together with the hot water, he works out all tense and knotted bits, until I feel like a wet spaghetti noodle instead of a folded-up pretzel. By the time we’re both completely clean, I’m not tired anymore. Actually, parts of me are very much awake. “My turn,” I say, rubbing Cal down with his towel. I run it down the curve of his broad back, down over his perfect ass, the bulges of his hamstrings and calves. He’s covered in bruises, scratches, welts, as well as the deeper cuts from the Butcher. Yet I’ve never seen a more flawless body. This man is perfect —perfect for me. I love the shape of him, his smell, the way his arms feel, wrapped around me. I turn him around and start drying the front side of him, starting down at the feet and working my way upward. As I pass the thighs, I come to that thick, swollen co*ck, warm and clean from the shower. I take it in my hand, feeling it expand inside my grip. The skin is phenomenally soft. I stroke my fingertips down its length. His co*ck strains toward my hand, almost as if it has a mind of its own. I squeeze the shaft right below the head, making Cal moan. He pulls me close. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he growls. “You can. In a minute,” I say. I take his co*ck in my mouth, gently sucking on the head. His co*ck fills to its fullest extent, so hard that the skin is stretched tight. I run my tongue up and down its length, in long, smooth strokes, and then in light teasing
flicks. Then I take as much as I can in my mouth again, and try to force the head backward, down into my throat. It’s damn hard dealing with a co*ck this size. I’m developing a new respect for p*rn stars. How on earth do they get the whole thing in there, all the way down to the base? I’d have to be a bloody sword-swallower. I get about halfway down the shaft before I gag and have to come back up. Callum doesn’t seem to mind. I think he’d let me practice on him all night long. I’ve already learned a few things—I know that he loves when I gently tug and stroke on his balls while I’m sliding my lips up and down his shaft. It makes him groan so deep that it’s almost a rumble in his chest. I really could do this all night. There’s nothing more intimate and trusting than having the most vulnerable part of yourself in the other person’s mouth. I’ve never wanted to make someone feel good more than I do right now, in this moment. Callum saved my life tonight. I would have burned to death, maybe without even waking up. The least I can do is give him the best release he’s ever known. Cal found me, just like he promised. It wasn’t my father, or my brothers. It was my husband. This man I didn’t even want. And now I can’t imagine being without him. I should worship his body all night long. Kiss every scrape and bruise. But as usual, Cal has plans of his own. He pulls me down on the bed so we’re laying side by side, head to toe. Then he puts his head between my thighs and starts eating my puss* like he’s starving and it’s the only thing keeping him alive. I go back to work on his co*ck at the same time. If anything it’s even harder to service him from this upside-down sort of angle, but it doesn’t matter. I’m pleasuring him, and he’s pleasuring me, I’m running my tongue over his smooth, soft skin, feeling the same warmth and wetness on myself. It’s intimate and connected. And most of all, it feels like we’re equals. That we’re both learning to give, and both learning to receive. I didn’t think Cal would find me. I didn’t think anyone would. It seemed impossible. But in the future, if I ever get myself in trouble again, I’ll know that my husband will come for me. God, he’s so good at this. I can already feel the pulses of pleasure zipping through me, growing stronger by the minute.
I don’t want to cum like this though. I want to feel him inside of me. So I flip around and climb on top of him, straddling his hips, lowering myself down on his co*ck. It slides inside of me easily, moistened from my own saliva, as I am by his. I look down into his stern, handsome face. The intensity of those blue eyes used to frighten me. Now I crave the feeling of them fixed on my face. The way it lights up my neurons, making me feel anxious and wild and daring. I feel like I’d do anything to keep his attention, to spark that look of hunger in his eyes. He puts his hands on my hips, gripping me with those long, strong fingers. I’m getting flushed and I want to ride him harder and faster. He forces me to slow down, to keep the same steady pace. My climax is building again, my puss* clenching around his co*ck. My body is demanding to increase the pressure, to push myself over the edge. Callum is thrusting his hips upward, f*cking me deep. I’ve got my palms flat on his chest, my arms rigid from the effort of riding him. Cal switches his hands from my hips to my breasts. He kneads them in his hands. Now I can speed up just a little, rolling my hips to slide my puss* up and down on his co*ck. His hands keep pace with my motion. He’s squeezing my breasts, sliding his fingers all the way down to my nipples with each squeeze. I start to cum, throwing my head back and grinding my cl*t hard against his body. Callum pinches my nipples, one long, drawn-out squeeze that sends a jolt of pleasure ricocheting back and forth from breast to groin. It intensifies the org*sm as it rebounds it over and over. It’s so strong that I can’t even stay on top of him anymore. My puss* is throbbing, pulsing with the aftermath of that climax. But I’m not done yet. I want to finish what I started before. I climb off of Callum and kneel between his legs. I put his co*ck back in my mouth, tasting myself on his skin. It’s a warm, musky, mildly sweet taste, that blends well with the scent of his skin, and the slight saltiness of the clear fluid leaking from the head of his co*ck. I want more. I start sucking him off, even more enthusiastically than before. My lips are swollen and sensitive from my climax. I feel every little ridge and vein of his co*ck against my tongue. I can feel his pulse, and how his co*ck tenses and throbs as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
Gripping the base of his co*ck, I suck hard on the head, tipping him over. “Oh, Jesus, Aida!” he cries out, as he explodes into my mouth. His cum is thick and slippery and warm. I love how it tastes, mixed with my own wetness. We’re meant to be together, him and I. Salty and sweet. When I’ve drained every last drop out of him, he wraps me up in his arms again, our legs entwined beneath the sheets. I think I can even feel our hearts beating in tandem.
30
T CALLUM he very next day, I take Aida house hunting all around the Gold Coast, and Old Town as well, in case she prefers to be in her old neighborhood. We look at townhouses, penthouses, walk-ups, fancy apartments in posh buildings, and trendy converted lofts. Anything and everything I think she might like. In the end we pick something in the middle: an old church that’s been converted into flats. Our apartment is on the top floor, so it includes an entire rose window inside of a pointed arch, making up almost the entirety of the living room wall. Aida loves it so much that we put down a deposit on the spot. After that, we fix the other thing missing in our marriage—I take Aida to pick out a proper ring. One she chooses herself, to fit her own tastes and preferences. I’m expecting her to go with a simple band, but she surprises me by choosing a small, emerald-cut center stone with filigreed baguettes. It has clean lines, and a hint of the old world about it. It suits her perfectly. When I slip it on her finger, I repeat the vows that I spoke so carelessly the first time around. Now I savor every word, speaking from the heart. “I, Callum, take you, Aida, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life. I promise you that, Aida. I will always be there for you. I’ll never let you down.” “I know that,” she says, looking up at me. “I know exactly what you’d do for me.”
To celebrate the beginning of our new life together, I take her for lunch at Blackbird. When we sit down, Aida sets her purse on the table between us, smiling gleefully. “I actually have something for you, too,” she says. “What is it?” I ask her, without having the tiniest guess in my mind. I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten a gift I was actually excited about. I’m used to putting on a fake smile for presents of cuff links or cologne. “I almost feet stupid giving it to you,” Aida says, passing me a small, flat box. “Since it’s already yours.” I lift the box, which is surprisingly heavy. When I open the lid, I see a gold pocket watch. It looks exactly like my grandfather’s watch, but I know it can’t be. She must have had a replica made somehow. “How did you do it?” I ask her, in amazement. “It looks exactly like it. Even a bit worn . . .” “More worn than it was, probably,” Aida says, guilty. “It’s been at the bottom of the lake for weeks.” “What?” I say in disbelief. “This isn’t the same watch.” “It absolutely is,” Aida says triumphantly. “How?” “Have you ever seen Cameron Bell?” “No. Who’s that?” “He makes these YouTube videos about finding sunken treasure. He’s a scuba diver. Anyway, I saw this video where he found a lady’s earring that she’d dropped in a river. And I thought, if he can do that . . .” “So you called him?” “That’s right,” Aida says triumphantly. “I mean, I paid him, obviously. And he gets to use it for his channel. Took him three whole days, and two different metal detectors, but he found it!” I turn the watch over in my hands, unable to believe it even while I’m holding it. I look up at Aida’s hopeful, guilty face. Only Aida would believe she could get the watch back. I never even considered if it might be possible. You might as well drain the whole damn lake before you could get her to give up. I love this woman. The day she set my house on fire was the luckiest day of my life. It truly is the luck of the Irish: perverse. Inexplicable. And
