Blood Enchantment (55 page)

I need to negate violence at all costs. No matter our skill, we remain weaponless. That basic fact can't be ignored. The police are corrupt. There's no accountability.

“He's raised the amount I owe six times more than that of the year before,” I say in English. “And”—I give him my eyes for a brief second before shifting them back to Manuel—“he will torture and kill my cousin if I do not comply.”

I don't need the consequence spelled out for me. That is how the narco operates.

“She,” Tallinn says loudly, pointing at the photo Manuel holds, “is not your cousin, dude.”

“I know,” I say. It's laughable.

No one is laughing, though.

“Then who the hell is she?”

My skin pebbles with realization.
Club Alpha.
Is it possible to feel one's blood grow cold in their veins?

I think so.

“She might be my wife.”

“Are you crazy? Man, you don't
have
a wife.”

We look at each other.

The wife of my future.

I see when Tallinn hits on the same puzzle I solved. His arm flies to his chest. “Oh man, no way.”

I nod. My words are for Tallinn, but my eyes never leave Manuel.

“Yes way.”

Manuel just keeps smiling insufferably. “We can come to terms then?”

“She is not my relative!” I yell, finally losing my temper. The two other narcos drop their arms from their knotted hold and let them hang loosely at their sides.

“Then you will not mind her slow torture and execution. Your indifference will be absolute at her deliberate rape.”

I flinch. The thought of my angel being degraded is more than I can stand.

His fingertip trails seductively over the photo of her. My stomach churns in a slick roil of heat. “What do you want?”

Manuel is back to grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Why… the money of course.”

My heartbeat returns to normal.

I can do money
. I have more than I could ever spend in ten lifetimes.

“Fine.”

Manuel leans toward me. I can smell bad breath cloaked by mints.

“There is one other thing. You must kill her. You, no one else.”

Every instinct of protection that has lain dormant inside me rises like sweat out of my pores.

I cannot kill her.
I know this as surely as I stand there taking my next breath.

And why would I have to
murder
anyone?

Especially if my speculations hold true—if this is a Club Alpha artifice—why would I kill the woman possibly meant for me?

It makes no sense.

“You have seventy-two hours. I expect the money to be wired directly into my account, as always. Here is the number of a doctor who will validate the end of her life.”

He passes the number to me and when I don't take it, Tallinn does.

“I can't kill her,” I say.

“That is no problem. We will be happy to end her life, friend. Slowly.”

I peg my hips with my hands, pacing away. I need time to think this through, and time is not my friend. I hit on a plan and whirl back around.

“I'll do it,” I say.

“Excellent,” Manuel answers as though he knew what my reply would be.

He could not have. I am not transparent.

Manuel
nods at his lackeys. They pivot on their heels, and start to leave the house.

I call out, “Manuel!”

He turns.

“I am not your friend.”

He chuckles darkly.

I watch him walk out of the front door and into the street where a black SUV waits to rush him to his next appointment of extortion.

I glance at my wristwatch.

Seventy-one hours, fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.

Greta

“I'm trying really hard not to get excited here!” I squeal into the phone.

Gia sighs. “It's not like I'm Miss Maturity or something but let me insert myself here as the voice of reason.”

I groan, slapping my forehead.
Reason makes me tired.
Exhausted.

I'm lying on the hotel bed, thrilled to my toes to have a date with Mr. Yummy Dane tonight.

It's all business.

I'm so excited I can hardly stand myself.

“It's got to be Club Alpha, Gia. I swear, it's like this guy is made to order, Greta style.”

“Tell me more about him before you get your thong in a twist.”

“I don't wear a thong,” I say with a small euphoric giggle.

“Right, it's an expression, my giddy friend.”

“Well, I can wear heels, and he's still taller.”

“Okay, you have me there. You're an Amazon.”

“I'm actually Norwegian,” I huff.

I cross my legs at the knee and jiggle my foot, anxious to pick out a hot outfit.

“We've established this. Go on.”

“He's interesting to look at.”

“Uh-huh. Does that mean hot? Or, he has a good personality and abs—but he's a double bagger?”

“Gia!” I slap my bare feet on the bed.

“No! He's… I don't know, exotic, foreign…”

“A client,” she reminds me in a droll voice.

I smooth strands of hair out of my face. “Yes. There
is
that.”

“Listen, Greta. I thought you put Mr. Right as dark, non-Caucasian.”

A beat of silence thrums between us.

I twist the hem of my shirt. Memories flood my mind: being tied off to bedposts, the mattress a hard misery beneath me.

“Yes,” I reply in an agonized whisper.

Gia deciphers the one tightly squeezed syllable from halfway across the world.

“Don't you go there, Greta.
Don't you
dare
. Breathe. Now.”

I suck in a lungful of air and release a breath that tastes stale and stifling.

I clench my eyes. “Gia,” I whisper.

“I am here. Listen to my voice, Greta.”

Hands.

Everywhere.

Four heads rise above me. My legs are spread. Searing pain like a hot poker ignites from my groin to my belly button.

Variations of blue and green irises, hidden behind identical masks, smile maliciously down at me—as they pump their evilness inside my body.

“Come back, Greta. It is not happening right now. It's the past.”

I breathe in harsh pants, shoving their hands away, killing them, hurting them like they hurt me.

My eyes burst open, and I sit up, stiff like a plank, in the middle of the bed.

The hotel room's calming ultra-modern environment comes into focus like the lens of a camera. The drape is parted, and a slit of the water beyond shimmers in the late afternoon

My heartbeat begins to slow.

“Greta, are you here with me?”

I know that voice. It saved me.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Good.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but the concern is threaded through her one-word response. “It's dangerous for you to revisit what happened too often. It doesn't grow you.”

Like a plant.

I shiver a little, though the room is seventy-three degrees. “I know.

Maybe I can't go out with him.” I clench the rolled-down bed linen in a tight fist.

“You can—you
will
. I just… I caution you. It might be coincidence.” Gia laughs. “I mean, you're not such an ugly duck a man might not want to take you out.”

I smile a little.

“It's safe, Greta. He's a legitimate client. There's no reason you can't doll yourself up, and show him the newest swatches by candlelight and wine.”

No alcohol.
Ever.

“Sorry, I mean sparkling cider,” Gia corrects herself quickly.

“I knew what you meant.”

Gia sighs. I hear so many nuanced things from that one snippet of sound.

“It'll be fine. You're only in Norway for a week. Then you return here. I'm sure the Club Alpha fantasy doesn't really heat up right away.”

“Zaire said it could be anytime within the ninety days.”

The silence, instead of words, fills the conversation.

“Knock his socks off, Greta. Have fun. Allow yourself to feel happiness again.”

I nod then realize she can't see it. “Okay, you're right.”

“Phone me tomorrow.”

“I will. Thank you, Gia.”
Thanks for pulling me from Hell's gallows.

“You bet. Talk tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I swipe her grinning face away.

Determined, I jump out of bed and walk briskly to the closet. Tearing open the doors, I scan the clothing.

My eyes land on a rich midnight-blue dress so dark it's nearly black, very simple. It's sleeveless. I hesitate, hand on the hanger. It won't cover the scars.

Finally, I jerk it off and lay the beautiful dress out on the bed. I walk away before I can turn chicken and decide against wearing it. I move to the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.

It won't wash the memories away. Nothing will.

But I'm determined they won't steal my freedom.

The happiness Gia promises
is
there for me if I trust again.

If.

*

A pearl gray limo prowls to a stop beside the high curb in front of my hotel.

A light shawl covers my shoulders. Like my shoes, it's nude. October in Norway feels like the promise of winter, and I'm instantly aware I'm not dressed warmly enough. The spiderweb of fabric gives the illusion of coverage but no real warmth. A huge coat would have marred the line of the dress, so I chose my shawl.

Beauty is pain
. I smirk.

The hemline rides three inches above my knees and wraps at the high point of my hip.
The subtle v-shape neckline is not exceedingly low, but it offers a glimpse of cleavage as I move.

I stride to the limo as the driver rounds the front and heads me off at the pass to open the door with a flourish.

“Thank you,” I greet him in Norwegian.

“You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.

I forget how so many Europeans speak English.
So much for practicing my Norwegian.

I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.

Tor Aros waits inside.

Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.

His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.

“Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.

He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.

His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.

Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”

My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.

“Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.

My smile widens. “Greta.”

“Touché,” he says.

I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.

“No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.

“Sure,” I reply a little breathlessly.

He's so handsome, I feel like the oxygen is depleted in the back of the limo.

I try to not to stare—and lose that battle soundly.

Tonight the suit is soft black, so cool against his warm skin and hair. His brown eyes blaze into mine across the seat. It feels as though we're mere inches apart instead of almost four feet.

“Champagne?” He indicates the bucket behind him.

I shake my head. Just seeing the bottle makes my heartbeat skate erratically.

Alcohol equals waking up bound and afraid. It brings the night of my graduation from the U Dubb into glaring full-color recall.

“Greta?” he asks. Concern floods his eyes.

I've let too much show. I control my expression. “Nothing's wrong. I just… I'm not a big fan of alcohol.”

“Easily remedied.”

“No, I don't want to impose.” I hold up a palm, see the nearly invisible wrist scar, and drop my hand into my lap.

But Tor is already turning to a concealed compartment underneath the seat.

He pulls out another bottle, very similar to the champagne.

“Grape bubbly?” he asks with a smile.

I nod.

It beats my normal apple.

He refills the empty spot in the small ice box with the champagne and pops the cork on the grape juice.

He fill a tall glass with a fragile stem then pours one for himself.

“A toast,” Tor says.

My brows pull together. “To what?” I ask with a laugh.

“The future. Your Roffe fabric is all a formality.” He waves toward my briefcase in dismissal.

I lower the glass, and he shakes his head.

I lift it again, and he clinks our crystal together. It's made of fine flint that rings from the touch. When the sound grows silent, he says, “I knew I would use Roffe when I first researched the company. They're a good fit for my needs. Small enough for quality control and customer service of the caliber I wish. And they can provide the most updated line.”

He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, underscoring his reasoning.

I take a small sip.

Our gazes lock over the rims of our glasses.

“Then why…?” I begin, letting the base of the glass rest on my knee as the limo rolls smoothly to a stop.

“You, Greta. I needed to meet you.”

I'm confused. Tor is way too forward to be merely a client. Yet, there is something magnetic about him. When he speaks to me, I feel as though I am the first person he's ever spoken to. I feel as though I will be the last, as well.
The Alpha and Omega.

It is the strangest sensation, a kind of nameless charm. There is no antidote for it, no counter. As if he’s spun a spell, I am captured in the manic eye of his charisma.

I maintain marginal rationale. “Why did you need to meet me?” I ask in a mild voice, fighting the drug of his presence.

His fingers touch my knee lightly.

I should be on guard.

Tor Aros hits many of the triggers from the attack. He's tall, white, and good-looking.

Somehow, being with him doesn't make the alarm bells ring. He’s confident and seemingly innocuous.

Maybe he
is
a part of the fantasy of Club Alpha.

I
can
get well.

Even if nothing happens between him and me, maybe I can heal enough to be ready for anything else life throws at me.

I'm zoning, and he answers the question I forgot I posed.

“You called to me. From America. I knew we were kindred, meant to meet.”

“How? No, I'm sorry. That's too weird,” I say, coming to my senses. I don't believe in insta-anything. Especially now. Life has been an apt teacher.

He shakes his head, squeezing my hand, and brushes his fingers against my knuckles. “I knew your parents many years ago. Before… I am sorry. I know it is a delicate subject. I knew them before their deaths.”

My heart sputters to a faltering stop. “You did?” I fight not to move away and gather myself deeply inside again. I stay at the top of my consciousness. I don't hide from this new revelation—a possible new hurt.

“I promised your father I would look after you.”

I study him more closely. I realize he's older than I first assumed.

“And here you are, quite well. Though I must apologize.”

I gulp. “For—” I clear my throat. “For what?”

He looks down for a moment, spinning the stem of the empty glass. His face is serious as his gaze collides with mine. “Not being there to protect you two years ago.”

My fingertips go numb as my stomach hollows out. It's too much.

He knows.

I don't know how, but he does.

I snatch my hand away and cover my face with my hands.

Tears escape from between my fingers. Wet shame ruins my careful make-up job.

I don't resist when Tor pulls me into his lap, holding me while I sob.