CAPTOR (The Alpha Brotherhood) (Standalone Dark Billionaire New Adult Romance) (27 page)

That future is still so close I can taste it. This simply cannot be happening, I won’t allow it.

My heart jumps into my throat when I see a light turn on through Zoey’s window. My eyes were glued to the door the entire time and I have a video feed for the fire escape. How did I miss her? Taking a deep breath, I resist the impulse to open the car door. I can’t barge in there like a maniac and upset her even more. I’ve been so worried about finding her that I didn’t take the time to plan something to say once I did.

Watching her shadow on the wall only lasts a few seconds. I’ll come up with something to say. Right now the only thing that matters is getting my arms around her. I step out of the warmth of my vehicle, shocked by the cold and hopeful that she didn’t spend the night in it.

Her apartment door is open. That sticks out to me, it’d be more likely that Zoey would push a chest of drawers in front of the exit. My stomach sinks when I hear a rustling sound. Somehow I know that it isn’t her.

I push the bedroom door open and find myself staring at her traitorous roommate instead, rummaging through Z’s closet.

Shane

“Daniela.”

Her head whips around, her shocked eyes meeting mine before they drop down to my shoes and size me up. “You must be the creepy rich guy.”

My throat tightens. Zoey called me creepy. I can’t really blame her. The girl’s purse is lying on the floor beside her. The custom house key I had made for Z sticks out immediately. It’s sage green with a tiny heart carved into it. There’s also a silver chain bracelet I gave Zoey around her wrist.

The roommate I hoped I wouldn’t be able to find has seen her. And stole from her. It’s a strange mixture of convenience and outrage. “Where is Zoey?”

“She is really pissed off at you. I’d give her some space.”

“Where,” I growl.

“I’m not telling you.”

“You stole her keys, that bracelet. And now you’ve broken into her apartment to steal her clothes. Tell me where she is and I’ll consider not calling the cops.”

“You can’t call the cops on me,” she shoots back, snorting out a laugh. “I live here.”

“I understand tenancy laws quite well. You technically don’t.”

“Well, I used to. Where’s all my shit?”

“There wasn’t much left to save.” I pull my phone from my pocket, keeping my distance as I show her a photo of her defiled belongings.

“What an asshole. You gonna replace my stuff, too?”

“You threw Zoey to the wolves,” I reply, doing my best to keep my head. “If I hadn’t been there—”

“But you were slumming it there, weren’t you? Looking for a tight little piece of ass that you obviously want to keep. The way I see it, you owe me for getting it in the first place. And I’m the only one that knows where it is now.”

“It?” I hiss, stepping toward her. “Did you just call her it?” My jaw clenches tightly, creating a pressure on my teeth I haven’t felt since Zoey made herself a part of my life. “This is your last chance.”

The bitch glares at me with her hands on her hips me until I let out a laugh and start dialing numbers on my phone. “Wait,” she says, grabbing for it.

“Too late.” I just called Z’s phone again and picture it vibrating on the dresser where she left it.

“Hang up!” Daniela pleads. “I’ll tell you.”

She gives me a story and an address that I might have never found on my own. I make her sit on the couch while I confirm its authenticity. Unfortunately, the fact that Zoey is currently bunking with the prostitute that dressed her up for the auction doesn’t comfort me in the slightest. I flash on her standing on that stage, trembling in front of those men screaming obscenities at her. One of them would have won if not for a strange twist of fate that very morning. My imagination drifts to an alternative reality where Z didn’t escape and what that man would have made her endure.

Daniela can get fucked.

I covertly alert the police to her presence while making other phone calls, trying to get eyes on Zoey. The siren in the distance is a common background noise in this neighborhood and doesn’t disturb her until red and blue lights are flying around the living room. She curses at me and bolts out the door.

I step toward the window to look down at the sidewalk below as two officers grab hold of her and bend her over the hood of a car. For a moment, I regret my impulsivity as I frequently do. I’ll have to explain a rather delicate situation and eventually provide evidence that might incriminate myself. But as luck would have it, the cop pulls a few tiny bags of pills out of her purse. Problem solved.

Or so I thought. Zoey isn’t at the address her roommate gave me. The good natured escort explains that Z was too afraid to dwell in a den of iniquity and left in the middle of the night. Cassie didn’t even get a chance to give her back that pair of her favorite blue jeans she left at the club. I recall the confusion in Z’s voice and her shell shocked, drugged expression when she mentioned them. That was one of the first things Zoey asked of me and I didn’t give it to her. It meant nothing to me, but they were probably a lucky thrift store find for her, just one more thing she lost that horrible night.

I spend the entire day riding the train, looking for her on likely routes and stopping at any random hotdog stand or pizza joint to show them her picture. No luck. The trains are warm and familiar, there’s a good chance she’s simply staying on them. At first I hop from car to car while it’s moving so she doesn’t get a chance to escape, but eventually I sit down defeated with the folded pair of blue jeans in my lap. The sun is setting and the temperature drops sharply.

If I were Zoey, where would I go? The lack of options is heart wrenching. But that’s my perspective, laced with remorse and desperation. Z is a survivor. She wouldn’t cry over her situation, not for long anyway. It’s only a matter of time until I find her, she has to realize that. It’s hard to imagine that she’d actually leave town, but it is a real possibility. If that’s what she decided, it already happened. Eventually, she’ll need money and use her debit card again, but not necessarily wherever she plans to stay.

Her best chance of staying away from me is remaining in Chicago. She knows the area well. That $300 she has will last a long time when it comes to food. The next critical necessity is shelter, especially in this weather. At this point I’m relatively certain she’s not couch surfing. She’d be too frightened to huddle around a garbage can fire with homeless people and drug addicts under a bridge somewhere. That only leaves one option, really. Abandoned buildings.

Of course. My mind drifts back to that day I took her to the house I grew up in, when she told me to walk on the studs so I didn’t crash through the floor. Zoey is obviously experienced and comfortable sneaking in. But into which one?

Mine. The worksite where we met for the first time. As adults, anyway. It’s close to her house and Z knows she won’t get in trouble if she’s found squatting there. And I’m not sure if I’m completely delusional, but I can’t shake the feeling that she wants me to find her. Perhaps that’s just hope.

The train ride back to her neighborhood is the quickest way there, but it still seems to take forever. My heart drums in my chest as I jog down the sidewalk. There are no obvious signs of forced entry, but this fence is easy to climb. Security sweeps the building after the workers leave. That was hours ago. The idea of impoverished people with nowhere to go finding shelter here never much bothered me because there’s only so much you can do about it when half of the building barely has outer walls.

My eyes stop on a tiny glimmer of light as they scan the site and my stomach flips over. It’s Zoey, I can feel it. It flicks off just as soon as it appeared and for a moment I wonder if it was a hallucination. I’ll take it.

Thick sheets of translucent plastic hang everywhere, catching the wind like sails. The light was on the fifth floor, but I don’t hear anything except rustling tarps as I’m climbing up the final staircase. I should have brought a flashlight even though my eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness. Zoey isn’t the only potential occupant, and how ironic if I were to be beaten to death in my own project.

If anyone is here, they’re probably in the rear area where outer walls and adjacent buildings would protect them from the wind. The base flooring is installed and there are large piles of wood and boxes of tiles everywhere. I slowly make my way toward the back, doing my best to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible.

Some of the plastic sheeting is missing, pulled over a group of wood and boxes that seem out of place. Then I hear a tiny cough, right before I pull back the tarp. There’s a grease stained paper bag. A pizza box from a familiar restaurant. And Z.

Every muscle in my body relaxes as I stare into the moonlight refracting through Zoey’s eyes. I stand there speechless for a few thuds of my racing heart until her face contorts and she covers her mouth, turning her head. I’m down on one knee in front of her before she chokes out the first sob, clenching my fists to resist the urge to touch her.

I’ve seen her break down a few times, but never quite like this. She usually hides all the pain that must live inside her, pulling herself together quickly or running away from me. Not tonight. Her cries are so mournful and defeated that I find them contagious, my eyes watering as I struggle to find something to say.

“I’m sorry,” I finally whisper, inwardly chastising myself for taking so long to state the obvious.

My apology just makes her sob harder, pulling her knees to her chest until she’s curled in a little ball, hiding her face. The urge to comfort her is entirely irresistible and my shaking hand reaches forward. Her hair is soft and cold on my palm as I stroke the back of her head and scoot closer until I’m sitting cross legged on the floor with her.

“Shane,” she croaks, lifting her tortured face.

To my surprise, her arms outstretch as she crawls toward me. My heart stops beating when she wraps them tightly around my neck, just like she does after sex. I bury my face into her shoulder as her legs circle my waist and clamp on just as hard. We don’t say a word, just sit there in the darkness holding onto each other until we can hardly draw in a breath of the frigid air.

She doesn’t let go and neither do I, but I somehow manage to work my hand into my pocket and find my phone to call for a car. My better judgment urges me to be reasonable, to take her back to her apartment just a few blocks away so we can discuss things on neutral territory. That part of my mind seldom wins the battle with the controlling bastard that is the rest of me.

There is no way in hell that I’m letting her go. I don’t care if it takes years of locking her away from the world in a tower. She’ll forgive me one day, even understand why I did it. And learn to love me again.

Perhaps it won’t be that difficult. Zoey stays locked around my body as I carry her down the stairs and for the entire car ride home. It’s a good thing I called for a driver so I could stay with her in the back seat. She won’t let me see her face, but never once loosens her grip. I’m not sure what to read into that.

Zoey releases me when we get in the elevator. Her face is blank, her eyes fixed on the floor. It’s an expression that could easily be interpreted as defeat or a type of unconditional surrender that I’m not sure I still desire. I don’t want a shell of who she used to be. I no longer need absolute compliance. I crave the ebb and flow of our moods affecting one another, her defiant spirit in our conversations, and above all, that smart mouth. I might be able to lock her away forever, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get her back.

I push the button to stop the elevator before we get home. Zoey sighs and sinks down to the floor, finally lifting her gaze to meet mine. “What are you doing?”

My memory replays a similar scene as my back slides down the wall until I’m sitting next to her. “Remember when I lost it after seeing Adam that day?” I say, tentatively reaching for her hand.

“Yes.” She folds her arms across her chest, rebuking me.

“You didn’t leave me alone. You stayed next to me even though I was being an asshole. Why?”

“You weren’t being an asshole, Shane. You were just acting like one,” she replies. “You were upset. In pain.”

“Then I suppose I’m doing now what you did that day.”

Zoey breathes out a laugh that edges on a scoff. “It’s a little different. I’m not the reason you were freaked out and devastated.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Are those my jeans stuffed under your jacket?”

“Um…” I never used to hesitate when speaking until I met her. It’s quite frustrating. “Yes.”

“So Cassie hung onto them for me. And I’m assuming Daniela gave you her new address before you had her arrested.”

“She did,” I stammer. “You saw that?”

“Yeah, I was on the roof. Watching you watch for me. Did you have Cassie hauled away in handcuffs, too?” she asks bitterly.

“No. Why would I?”

“Because you’re a controlling jackass,” she grumbles. There’s that smart mouth. I do my best to keep from grinning.

“Cassie was kind to you. Daniela… Perhaps you don’t hold a grudge for being dragged into this. I unfortunately do.”

“That’s ironic, don’t you think? Dani’s the only reason you ever got to fuck me in the first place.”

“I didn’t just… fuck you. I truly care about you, Zoey.”

“Yeah, I really felt that when I was tied up in the trunk of your car. And when you were beating me with a riding crop while I had a ball gag in my mouth. Oh, and when you left me for eight days locked in a house until I almost ran out of food. I was really feeling the love then, too.”

When she puts it that way, it becomes crystal clear what a despicable excuse for a human being I am. But she found a way to love me anyway. We’re made for each other. “I fell in love with you right in this very spot. That day you didn’t leave me, the day we picked apples at my childhood home.”

“Sweet talk is not your strong suit, Shane.”

“No. It’s perseverance. Obsession. I bet you felt that.” My voice drops, my tone becoming harsh and demanding. I’m sure she’s used to that by now.

“And there it is,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Obsession and love are two different things.”

“It’s not as if they are mutually exclusive.”

“But they are easily mistaken for each other. Very easily, in your case.”