Nineteen
Kori
Ian’s eyes widened, but he looked more hurt than surprised. He’d known, at least on some level, that there were only two ways out of the mess we were both in: service or death.
And with the latest betrayal to slide off my tongue, most of my secrets were out. “I’m sorry. I should have told you that this morning, but then you said you’d sign, so I didn’t see any reason to threaten you with death and the posthumous sale of your blood.”
“You’d really do it? You’d turn me over to be drained just because Tower told you to?” The disappointment and betrayal in his gaze stung like little else I’d ever felt.
“I—” The answer was there, ready to go. It didn’t require thought. So little did, with Jake pulling my strings. But the words wouldn’t come out, and the new thoughts blocking them made me close my mouth. Then my eyes.
What good would it do to turn him over to Jake? Both Kenley and I were screwed anyway, if things went that far south.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said at last. “Physically, I’d have no choice. Resisting the compulsion would kill me unless Jake rescinded the order. And he won’t. But if I turn you over to him, he’ll kill me anyway, for failing to recruit you. So…”
And suddenly it all looked so clear.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Because I was going to die either way, and at least this way, I’d go out without having first killed an innocent man. Ever. And that might just be the only point of honor for me to look back on if my life really flashed before my eyes in those last few seconds.
I’d killed for Jake, of course. I’d had no choice. But he had never—up till now—ordered me to kill someone who wasn’t at least as guilty as I was.
Ian’s gaze never left mine. He was watching me think, and I wondered if he could read any of those thoughts on my face.
“You know none of that matters, though, right?” I said. “If I don’t hand you over to Jake, someone else will.”
“None of it matters, because I’m going to sign,” he said, and again I wished for just a second that I was a Reader. He looked like he meant it, but he also looked like there was something he wasn’t saying.
I thought about demanding the whole truth, right there on the spot, but then, in an unprecedented display of common sense, I held my tongue. Some secrets are kept for a reason and spilling them prematurely can mean spilling blood, as well. His silence was meant to protect someone. Probably himself, but maybe me. So I decided to wait.
Then I hoped I’d made the right decision.
“We should take Tower a bottle,” Ian said when he finally looked away, and some small bit of the tension inside me eased. “What does he like?”
“I don’t know. Something dark red.”
“You’ve eaten with him, right? What does he order most often?”
I’d spent years shadowing Jake. Protecting him. I’d seen him order dinner a thousand times.
He liked a thick cut of tenderloin, still cool in the middle. His baked potato came with salt and butter only, his mashed with a hint of garlic. And to drink, he ordered…
“Cabernet Sauvignon. Sometimes Bordeaux.”
“Okay.” Ian nodded. “Bordeaux is a blend, and I’m not familiar with this label, so the Cab may be a better bet.” He started pulling bottles from the racks, reading the labels then sliding them back into place, working his way down one aisle and into the next until finally he read a label and smiled. “This should work.” He held the bottle up for me to see, but other than the familiar icon on the label, I had no idea what I was looking at. “And maybe one for us…” He handed me the wine, then turned back to the rack.
I studied the bottle I held, surprised by how thick the glass was, especially at the bottom, where there was a pronounced dip in the base—a mountain of glass rising into the dark liquid. In the movies, I’d seen people whack bad guys with beer bottles, but holding my very first bottle of wine, I was convinced that it would make a much more effective weapon. Assuming I could compensate for the greater weight. Maybe an empty bottle…
I swung experimentally, and in one smooth motion, faster than I would have thought possible, Ian’s hand shot out and the bottle thunked into his palm in the middle of my swing. “That is not a weapon.”
“Everything’s a weapon, if you know how to use it.”
His brows rose. “You’re holding a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, and all you want to do with it is bash someone’s head in? I think that statement clearly illustrates the source of your problems. Everything doesn’t have to be a fight, Kori.”
“And that statement clearly illustrates the source of your problems.” I enjoyed throwing his own words back at him. “You’re chin-deep in the fight, and you don’t even know it.”
“I know it,” he insisted, and suddenly that seemed possible. The rare somber look in his eyes hinted at some dark depth I hadn’t truly seen yet. “My point is that some weapons are more suited to a delicate touch than to blunt-force trauma.”
“I’m a blunt-force trauma kind of girl, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I have. And so has Tower. Part of your problem is that he knows what to expect from you. So let’s give him something new.” Ian held the bottle up, like he was modeling it for a commercial. “Think of Jake Tower as the fly, and this bottle as the honey.”
“Ooh, are we going to poison the honey?”
His brows rose higher. “No.”
“Then how is it a weapon?”
“It’s a distraction meant to outshine any report of trouble in the park. More a shield than a sword.”
“Just as well.” I sighed. “Killing Jake isn’t an option.” And it never would be. In fact, I dreaded the day of his death almost as much as I dreaded every breath he took. When Jake died, something worse would rise from his ashes to claim his kingdom.
Ian was watching me again, like maybe he’d heard more than I’d actually said. Then he handed me the bottle with a warning frown and turned back to the racks.
“Why do you know so much about wine?” I asked as he read label after label.
“My father was an enthusiast. He tried to make his own several times when I was a kid, but by the time I was old enough to share his passion, he’d admitted defeat and committed to enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labor.”
“Oh. My dad drank tequila. The kind with the worm in the bottle.” In fact, that was my clearest memory of him. “Your dad teach you about fighting, too?” I asked, and Ian chuckled.
“My dad was a pacifist. He marched in antiwar rallies before I was born.”
“And your brother was a soldier? I bet Thanksgiving was interesting at your house.”
“Yeah.” Ian glanced at me, then pulled another bottle from the rack. “Where’d you learn to fight?” he asked, and I got the impression he was trying to change the subject.
“My grandmother said I needed a healthy way to burn energy and express my natural aggression, so she enrolled me in my brother’s martial arts class when I was ten. I loved it.”
“I’d say it loved you, too,” he said, and before I could reply, something creaked from the other side of the cellar—a door swinging open—and light flooded the entire room. I froze, my heart racing. Footsteps clomped down a set of stairs I couldn’t see from our position, and my hand clenched around the neck of the bottle, now slick with nervous sweat.
I backed toward the end of the aisle, my boots silent on the floor, and Ian followed, both of us peering through the open racks at what we could see of the rest of the cellar. High stools around high tables. The dark wood bar that had been lined in wineglasses and manned by two servers at every event I’d accompanied Jake on. And the open space in the middle of a cellar full of racks, where guests would mingle, and gossip, and examine the collection surrounding them.
Jake’s wine-tasting parties were interminably dull, and I’d sometimes wished someone would try to kill him, just to bring a little excitement into the most boring room I’d ever stood in.
Now I had excitement, and I wanted nothing more than the dark, quiet cellar back.
“As you can see, there’s plenty of room for the event, and we can set up more tables,” a man said, and I recognized the slightly nasal voice of John Yard, the winery’s events coordinator.
“How are you fixed for lighting?” Another man asked as their steps echoed closer. “This is nice for ambience, but my wife will fuss if the light isn’t sufficient for people to admire her shoes.”
“That’s not a problem.”
A switch flipped somewhere and another set of lights came on. I flinched, though the cellar was still much dimmer than the park in broad daylight. This was starting to feel too familiar. An underground room. No windows. Someone standing between me and the exit. Darkness that should have been a comfort to me, made terrifying by the light source caging me.
There were huge differences between Jake’s prison cell and the wine cellar. But knowing that didn’t stop my pulse from racing or my next breaths from sliding in and out of my mouth too fast to satisfy my need for air. Logic couldn’t stop my feet from carrying me backward across the concrete, as quietly as I could move, my heart pounding, until my back hit something warm and solid, and I gasped.
A hand closed over my mouth before I could scream and another took the bottle of wine from me before I could drop it.
I clawed at the fingers over my lips and stomped on the foot between my own, and Ian sucked in a breath, so close his chin stubble caught in my hair. “Kori, relax,” he whispered, so soft I understood more than heard the words. “Don’t move, or they’ll see us.”
When I nodded, he let go of my mouth and stepped back to give me space, still holding the bottle he’d taken, and I concentrated on breathing slowly. Counting the breaths. This wasn’t Jake’s basement. Ian wasn’t Jonah. I wasn’t being punished.
But we both would be, if we got caught. Stealing a bottle of Jake’s favorite wine as a gift to him was one thing, but getting caught looting his favorite winery was something else entirely.
I stood as still as I could, waiting for Ian to pull darkness around us again, so I could walk us out of trouble. The cellar was much darker than the park had been, so it shouldn’t have been any problem. But no shadows gathered at our feet, cooling me from the toes up. No darkness built. And the voices only came closer.
I turned to glance at Ian and found him much closer than I’d expected. He was trapped between me and the wall, obviously trying to give me as much space as possible. I opened my mouth, but he pressed one finger against his own lips, still holding the bottle in his other hand.
I rolled my eyes and stepped closer until I was pressed against him, going up on my toes to whisper in his ear, acutely aware of how solid his chest felt against mine. “Make it dark, and I’ll get us out of here.”
“Can’t,” he whispered in return, so softly that it took me a minute to figure out what he’d said. Then he pointed at something behind me and I turned to find my cell phone lying on the floor across the main aisle from where we stood. It must have fallen out of my pocket, and thanks to the rubberized case, neither of us had heard it land.
We couldn’t leave without it. I wasn’t allowed to keep syndicate names or numbers programmed into my phone, but I hadn’t cleared the call list since last night, and it would only take a cursory glance through the contents to figure out who the phone belonged to, and only a phone call after that to link my name with Jake’s.
He was going to kill me.
My pulse raced again, so fast the room started to go dark around me, though the lights hadn’t faded. John Yard and his customer came closer, still discussing whatever event they were planning, and I could see them now, through the single floor-to-ceiling rack of wine separating me and Ian from the main open area. Which meant they could see us, too, if they glanced our way. Or if any movement from us drew their attention.
“Shh…” Ian whispered into my ear, and I inhaled slowly, then exhaled slower still. His free hand slid down my right arm and I stiffened and would have pulled away if I weren’t afraid to move. But then his hand brushed my palm and his fingers twined around mine, and I clung to his hand, not out of fear, but out of relief. I wasn’t alone. I may have been feet from getting caught and minutes from facing Jake’s wrath, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t alone in either predicament.
Ian wouldn’t let me take all the blame or bear the brunt of the punishment, even if Jake and I both tried to give it to me. He wouldn’t desert me like Cam had. He’d said he’d sign—he’d promised to commit the next five years of his life to a monster—to keep Jake from killing me.
Ian wouldn’t leave me.
I let myself lean against his chest, my heart pounding in some intoxicating combination of fear and indefinable need, and his hand tightened around mine. And for a minute, I couldn’t breathe.
I’d never done this. I’d never felt anything as intimate as the feel of his hand in mine. His breath against my ear. His chest warm against my back.
I’d had sex. I’d even had sex multiple times with the same man, and until that moment, I would have considered that intimacy—the fact that I could tolerate one man enough to sleep with him more than once. But I was wrong. With Ian pressed against me, his heart beating in sync with my own, I understood that no connection I’d ever made had been more than physical gratification. Mutual back-scratching. I’d never lingered with anyone else. Never touched just to touch. Just to feel.
I’d never truly experienced or been experienced by anyone.
When Yard took his customer into another section of the cellar without noticing my cell phone, I breathed a little easier. They were still close enough that we could hear their voices, but far enough away that they wouldn’t notice our movement if we were quiet. So I turned and looked up at Ian in the shadows, and his dark-eyed gaze searched mine. Waiting. Silently asking a question words couldn’t have clarified.
I let go of his hand, and he looked disappointed—until I laid it on his chest. His breathing deepened, and his heart raced. I could feel it through his shirt. I slid my hand up slowly, over his sternum, then his collarbone. My fingers rounded the curve of his neck, scratchy with stubble, and I pulled his head down as I went up on my toes. Then I kissed him.