Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (23 page)

The violent passion driving them to ecstasy.

Each thrust a rough nudge to the edge.

Scar reached up and grabbed Killian’s hair, gripping so tightly, as if it was only the strength of her fist that was holding her together.

The tingling started all the way from Killian’s scalp and traveled down his spine, warmth flushing across his lower back.

The last bit of his awareness caught the movement of Scar’s free hand reached toward Black.

Killian’s orgasm hit with such force, it seemed to wind him. Breathless, speechless, senseless. Only the firing of synapses and nerves as Scar trembled and broke under him with a scream.

Black stiffened on top of him even as his cock jerked inside him. A pained sound before ‘fuck’ fell softly from Black’s lips.

It was closer to morning than midnight by the time Jerricho stood and looked around his room. No, the room, not his. Nothing was his except some clothes, the book of poems, and the bag of money on the bed.

He was going to leave the book behind for Scarlet. Maybe she’d burn it. Maybe she’d keep it in the library near his photo and sometimes think of him.

There was nothing he could leave for Killian, what was between them was more complicated.

It was what it was.

Jerricho was going to do what was needed. He knew that meant they would each have their own reasons for hating him.

He was practiced at burning bridges.

He looked down at the rope, the last thing on the bed. He’d found it in the garage when he’d lifted a spare set of car keys. He needed Killian’s four-wheel drive.

On the way out of the room, he switched off the bedside lamp. The darkest hour had already passed. Shadows crept into the room, breaking up the pitch of the night, a complex interplay of light and dark shadow while the world slept.

The door to the old farmhouse creaked as Jerricho opened it, a thin sound that seemed louder in the early morning.

Romeo stirred on the narrow bed and groaned. The pain meds from the previous evening would’ve worn off by now. Pain might make the man more agreeable to considering his options. He could choose to die by Killian’s hand, slow and painful, the ritualistic destruction over days taking his sanity long before it took his body.

Or he could choose what Jerricho offered.

The prisoner swung his feet to the floor and pulled himself upright. He looked at Jerricho, the swelling under his eye from the broken nose still almost closing the one eye.

He walked up to the bar and stuck out his hand. “Meds?”

Jerricho shook his head. Stopping just out of reach, he dropped his bag and reached for the rope and tossed it.

Romeo looked confused as his hand snapped the noose out of the air. “What’s this?”

“I’m not going to be here to fix you up next time.”

Romeo’s head tilted then his eyes flared wide. He threw the rope down, recoiling. It landed by his feet, strewn across the floor like a snake.

“The choice is yours,” Jerricho said.

“You can let me go.”

He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. There were things he couldn’t live with, but this wasn’t one of them.

Romeo’s face pulled tight. “So what? You expect me to just hang myself? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers as he spat the words.

“Your choice.” Jerricho shrugged. “It’ll be a clean break. I’m good with knots.”

The sound Romeo made was half laugh, half cry. Despair had a language of its own.

Behind Romeo, the dark blue sky of morning told Jerricho he was running out of time to get a head start. He reached down for his bag.

“Wait!” Romeo shook the bars.

“I don’t have time. Neither do you.” The rope would be taken when breakfast was brought in.

“Wait.” Romeo gazed darted around as if he was going to find a miracle. “Can you, at least, give me the pen and paper off the table?” He gestured with his chin.

Someone, probably a guard, had left pen and paper on the corner desk. Jerricho was lucky they left Romeo on his own overnight when all they expected him to do was sleep.

Romeo sensed Jerricho’s hesitation. “I want to write something.”

“Why?”

“There is no priest for my last rites.” Confession.

Maybe that’s what he could leave Killian. A confession might give the man some closure.

He nodded and fetched the pen and paper, which he slid with a kick of his foot toward the cell door. Romeo stared transfixed as he watched the items stop within his reach.

Jerricho turned and left the man to his dying.

Somewhere in the distance, Jerricho could hear the crow of a rooster as he turned off the small country road onto the regional thoroughfare. Although the area consisted predominantly of hobby farms, there was still some livestock.

He switched on the radio, but the perky breakfast host jarred with the reality of the day. Instead, he rolled down the window. Unlike the city, here the morning air was still bracing.

Another night of no sleep, but he didn’t have time to stop. Besides, he’d just lie in some motel, drained and staring at the ceiling.

When tired was more than physical, it kept you wide awake.

Better not to stop. He needed to keep the momentum to get through the leaving.

He’d been here before. He had to keep on rolling.

By the time he reached Kangaroo Valley, the road had begun to head up the escarpment toward the Southern Highlands. He wound up the old narrow road, the vegetation dense and cool—more rainforest than temperate, like Berry. He’d taken the back road instead of the newer coastal road, slinking away like the picture of guilt he felt.

Guilt that wasn’t about Romeo.

He’d done the right thing. In the end, that betrayal would save all three men’s souls. Killian wouldn’t see it that way—maybe not even Scarlet.

Betrayal.

He was finally guilty of what he’d been accused of.

He’d looked Killian in the eye the previous night and accepted the invitation into the man’s bed, knowing what he was going to do.

And because that wasn’t fucked up enough, as if he didn’t feel dirty enough, there was Scarlet.

He knew she thought he had decided to stay.

He’d knowingly
let
her think it because it was easier that way.

In time, she’d come to understand he’d done her a favor. She was better off without him.

He didn’t deserve her love if this was how he treated it.

He shivered, but the cold wasn’t blowing in from the window, it was growing out of the hollow inside.

A sign up ahead signaled a rest stop. He should refuel, the tank was less than a quarter full, but he didn’t know how far he was going to go. How far would be far enough before he felt there was some distance?

It was unlikely Killian would call in his car. Flagging the attention of the law would be the last thing he wanted with a body swinging from the rafters.

He parked the car, got out, and closed the door. There was a fast food chain serving breakfast. His stomach churned at the thought of food, but he could do with the bitter comfort of coffee.

Inside, the restaurant was filled with truckers and a few random travelers; the rest of the world would still be sleeping.

He pictured Scarlet and Killian as he’d left them in bed, all limbs tangled and deep breathing. If he kept this up, he would go insane.

He wiped his face with his hands, the heaviness in his limbs making him feel slow and clumsy. Sighing, he stared blindly at the limited menu before ordering a long black.

Outside, he watched a blue car pull up and a couple climb out. Idly, he followed their path up to the door for no real reason. The sliding doors parted as they stepped inside and the woman looked up. Watery blue eyes stared at him.

***

The worn blue eyes stared at him. Not the piercing blue he remembered from his childhood, these were the eyes of a stranger. The stranger was his mother.

He’d traced her to the women’s shelter through a cousin.

It had been eleven years since he’d seen her, but she’d aged more than twenty. Alcoholism and depression had ravaged her. She looked tired. Worse, she looked abandoned. That was what he’d done, hadn’t he? He’d discarded his own mother.

He wanted to take her out of there, put her somewhere nice, but he was only a medical student. Besides, she didn’t want his help. She didn’t even want to see him. He’d been coming round every Sunday since he’d found her. Six months of being sent away at her request.

The only reason she sat staring at him today was because he’d insisted he had urgent news of her husband.

They sat there in awkward silence in a rundown lounge. She with a sneer of distaste, with him searching for the mother he knew.

Her finger worried her lip before she took a puff of her cigarette, blowing smoke between them.

“What about Iman?” There was gravel in her voice he didn’t remember.

She’d never written a reply to any of the letters he’d sent. At the age of thirteen, he’d stopped writing. He wanted to talk about that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Iman is dead. I’m sorry.” In the end, he’d failed them both.

She shrugged. “He’s been dead to me for a long time ago. All I want to know is did he leave me any money?”

“Mama—”

She spat in his face. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “My son is dead too.”

The spittle sat heavy on his cheek.

She pushed her chair back and stood up. “They’re all dead. Even my daughter.”

He looked at her puzzled.

“I was pregnant when I came back to France, but I miscarried. The doctor said it was stress.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s what a broken heart gives you, stress.” She turned her back on him and stared out the window. “In the end, I had nothing. All I could do was mourn.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Say it if it makes you feel better. It doesn’t change anything.”

***

The barista called his name and Jerricho realized the man had been trying to get his attention. He took the coffee. It tasted cheap and gritty, just like the memory still bitter on his tongue.

His father had died eight months after Jerricho had left for France. Maybe it was the fact his father had always stayed too political, maybe it was the fact there was nobody left to come home to. He’d tried to save them both. In the end Jerricho had only delayed the inevitable. And wounded a woman he’d loved.

Here he was doing it again.

Scarlet loved him.

He’d failed one woman; he didn’t want to fail another.

His hand started to shake and he put the coffee down.

Now that Dado was taken care of did he really need to leave? He’d been running for a year and where had that got him?

Could he go back?

Killian might kill him. All the fucked-up the scenarios, and that seemed the best one to risk.

Killian had told him winning was knowing when to walk away.

This was not that time.

He had to choose Scarlet.

Jerricho’s first stop back was to check on Romeo. Was the man dead or alive? He had to know what he was facing. Either way, a confrontation with Killian was looming—he was not playing doctor for him again.

He took a deep breath then opened the old farmhouse door and froze.

The door to the cell was open and Romeo was gone. The improbable had just become a reality.

The noose was still lying on the floor. So too, the blank pad of paper lay with the open lock on it. Next to it, the pen lay in pieces.

Momentarily disorientated, his brain tried to make sense of it.

Had someone found Romeo and freed him?

Jesus, was Scarlet in danger?

His heart rate spiked at the thought.

No.

No. Killian
.

It made more sense that Killian had come and taken Romeo.

Stomach muscles still clenched tight, his eyes scanned the debris on the floor. Killian made sense, but something was bothering him.

He walked over and sank to his haunches staring at the evidence.

Then he saw it.

So easy to miss, but his eye was trained for detail. The thin spring from the pen’s barrel barely visible in the keyhole of the lock. The smallest clues were the most telling.

If Romeo got out, That meant he was somewhere on this farm—the damage of Jerricho’s actions uncontained.

***

The car lifted off the bumpy road as he raced back to the main house. He wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking he’d find Romeo on his own. Killian and his men needed in on this.

Stones shot from under the tires as he skidded to a stop and jumped from the car. The house was still dead quiet, still asleep, but the back door was ajar.

Cold dread slid down his spine and into his belly.

Carefully, he pushed the door wider.

Nothing.

The kitchen seemed clear.

He crept inside, the drum of his beating heart so hard it should have broken the eerie silence.

He slipped past the counter and something caught this eye. The butcher’s knife was missing from the magnetized strip that hung above the bench top.

The discovery wrenched his stomach muscles tighter. Tension squeezed all the way up his neck and crawled into his jaw.

Should he call out to warn them? Would that make Romeo do something rash?

Was he too late?

Fuck.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He could do this.

Years of working in trauma in war conditions, he could do this.

He slipped into the passage. Back against the wall, he slowly peered around the doorway into the lounge.

Empty.

He moved quickly and quietly up the stairs.

He saw the tip of the blade before Romeo came out of the bedroom on the left.

A fraction of a second, enough time to slip into the open bathroom on the right.

Quiet. He was so fucking quiet as he held his breath.

Romeo was searching the rooms.

He risked a glance. Romeo’s back was moving away from him, hand reaching for the master bedroom door.

Power surged through Jerricho’s muscles as he barreled down the passage and hurled himself at the intruder.

Romeo turned, knife snagging the side of Jerricho’s shirt as they crashed through the door onto the bedroom floor.

Clammy cold ran down his side just before Jerricho felt the sting. He’d been cut, but he couldn’t feel any pain. There was just the burn of adrenalin and the sound of his heart in his ears broken.

And somewhere in the distance, there was a scream.

He fought for the knife as they rolled, struggling to wrestle it from Romeo’s hands.

The man should’ve been weak, but there was nothing like desperation to make a man inhumanly strong.

Except, they were both desperate.

Jerricho head-butted Romeo, hitting the man’s broken nose and making him scream.

The distraction provided a split-second’s give, all he needed to overpower Romeo and slide the blade between his fourth and fifth rib. The knife found its way into the heart.

The body under Jerricho shuddered as blood sputtered from its mouth.

He rolled off the red bloom of blood, grabbed his cut side, and leaned against the wall, panting.

“Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod.” Scarlet wobbled as her feet hit the floor. She let go of the bed and fell to her hands and knees. “Oh God.” She seemed to struggle as shaking, she crawled across the floor to him.

He reached out for her, he felt so tired.

She grabbed his hand and he pulled her across his legs and into his lap. He needed warmth against him. She was so alive and warm against his cold sweat.

“You’re bleeding.” Stuttered words as sobs racked her body.

He’d already probed the cut. It was just a surface wound; the knife had cut across his lower ribs, his racing heart making the bleeding worse.

“I’m fine.” He cupped her head against his chest.

Killian stood in front of him, taking in the scene.

The man would have questions—questions about Romeo, questions about him—why he wasn’t in bed with them, why he was fully dressed. While Scarlet was falling apart, Killian would be working on putting the pieces together.

Scarlet’s fingers curled, gripping his shirt tighter as she burrowed into him. Her sobs were quieter, but she was shivering with shock. He should get her something sweet, but he didn’t have the energy to stand yet.

Then there was Killian. Something dangerous radiated off him, something warning Jerricho not to move.

Killian nudged Romeo’s body with his foot. The nudge became a kick and another kick and another. The rage at the man who’d desecrated the sanctity of their bedroom grew.

Scarlet screamed.

But Killian was beyond hearing.

No longer content kicking, he sank down on one knee between the man’s legs. His fingers roughly tugged at the button and the zip of Romeo’s pants. Then, with a forceful tug he pulled the knife free from the dead man’s chest.

“What are you doing?” Scarlet’s voice was shrill.

How many pieces do you think I can take off you before I’m through? Fingers? Toes? Ears? Your cock? When I castrate you, I’m going to feed it to you inch-by-motherfucking-inch, right before I start taking your teeth.

Jerricho tried to cradle her face and shield her from the sight, but she struggled free.

“Killian, no.” She launched herself and grabbed hold of his leg.

New tension cramped Jerricho’s stomach, fresh pain from the cut flaring to life as he reached for her, but she held onto her husband.

“Killian, no.”

Killian looked down at his wife as if he didn’t recognize her.

“No. Please, I love you. Don’t do this. You said you’d let it go. I’m begging you. This is your chance. Let it go.”

Killian blinked, the knife falling from his slowly opening fingers. Chest heaving, he grabbed Scarlet and pulled her to him.

“He could’ve killed you.” The man’s voice was as raw as his mood.

“He didn’t.” Her hands soothed over his back. “Jerricho saved me. He saved me.”

He could feel Killian’s gaze, but Jerricho looked away.