“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
—Robert Frost
I’ve never actually heard a switchblade whipped open, but it turns out the sharp whisper of the movement pierces through a silent room with the magnitude of a gun being cocked. My breathing hitches as I glance toward the sound. Toward Adam.
He’s distanced himself from me, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily flicking the weapon open and closed. His movements are so fluid, so casual, it’s like the knife is more than a tool. It’s part of him, an extension of his limbs. My spine tingles as I watch him. His expression is thoughtful, broad shoulders relaxed.
The silver blade draws my focus. It’s longer than I expected. Sharpened to perfection. Deadly.
My stomach knots as my eyes—still drooping as though my lashes are made of bricks—flick to him. I swallow through my dry throat. “What’s that for?”
One eyebrow quirks, then his gaze falls to the knife as though noticing it for the first time. Ignoring me, he drops his arm and nods toward Griff, whose hands unfreeze before he proceeds to grope me. He cups one breast with his left hand and chokes me with his right. I sputter, my mouth gaping as I struggle to swallow air.
Jesus. There’s nothing sensual about Griff’s movements. He’s a freaking machine, inhuman and mechanical.
The hand on my breast slips downward until he’s cupping me between my thighs instead. He lifts me off the ground and grinds his erection against my ass.
My face reddens as I grasp onto the slivers of air I manage to gulp down between squeezes. I stare at Adam in bewilderment, though I only have myself to blame. I don’t know what I expected from him.
Adam examines every inch of me. He folds his arms over his chest, rubs the side of his jaw with his thumb, tilts his head. “Who are you, Emmy Highland?”
Griff’s hold on my neck loosens just enough for me to answer. Once the thumping in my chest evens out, I bring my wide eyes to Adam. “Wh-what do you mean? You know who I am.” I blink to clear my doubling vision. “You just said it—Emmy Highland.”
Griff’s fingers wander from between my thighs to my ass. He pulls my panties to the side once more, his breathing turning into loud, heavy pants against my shoulder.
I close my eyes for only a second, swallowing thickly.
Adam shakes his head. “Who are you?”
When Griff jabs the tip of one dry finger between my cheeks, I bite my tongue hard enough to taste metal. Pain slices through me as he shoves in a little farther, and my eyes water.
A deep craving to hurt the son of a bitch climbs up my throat. Even in this drugged state I want to whirl around and dig my sharp fingernails into his balls.
Instead, I remind myself why I’m here and grit out my answer. “Twenty years old. Just a girl.” I pause, concentrating on stringing my words together so I’ll stop slurring. “A waitress. A nobody—”
“You’re wasting your breath.” Adam’s dark eyes sharpen on me as he works his jaw. “There’s nothing more dishonest than words.”
With a heavy grunt, Griff licks the back of my ear as he wiggles his finger in deeper. My legs snap shut, and a sweat breaks out on my forehead. The only thing getting me through the burning pain is envisioning all the ways I want to hurt him, scratch him, claw him, until red clouds my vision. And Adam’s pointless, insistent question as he watches it all happen only makes my anger blaze hotter.
“Wh-what do you want from m-me?” I barely manage, keeping my eyes locked on his.
He takes a step forward. Then another. His hair skims my forehead when he leans in and gently says, “What do I want?” His fingers slowly brush the curve of my neck. “I want you to show me. Show me who you are, little mouse.”
Without warning, Griff plunges his finger farther into me, then pulls out in one movement. Suppressing a shudder, I don’t look back when the asshole grips either side of my shoulders, his blunt nails pressing into my collarbones.
His possessive hold sinks into my pores, and something small inside me withers away.
In this moment, he owns me.
They all do.
The crack of my last thread of control snapping in half is a thousand times worse than any physical damage Griff can do to me in this room. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, swirling so fast I’m spinning with them, and I may as well be hanging off the roof of one of New York’s finest skyscrapers by my pinky.
My sister’s wide, brown eyes float into my mind. Her contagious smile. Loud laughter that turns heads. Floral shampoo reminiscent of wild gardens in the spring. A dull ache burrows its way into my racing chest.
As I watch Adam, I know what I have to do. There’s one way to show him and his brothers I want this. It’s either him or Griff, and there’s no way I’m about to do this with the latter.
Shrugging out of Griff’s hold, I keep my eyes on Adam’s and drop to my knees. I sway for a second, placing one hand on the floor before finding my balance. Once I’m steady, I straighten and deliberately lick my lips, hoping my seductive side will appeal to him. His brows furrow, but he says nothing. I raise my heavy arms to his belt, undoing it with quivering hands. I’ve done this enough times before, but never in a room full of observing men.
Never to a man like this one.
I fumble with unclasping his belt, then lower his zipper. I hear a low whistle from the middle of the room, where Raife sits. My breathing quickens, nerves tightening my stomach until I feel sick. Just as I start to slip my fingers into Adam’s pants, his strong hand curls around my wrist, stopping me.
I glance up at him, my lips parted in a silent question.
This is what he wants, isn’t it?
When I try again, his grip tightens painfully. He grinds his teeth, gives a slight, barely noticeable shake of his head that feels a lot like a warning. “Who. Are. You.”
It’s then that I notice the tip of a black handle protruding from his pants pocket, mere inches from my fingers. My gaze darts back to his, the pounding in my chest quickening. His grip stays firm, but his eyes dance with a challenge.
He knows exactly what I saw. What’s within my reach.
My throat constricts when Griff kneels behind me, sidling his stomach against my back. “You wanna watch Adam while I’m inside you? Is that it?” He presses his chin into my scalp and slides his sweaty hands to my outer thighs, rubbing up and down. “Mmm. You’re gonna beg for it when I fuck you, aren’t you?” His voice is low, thick, and crazed, like a man possessed, and I’m relieved I can’t see the look in his eyes right now. “Down on your knees just like this, your mouth wide open for me.”
Blood boils beneath my skin. Images of what I’d really like to do to his dick resurface and make my lip curl. If he ever laid a hand on Frankie . . . A ringing stirs in my ears, and I wonder if it’s from the drugs or the rage building inside me.
Adam cocks a brow, dark amusement flitting through his eyes as he takes in my expression. My gaze drifts back to his pocket, my fingers burning with an itch I can’t explain. Would Adam really let me grab the weapon? Or is this part of the test? I angle my wrist toward the knife to test him, and his hold loosens, barely.
A rush of air escapes my lips.
Griff slides his slippery tongue from my shoulder to my ear. “I wonder how fast I can get you to scream.” His words are muddled between heavy breaths. “Minutes? Seconds?”
He frees one leg from his grasp. The sharp buzz of a zipper hits my ears. His thumb slips beneath my panties, yanks until the material digs into my skin, and rips them off me. I suck in a sharp breath, unable to tear my eyes from the black handle that teases me.
I’ve never held a knife as a weapon before. With the intention to do harm. To see actual blood spill. But when Griff’s hands grab my hips, knocking me backward and positioning me over his lap like the doll I’m meant to be, the urge seeps steadily into my veins.
I can’t go through with it, can’t risk losing the only lead to my sister. But I can certainly imagine it, as vividly as the ink splattered across my paintings.
My veins turn to ice when I feel it—Griff’s erection stroking my sore ass, then dipping between my cheeks. He adjusts me so my legs are spread over his wide lap, my weight resting on my wobbling knees instead of on him, and shoves my back so I lurch forward. I barely catch myself by my hands around Adam’s ankles before my face hits the ground.
Black dots cloud my focus, blurring together then scattering apart, and my noodle-like elbows almost buckle.
Raife’s snicker echoes in the otherwise silent room. When I glance around, Felix has already left. Too boring an evening for him, I suppose.
I struggle to lift my head, finding Adam in time to see him casually tuck his hands into his pockets, then he’s inching the knife higher little by little. I drag my narrowed eyes to his face, and the handsome bastard’s lips twitch. He truly believes I’ll go for the knife before going through with this.
As Griff realigns my hips, I give Adam one final, half-assed glare then inhale deeply and brace myself.
Griff leans over me, his giant shoulders warming my back, his teeth finding my ear as he sniffs me. “You know,” he groans through a broken grunt, sliding in just enough to make my eyes squeeze shut at the threat of tearing. “I fucking hate the way you smell. What is it with our recent hires smelling like this?” He pauses to wrap a hand around my throat, and I open my eyes.
Waiting for the rest of the pain to hit me.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
I lift my chin, ensuring Adam sees all of me. My unflinching expression. Just how breakable I really am.
Adam’s jaw ticks, any amusement wiped clean from his face. His nostrils flare as he looks from Griff to me and back again, as though only now realizing I’m not going to stop his brother. That I really am about to be, literally and figuratively, fucked.
“Hate your black hair, your starry eyes, and now that fucking smell,” Griff repeats, choking me just enough to make my lungs tighten at the threat of losing air. “Like some kinda hippy, flowery shit—”
The heavy thumping in my ears drowns out his voice, waves of manic energy vibrating from my fingertips to my toes.
Flowery.
He mutters something else as he digs into my throat until any trace of feeling drains from my face, but that particular scent being uttered by his spine-tingling voice is all I can hear on repeat.
Frankie’s scent.
I hardly notice the rush of fresh air pouring into my lungs, the sweaty grip suddenly gone from my neck, before I’m rising up and my hand is curling around the warm handle in Adam’s pocket. Shit, my muscles are mush under my weight, and my vision blurs through the rage and drugs. But I flip the knife so its sharp point is aimed behind me and slice blindly where Griff’s body heat touches my back.
A garbled noise sounds from over my shoulder. I take a few deep breaths but give up when they fail to calm my frantic heart rate.
Finally, I look back.
Adam towers over me, his blue eyes dark and cold in a way I’ve never seen. He’s got Griff locked in a chokehold, less than a foot from me. I was right—even red-faced and drained of air, Griff’s eyes are wild, rabid. And fixated on me. My hairs stand up, bumps rising on my arms and legs.
Though his face gives nothing away, the muscles in Adam’s forearms strain as he intensifies his grip, until suddenly, Griff snaps out of it. His eyes glaze over, then die down to the black holes I’m familiar with. Adam relaxes his hold some, and Griff fights for what little air he can get. Despite the veins bulging in his neck as he loses more oxygen than he gains, his expression shifts to irritation, even impatience. Not a shred of fear. Almost like he’s used to these types of warnings.
His eyes turn to slits as he flicks them to me, his hands wrapping around Adam’s wrist, and a splash of red pulls my eyes down to just above his elbow. It’s not much of a tear, but a light layer of blood drips from the jagged cut, and it stirs a surprising flutter of satisfaction within me.
Eventually, Adam releases his brother and steps back so I’m sandwiched between them again. As Griff grapples for air, the ice in Adam’s expression thaws. He leisurely smooths out his shirt, readjusts his rolled-up sleeves.
Tension rolls off Griff in waves as he straightens and stares me down. His breaths are steadying, but an angry red tinges his coloring. His shoulders stiffen, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to lunge for me, but Adam stops him with a single look.
“You’ll calm the fuck down before you move.” Adam’s voice is low, controlled.
Griff withdraws a dark red handkerchief from his breast pocket and presses it to the wound. He aims his laser stare above my head, at Adam. His face morphs into a scowl, but he tucks himself back into his pants and zips up. He glances at me, rakes his tongue over his top teeth. “You like blood, do you?” He steps closer until his shoe hits my knee. “I’ll remember that when this one lets you off his leash.” He nods toward Adam, then shakes his head and backs away. He whirls around when he reaches the door and exits without another word.
My ears are still pounding when Adam slides his gaze down to me. He lowers until he’s kneeling, then shifts his eyes between mine. In heavy silence, I wait—for what, I don’t know. For his approval? For him to throw me out?
His mouth curves, just barely. “Not bad, for a mouse.”
My brows knit at the second use of that reference, but my heart rate only picks up as he continues to stare at me. Analyze me.
His gaze drifts down, landing on my thigh. His Adam’s apple bobs and a muscle in his jaw tightens once, twice. My lips part, but then I look down to see for myself. It takes a second for my vision to focus. A smooth line of crimson decorates the outside of my upper leg. It’s a bold shade of red, like something I’d paint with. Thick on the white canvas of my skin, curving down at the corners in a dramatic frown. I hadn’t even realized I cut myself.
I flinch at the sting when Adam slowly drags a finger across the open cut, but he doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. His eyes are locked on the wound, and mine on the mesmerized look set across his face. He closes his eyes, his hand curling around my leg and warming my skin. His expression is pained, his grip clenching, as though forcing himself to stop.
He doesn’t look at me when he abruptly stands. A shaky breath escapes me, my skin cooling in the absence of his touch. Like Griff, he turns for the exit. “Clean yourself up,” he mutters, irritation clipping his voice.
Then he’s gone.
A slow, dramatic clap fills the room, making me start. I groggily shift my head to find Raife rising from the chair. At some point, I’d forgotten all about him. He walks toward me, still clapping with each step until he stops in front of me.
“Well I certainly didn’t see that coming, though I think I should praise you.” He beams as he looks me up and down. “Worth every penny.” He extends a hand. After a moment, I take it, allowing him to carefully pull me to my feet.
My legs wobble, a rush of awareness still pulsing beneath my skin, and this time, I don’t have an excuse. As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I wouldn’t be fooling anyone if I tried. I think we all know that, in the end, the drug’s influence over me had little to do with losing my sanity.