“You.”
“Who’s your master?”
“You.”
His voice softens. “And who thinks you’re the most precious angel in the world?”
I swallow, suddenly fighting tears. His voice is so warm and full of feeling, and all at once, I’m overwhelmed. With a hitch in my voice, I whisper, “Y-you.”
His lips brush my ear. “Aye, baby. And all I am is yours now, so take care of this monster you’ve enslaved.”
He pulls me up and into his arms, throwing my bound wrists over his head and crushing me against his body.
We cling to each other silently, both of us breathing hard. I don’t know why I feel such an ache inside my chest, but it’s made a little easier because I know he feels it, too.
He kisses me.
It’s deep and lingering, hot and slow. I sag against him, delirious with afterglow and emotion, and let him take everything he so desperately needs from my lips.
I’m aware on some semiconscious level that we both know despite me calling him master, he isn’t in charge here, and never has been.
Instead of making me feel smug, like it would with any other man, it gives me a profound sense of humility and gratitude.
I make a silent vow that I’ll never hurt him, even if it comes down to a choice between that and hurting myself.
When he breaks the kiss, I say, “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“You seem upset.”
“Tough day at the office.”
His voice has a trace of sarcasm. Instinctively, I know he’s talking about that blood on his collar and whatever happened to get it there.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
He gazes down at me, stroking his hand over my hair. His expression is faintly amused. “Do you really want to hear?”
“If it will make you feel better, yes.”
He slowly shakes his head, then kisses me gently. “Just hearing you say that makes me feel better. Now let’s get you dressed. We’re out of here in thirty minutes.”
He bends to pull my panties and yoga pants back up my legs. I let him, resting my hands on his shoulders. When he’s got everything back in place, he tenderly kisses each of my breasts, then takes my face in his hands and kisses my mouth.
Gazing deep into my eyes, he says, “If you answer the door half naked again, I won’t be pleased.”
“Oh. You talked to Kieran?”
“Aye. And I could hear his hard-on through the phone. You’re not a child, so I’ll never tell you how to dress, but I am a jealous man. I don’t share. And I’m not Stavros. If it were me that night at La Cantina and another man slapped your arse as we walked by, he’d be dead before he drew another breath. Not because of my ego, but because anyone who disrespects you will pay a price. And if they disrespect you in front of me, the price will be especially severe.”
He’s intense and deadly serious.
It’s a testament to how fucked up our situation is that I think his words are deeply romantic.
“I hear you,” I say softly, smiling. “And I promise to put on a robe before I answer the door again if I’m in workout clothes. But you also should consider that I have a tendency to cause trouble wherever I go, and maybe dial back the Tarzan overprotective tendencies. It’ll be better for your blood pressure.”
He quirks his lips. “Aye, you are a bloody troublemaker, that’s for sure.”
I tease, “But you knew that going in.”
“It was the Tinker Bell tutu that gave it away.”
His grin is sudden and blindingly beautiful. The man is so handsome, it hurts.
“Can I ask why we’re moving?’
“Every gangster and his brother knows where I live now. It’s not safe here anymore. If it were only me, I’d take my time relocating, but I’ve recently acquired some precious cargo I won’t take any chances with.”
“Aw. How sweet. Call me cargo again and see how long it takes before your nose gets broken. You can ask Kieran, he’ll tell you.”
Amused by my tart tone, he exhales a short breath though his nose. Then he slaps my ass, grinning.
“Get a coat and shoes on.”
I bat my lashes at him and hold up my hands. “I’ll put a shirt on, too, if you’d just untie me. Sir.”
He murmurs, “Bloody little smartass,” and undoes the knot in the tie.
Then he gives me a quick, hard kiss and turns away. His tie dangling from his fingers, he walks into the living room, picks up a remote control from the big glass coffee table, clicks the television on, and switches to a news station.
As I turn to leave the kitchen, headed to the bedroom to get dressed, a male reporter speaks in somber tones about the gruesome discovery of another headless body at the city dump, this one believed to be the man known to authorities as the leader of the local clique of the transnational gang MS-13.
I freeze. Goose bumps form all over my arms.
MS-13 was the gang who chased us from the airport. The gang Declan said would’ve killed us if they’d caught us.
Were they also the gang responsible for murdering his boss, Diego, and leaving his beheaded body at the landfill?
I think of the tattoo Declan has inked over his heart, and the goose bumps on my arms spread over my entire body. “Vengeance is Mine,” it reads.
Maybe that’s not only part of a passage from Biblical scripture.
Maybe it’s more like a mission statement.
When I turn back to look at him, he’s standing motionless in the middle of the living room, watching the news report with a grim, satisfied smile.
29
Sloane
We leave the high-rise in the middle of a caravan of a dozen black SUVs.
At the exit of the parking garage, half of them turn left. The other half turn right. At the next block, the same thing happens, until we’re accompanied by only two other cars as we speed out of town.
It’s an evasive technique. I get it. I also get the tension in the car. Both Declan, beside me, and Kieran, driving, are wound tight as springs. I know they’re on the lookout for anyone who might try to jump us in a surprise attack or follow us to our new destination.
What I don’t get is how wound up I am, too.
Not for me. For Declan. For what might happen to him. He could be arrested. He could be shot. He could be taken prisoner and tortured by a rival gang. And I’d be helpless to do anything about any of it.
I hate being helpless.
I hate being nervous, too.
In fact, I’m finding quite a few things to hate in this new landscape called “caring,” most of which has to do with the changes in myself.
How can you be a badass when you’re constantly worried about someone else?
Declan notices my anxiety and squeezes my hand.
“We’ll be there soon.”
“How far is it?”
“We’ll take a helicopter from the airport. From there, it’s a one-hour flight.”
“To?”
“Martha’s Vineyard.”
He watches my face closely as I digest that information, his fingers tight around mine.
“How long have you had a home on Martha’s Vineyard?”