The elevator doors close, and the silence is oppressive. I hate this. She looks so small in her oversized sweater, his sweater. My mind flashes with that kiss. I grind my teeth. I tighten my fists. And my chest heaves with the need to draw in a calming breath. I have no idea what he is to her, but he was definitely staking his claim, as clear as cocking his fucking leg. Her face is fixed forward, and her slight frame is rigid. Her long glossy hair is pulled away from her face, and her skin looks so damn soft, I have to wonder what her reaction would be if I just stroked her cheek with the back of my knuckle. My white-knuckle grip loosens with the thought, and my fingers twitch to sate the desperate craving of just one touch. I suppress a hollow laugh as my mind races forward to how that would play out. She’d probably break my fucking fingers off.
Honestly, I don’t blame her. I fucked up on a biblical scale. I know this, and I will make sure in the next months I do everything in my power to make amends. I’ve never been afraid of a challenge, and this is a mother of a fucking mess, but I will do whatever it takes. I may not have orchestrated her incarceration, but still I’m ashamed to admit I unwittingly played an integral part.
I will unpick all the pieces, break her down, and get to the truth. I have to, if I am ever to have a hope of rebuilding us. That is something I knew I wanted more than any amount of money the moment I saw her in that interrogation cell, but I need the whole truth.
She was mine once, and I haven’t had a happy moment since the day I let her go. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t have a choice. I doubt it will make a difference, but if I get the chance, I’d like to tell my side of the sorry tale.
I didn’t realise how much that mistake haunted me until I saw her name on the report from my head of security last month. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in five years, and seeing her name, it hit me why. Regret runs so deep in my veins, it chokes any chance of peace.
This is my second chance.
Still, complicated doesn’t begin to describe this situation. I don’t know what her game is, but I don’t think for a moment her working at my company headquarters is just a job to her. I believe it was very much a means to an end, and whether I have doubts about her actual involvement in the disappearing money or not, I need to find out what that ‘end’ is.
The lift opens, and I stretch my arm to allow her to exit first. She rolls her eyes like my ingrained manners offend her, although when I think, it’s more likely everything I do will offend her. I’m okay with that. I have time to change her mind, and I feel from the narrow-eyed scowl she is currently levelling at me, I am going to need every minute of the next twelve months.
The lift opens directly into the large marble lobby of my apartment. Two separate habitable units used to make up this floor. I had them converted into one sizeable apartment, affording the best possible 360 view of the city. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls offer uninterrupted vistas everywhere you look. It’s impressive, even if I do say so myself. Tia’s footsteps falter as she rounds the corner, and I turn just in time to see her snap her jaw shut. Her wide eyes take in the spectacle that is London as the sun goes down. A million twinkling lights reflect on the calm Thames. Tower Bridge is in the distance, and all the other iconic buildings span the horizon from the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, along the riverbank and all the way back toward the Houses of Parliament.
“You like?”
“I like the view.”
“Right.” I ignore the not so subtle inference in the answer. “The kitchen is over there, help yourself to anything, and this is the main living room. There is a smaller one through there, as well as my office which has fingerprint access, so don’t go getting any ideas.” I point down the corridor that leads to one side of the kitchen.
“Oh, the trust runs deep, I see.” Her tone is thick with sarcasm, but not as hostile as before. I’ll take that as an improvement.
“I’ll trust you when you trust me,” I retort with all seriousness.
“Oh, when hell freezes over, then,” she snorts.
“Perhaps a little sooner, shall we?” I sniff with a light laugh and see the first quirk of her lips at my attempt to ease the tension. She follows me down the long corridor leading off of the main living room, which is effectively the second apartment, and where the master bedroom and the guest rooms are located. Opening one of the double doors to the first room, I once again urge her to lead the way. She fails to hide her smile this time, and however fleeting the glance, I feel the warmth like a burst of lava in my chest. It’s gone a little too quickly, and the afterglow just makes me crave more, so much more. I find myself standing right beside her when I state the bloody obvious.
“This is your room.”
“Right.” She gives a sharp nod, but I can’t get a read on her. Her face is impassive, and I wait for any other reaction. Even if her words weren’t clipped, her posture is like stone. She’s giving nothing away, and I know this room is drop dead stunning. It has the same view as mine, and is only just a tiny bit smaller.
“I had an easel set up in the corner over there.” I point to the far side of the room and her eyes follow my finger. Her nose wrinkles, and a deep line troubles her brow.
“Why?”
“I want you to be comfortable and not bored. I assumed from the stolen supplies you still paint.” I keep my tone level. I don’t want to rile her any more than she already is. I can feel the animosity rolling off her in waves. I know it may take time, but I want her to make this her home. I need her to relax, break down her barriers, and trust me. However I look at it this, I know it’s going to be a Herculean task to end all of his labours. Still, it’s essential, because I know she’s lying about something, and given her motivation, if not her history, I can’t rule out that it could very well be about my missing money.
I have to tread carefully.
I move past her, my arm brushing against hers. She jolts, and I feel it too. I felt it the first time I laid eyes on her. Even after everything and all this time, what is firing between the two of us is just as raw, just as pure and potent. I’m counting on it being the same for her. That sliver of hope depends on the feeling I have, that those barriers she’s erected are akin to the little boy’s thumb in the dike.
“See, all you will need is here, and I can send out for more supplies.” I open several of the drawers next to the easel that is fully stocked with everything she could possibly need.
“You think I’m going to paint while I’m here?” Her tone is just as incredulous as her expression.
“You always found it a great outlet, and if you don’t trust yourself to express yourself with words, I don’t want you bottling anything up. I want—”
She responds with a short sharp acrid laugh. “You think I will have trouble expressing myself, hmm?”
“You did attempt, albeit unsuccessfully, the silent treatment in the car. I just thought this would help. You don’t have to paint. Really, it makes no difference to me.” I stop talking when she drops her bag heavily and strides past me to the easel. She opens the top drawer and picks out something, a pencil or maybe a pastel chalk. No, it’s too dark and squeaks against the paper, charcoal. She starts to sketch. A few quick sure strokes and then she drops the stick and rubs her hands down the front of her jeans. A stark middle finger is flipping me the bird from the pristine white drawing pad.
“Cute. Not quite what I meant, but it’s a start.” I hold her gaze, and we have this highly charged standoff. The mix of emotions is cloudy at best, but I know, on my part at least, dark desire and lust is rapidly rising to dominate anything else that might be trying to claim my focus. ”I’ll be in my office, if you need me.” I turn, breaking the eye contact before I do something stupid. Just before the door seals shut, her softly spoken words slice me open and cleave straight to my heart.
“That ship sailed five years ago.”
She hasn’t left her room, and I know she must be starving by now. She declined any offer of dinner last night, left the sandwich I made, and ignored me completely when I made late night cocoa. Same with breakfast this morning. I cooked bacon, even though I never eat breakfast, but since the smell of fresh coffee did nothing to crack the seal on that door, I thought the aroma of sizzling bacon would do the trick, still nada. It’s getting close to lunchtime when I hear the soft padding footsteps nearing the kitchen. Tia appears fully dressed with her tatty leather satchel slung across the shoulder.
“Going somewhere?” I arch my brow high.
“Yes.” Her tone and expression are impassive.
“Care to elaborate?” I coax with a wry smile.
“No.”
I snort a brief laugh in reply. “Then, in that case, request denied.” I dip my eyes back to my laptop, closing down the conversation. She huffs, and although I don’t look up, I can just imagine her hands flying to her hips in outrage at my dismissive response.
“I didn’t request, asswipe; you’re not my jailer,” she snaps, and there is a definitive snarl-like quality to her tone.
“That’s exactly what I am. Did you not read the papers you signed?” I scoff. Of course she didn’t. She was so angry at the time that this was the best and only offer on the table, she would’ve signed regardless.
“This is effectively house arrest, Tia. The only concession is if I deem it important, and I’m with you. I have work to do, so request denied.” I don’t bother to meet her gaze, which I know will be shooting daggers right about now. Her voice is full of indignation and injustice when she replies.
“I want to see Logan, and I’m hungry. I need to eat!”
“I offered you breakfast.” I wave a dismissive hand toward the stone cold plate of food on the side.
“I’m not eating anything you cook. It could be poisoned, for all I know.” I slap my laptop shut at her dramatics and the ludicrous suggestion.
“It was a fucking bacon sandwich, Tia, and if I wanted you dead, trust me, you’d be dead,” I snap, and I instantly regret the severity of my tone. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t recoil like I thought she might. She is either really good at faking her genuine fear, or she isn’t the scared little girl she once was.
“So I am in jail. The decor is just a little flashier.” Her hip drops, one hand resting in a tight fist, and she purses her lips.
“It’s only a jail if you continue to behave like a brat.” My observation has her jaw dropping when she gasps.
“Brat!”
“Yes, brat, eat my damn food, and we’ll talk about visitation.”
“Sounding more and more like a prison, Atticus.” Her rebuttal has lost the brattish tone, but her indignation is very much evident.
“Just test me a little more, Tia, and I’ll chain you to the damn bed. Now eat!” I growl and push my half eaten tuna bagel toward her. She swings her satchel behind her and slides roughly onto the island stool opposite me. She snatches the bagel from the plate and scarfs down three large bites like a huge child. I stand and pour her a cup of tea. The china cup I bought for her has the word ‘princess’ printed in simple pale pink letters on the front, and when her eyes meet mine, they hold for a few precious seconds too long with shared recognition of something more.
“Thank you.” The words float in the air like a white flag.
“You’re very welcome.” We sit silently while she finishes the rest of the bagel and sips her tea. “Would you like me to make you another?” Her plate is clean, and I doubt so much has changed that she no longer enjoys her food.
“No, thank you, but I would like to visit Logan.” She shakes her head at my offer, and my stomach rolls at her request. It wasn’t that I wasn’t expecting it; I just wasn’t expecting it so damn soon.
“I have work to do. It can wait ” I take the plate and drop it in the sink. With the height of the drop, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. The noise is loud, though, and she jumps.
“I left some of my stuff there,” she offers with a slight shrug.
“Stuff?”
“Tampons.” She holds my gaze, and, damn it, I look away.
“Right, yes, of course. Wait, nice try. Can’t I just get those delivered?” She did that on purpose, and I have to credit the play.
“Yeah. Look, Cass, this is hard for me, but it will be doubly hard for him, and I want to make sure he’s okay,” I can’t deny that I fucking hate that she cares like this. My shoulders tense, and I don’t know how I manage to give a civil answer when I feel the rage building inside.
“Call him.”
“He’s not picking up.” I can hear the genuine worry in her voice. Fuck.
“Fine, but I can’t do this all the damn time, Tia. I have a business to run and a hundred million pounds to find.” I throw this in her face, and she doesn’t flinch; she never does. It’s the one thing that made me doubt the coincidence of her appearance and my money’s disappearance. Well, that, and the fact that I knew she was innocent five years ago.
“I can go on my own. You don’t need to come.” She tries a placatory smile on for size, and it looks all wrong. At this precise moment, it’s a toss-up whether she hates me or this situation more. I don’t flatter myself that it’s the latter.
“Actually, I do,” I state as a matter of fact, but I kill the smug expression before it pulls at the corner of my lips. After all, I’m thankful I have this kind of leverage over her, because I know I’m going to need every single favour banked if I’m to redress the balance of her affection. “So when you’re there, impress upon your ‘boyfriend’ the importance of picking up his fucking phone.” I make a point of air quoting the relationship, which I know is still very much up for clarification. “Because if you get tempted to visit unsupervised, there will be nothing I can do to keep that sweet arse of yours out of jail.”
“I’ll tell him.” She gives a sharp nod. “Thank you, Atticus.”
“I prefer when you call me Cass; you’re the only one who ever did.” My voice softens and her eyes flit to mine, locked for only a second before looking away.
“Thank you, Cass.”
“Don’t thank me just yet.” I stand and pull the chunky chain platinum collar from my back pocket. I drop one end and swing it from my clasped fingers.
“What’s that?” Her throat moves up and down with the effort of swallowing. My eyes follow the movement almost as closely as my cock, which twitches and swells with lust and longing. I clear my throat and my wayward mind.
“Your tracking device.” I hold the actual part of the chain that carries the technology between my finger and thumb, the necklace part dangles on either side. The padlock clasp is possibly a little over the top, but I didn’t have a great deal of time to source what I wanted, and this is much better than the standard issue ankle tag. “I should’ve put it on you last night, but since you didn’t come out of your room, and you can’t leave this apartment until I scan your fingerprint, I concluded you weren’t a flight risk.” Her expression shifts from adorably confused to horrendously outraged.
“That looks like a damn collar!” she yelps.
“It is.” I fight the smile that is desperate to take control of my stoic features.
“I thought the device was some big black thing you wore on your ankle?”
“I thought this more suitable.” I take each end and move close enough to tentatively hold it in front of her face. Her eyes are like saucers.
“I’m not a fucking dog, Cass!” She leans away but not far enough to stop me placing it around her neck.
“I never thought you were. It’s a platinum chain, Tia. It will easily pass as a pretty choker, and only we need to know the truth.” I pause before I clarify its significance.
“The truth?”
“That it is, in fact, a collar, so you don’t forget what you are.” My voice drops, and I ache from my balls to that yearning in my chest.
“A criminal?” Her voice waivers, and I shake my head, hold her gaze, and tell her the truth.
“No. For the next twelve months, Tia, the collar means, once more, you are mine.” I secure the lock with a click that makes her jump. I slide my fingers under the cool metal and make sure there is sufficient space around her neck, that no skin is caught, and it’s perfectly comfortable.
It looks good.
I suppress the grin that threatens, because her eyes are on fire, and I fear one spark will light the powder keg between us and not in a good way.