“What…” I shake my head, not knowing what to say, but he doesn’t let me go. Atlas keeps me standing where I am, in my heels, in a pool of blood, with his hands holding me in place.
If he let go, I would fall to the floor.
“He was looking for you. Wanted you. Started asking around about you,” he whispers, moving a stray piece of hair from my ear and tucking it behind so he can lick my earlobe. “When something is mine, no one can have it, want it, or even think about hurting it.”
The way he says it makes me want to run.
Am I that to him—an it.
“I am not yours,” I tell him.
Atlas bites my earlobe, dragging his teeth over it until it pops out, and he smells me again. “For now, you are. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
“People will ask about him, he will be missed,” I say while shaking my head.
“They will, but no one will link it back to me.” He steps away, setting me free, and I take a long, slow breath. My white heels are now red. Every step I take makes the blood move, and I have droplets of the man’s blood on my toes. “But you…” he says, making me freeze. “He was asking about you. Who is this woman that embarrassed him in a public forum? Who is she?” he says, smirking. And it’s evil that smirk.
And I am instantly sober.
“Why would you do that?” I ask, looking back to the politician lying on the cement floor, his eyes wide open in death. I look over my shoulder and see the red door—it’s the same place he had me brought to the night I was kidnapped. “You had planned to kill me,” I say with realization.
“I did,” he replies without hesitation.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I found a use for you after all.”
“Is what Lucy did really that bad?” I ask. “It’s only money which you seem to have a lot of.”
“Yes, yes, I do. And yes, what she did was. So, in comes you to the rescue.” He brushes a stray hair from my face tenderly as his voice is whispered with nothing but sweet venom.
Why does he hate me so much?
What have I ever done to him that would have affected him like this?
Not a damn thing!
“Will I end up the same way as him?” I flick my hand to the man on the floor.
Did he do it with his own two hands?
Or did he have someone else to do it?
What kind of man is Atlas? Really?
And why haven’t I tried to find out more about him? That’s another question shooting through my foggy brain right at this moment.
Two men walk out, both are dressed in hazmat suits. They step over to the body, pick it up, then carry it out while I stand frozen, unable to move as I look down at the blood that still coats the floor.
“Who are you?” I ask with a shaky breath, my eyes fixated on the blood, but my question directed to Atlas. I hear his boots click on the floor as he walks over to me, lifting my chin with one finger as he smiles at me. His other hand touches my cheek, stroking it, making goosebumps break free all over me.
“Now you’re asking the right questions.” His voice is intoxicating and scary all in one hit. I hiccup, and when I do, I spew all over his shirt. He drops my chin and steps back. Touching the edges of his shirt, he pulls it over his head and lets it drop to the floor. I wipe my mouth as I look up at him and shake my head.
“Put it back on,” I say while wiping my mouth, he hands me a bottle of water and I rinse my mouth. It’s unfair to have to look at someone as gorgeous as him and dislike him so much all at the same time.
His chest looks like a puzzle piece with a flower on his collarbone and women up and down his arms. There’s a gun on his left, with a devil on his right arm.
Who the fuck is this man?
His whole chest and arms are covered, and not one of the tattoos is cheery. They are all dark, and each one represents something I more than likely do not want to know about.
“No,” he says, referring to what I just said.
His chest is hard, I can tell just by looking at it, and his arms are all muscle. If he lifted me and pressed me against him, I bet I would feel all his hard edges.
No, can’t have those thoughts.
I blame the alcohol.
“How do I leave? Get me out of this place. Why did you even bring me here?” I scream the last part at him. My hands lift in fists as I step closer to him, not even caring about the blood beneath my shoes anymore. “Why did you bring me here?”
His lips, soft and hard, come down on me. In one swift and fast movement, he claims me as his without my permission. His arm circles my waist, pulling my body flush with his while the other cradles my head, keeping my lips to his.
I go to push away my hands banging on his chest, but he bites my lip until I open my mouth, then he tastes me. I freeze, liking the way he has me, and the way he feels against my lips, so I close my eyes.
Just for a second.
A second is all it takes for me to think this man isn’t bad and he wants me for normal reasons, not reasons that involve blackmail or using me.
But I’m wrong, so I bite his lip until I taste blood, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He simply cackles between my lips and presses his harder to mine, all the while pulling my body even closer.
Feeling him against me doesn’t help my resolve in wanting him to go away. No, it does anything but, and soon I’m pushing myself against him as my body starts to crave him and has a mind of its own, moving to get as much friction as possible.
My breathing becomes harder, and my chest rises and falls at the same time my hips do, my head spins, and I’m lost, until someone coughs, and it breaks the haze he has me under. Pulling away, he lets me until I back up and end up slipping, my hands landing in blood and a dress I once loved is now covered in it.
Looking up at him, I more than likely look like that girl in the movie Carrie, but I don’t care, as long as I am not losing my own sense of worth and rubbing myself all over him like a two-bit hooker.
“Clean yourself up,” he says as someone passes him a shirt, which he easily throws on.
I look down at my stained shoes and dress and know every item will have to be burned. So when I stand, I start to remove them. Stepping out of the blood, I begin with my shoes first, one at a time undoing the straps he did up so delicately, and dropping them until they are both off, followed by my dress. Now, I am standing in front of him in nothing but panties and a lame excuse for a bra.
His eyes devour me, lust apparent in their depths. It’s the first real emotion I have seen from him apart from his evil laughter. When he catches me staring at him, he shuts his facial expressions down and walks over to one of his guys and clicks his fingers. The guy removes his shirt and hands it over, which Atlas then hands to me.
“Put this on and leave your shit including your panties, they have blood on them. It will all be burned.”
I have no reason to trust him.
For all I know he could use my clothes as evidence, and say it was me who put a bullet in the politician’s brain. After all, I am covered in the man’s blood. But I’m too tired to argue, and I do as he says and get in his car, leaving my favorite dress and shoes behind at a crime scene.
The car ride is uncomfortable, there’s no other word to describe it. Stopping out the front of my house, I go to get out when his hand touches my thigh, halting me. Turning back to look at him, his eyes are cast down on my thigh before they slowly creep back up to mine.