We’d started afresh here, and soon … we would leave and never come back.
That was part of the plan. Formulated and agreed upon by Wallstreet and myself.
My time is almost up.
“Come on. I need to get you comfy so I can call a doctor.” Striding forward, I aimed for the staircase with the idea of putting her to bed. My knees turned to useless water with every step. Now that we were home, my strength rapidly siphoned away.
Someone clapped me on the back.
Fuck!
I spun around ready to tear whoever it was to fucking pieces.
Grasshopper grinned, holding up his hands. “Whoa, just me.”
My heart slammed like a sledgehammer. “Goddammit, Hopper. What the hell are you doing sneaking in here?”
“Not sneaking. Arranging.” He smirked. “Besides, two wheels always outrun four.” His eyes dropped to Cleo. “You feeling okay, Butterbean?”
I growled under my breath. “It’s Buttercup, asshole. And I’m the only one who’s allowed to use it.”
Cleo giggled. “What did you say you wanted to call me back at the diner? SC or CS—something like that?”
Grasshopper nodded. His mohawk was no longer floppy and covered in fire extinguisher foam but straight and bristling thanks to the hair wax he kept in his bike. “Sarah-Cleo.” He rubbed his chin. “Or was it Cleo-Sarah? I’ve forgotten. No matter, I think I’ll stick with Butterbean.”
“Only if you want to end up dead,” I muttered.
Grasshopper laughed, slapping me again. “You know I’m only yanking your chain.” He turned serious. “The doc is here. I called ahead. Figured you wouldn’t want to go back to the hospital after what happened.” He snickered, obviously remembering the incident with the nurse and stolen clothes. “Even if they let you in.”
“Why wouldn’t they let you in?” Cleo frowned. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Grasshopper and I said at the same time.
I grinned slightly at my VP. He was a lot of things, but he trumped it all by being a friend first. “You’re a good man, Hopper.”
Grasshopper puffed out his chest, grabbing the lapels of his leather cut like some pompous ass. “Aw, shucks. Probably now is the good time to mention it’s going to cost you a fucking fortune, though. Triple callout fee for the late hour and the rumor of your not-so-nice-patient manner back at the hospital.”
I groaned.
Grasshopper chuckled. “But she’s the best in her field and assures me she knows her shit.”
“I don’t care about the cost. If it means Cleo will be okay—”
“And you,” Grasshopper jumped in. “Can’t forget about you.”
Cleo suddenly grabbed his cut, dragging him close. I stumbled as she sandwiched herself between the two of us and pressed a fleeting kiss on Grasshopper’s rough cheek. “Thank you for keeping him safe all these years.”
What the hell?
Grasshopper froze.
I took a livid step backward, breaking Cleo’s hold on his jacket. “What the fuck, Cleo? No kissing other men—especially my fucking VP.”
She laughed, waving off the infraction as if it were nothing. It wasn’t fucking nothing. She was mine, goddammit. Her lips weren’t supposed to touch another man. Ever.
“Art, calm down. You know you’re it for me.” She smiled at Hopper. “I’m just thanking Wallstreet’s son for taking such good care of you when I couldn’t.”
The house seemed to exhale. Furniture gathered in ringside seats for whatever spectacle was about to begin. The air turned thick as fucking molasses.
What is she trying to do?
I’d only just come around to the idea that the man who’d served beside me all these years was related to my benefactor. I didn’t want it blurted out. Information like that had to be carefully controlled. Measured. Dealt with on the lowdown.
Grasshopper’s eyes widened. Smacking his lips, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh …”
Nervousness darted over his face, but he didn’t run.
He was a secretive bastard but he wasn’t a snitch and he wasn’t a pussy. I had to give him that.
He looked at me, guarding his thoughts before dropping his attention back to Cleo. “You know?” Running a hand over his face, he lowered his voice. “How?”
His eyes met mine again. Decisions collided in his gaze. Should he be scared of me or honest? I couldn’t give him an answer because I didn’t know, either. I had no idea how I felt about this mess.
All I knew was my body was shutting down and if I didn’t put Cleo in bed soon, I’d drop her.
Cleo shifted in my arms, choosing her words. “I guessed.”
“You guessed?” Grasshopper’s face fell into shock. “I’ve been waiting for someone to connect the dots for fucking years and no one ever did, yet you’re here for two seconds and guessed? How the hell did you do that?” Looking between us, he shook his head in disbelief. “What gave me away?”
“Can we talk about this later?” I growled.
Cleo ignored me, squirming in her blankets until they tightened like a python around her. “It was your eyes. And then your mouth.”
Grasshopper blinked. “Huh.”
“When Arthur took me to meet Wallstreet, I connected the dots. He reminded me of someone. He reminded me of you.”
Grasshopper snorted. “Well, fuck me.”
My arms burned and the smudginess in my head only grew worse. “No matter how much I’m enjoying this entertaining conversation, there’s a time and place for this, and this isn’t it.”
Wanting nothing more than to crash in bed beside Cleo, I snapped, “Enough. When I can think fucking straight, then we’ll talk.”
Grasshopper nodded. “Sure thing. My bad.”
“Wait. You can’t think straight?” Cleo’s eyes zeroed in on mine.
I groaned.
Damn woman.
Grasshopper clucked his tongue. “Doctor first, then questions, Butterbean.”
My stomach snarled with possession, but I let the nickname slide. He’d helped divert a line of questioning that had no right to be discussed tonight.
Mo appeared in the foyer from my office. His jeans were dirt-scuffed and his jacket reeked of booze from creating bottle bombs. “You guys ready to be poked and prodded? Doc’s waiting.” He tapped a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Minutes are like fucking gold with the rate she’s charging.”
I hoisted Cleo a little higher. “Lead the way.”
“She’s worth every penny, Kill.” Grasshopper nudged my shoulder. “Majored in brain and neurological synapses. Done a few papers on the lingering effects of concussions.”
My heart turned from a crawl to a run. It wasn’t just the short-term effects scaring me shitless—it was the long-term problems I might face.
Of course, hoping Cleo didn’t put two and two together and get a million and fucking four was like wishing for a damn genie to grant three wishes.
“Neurological expert?” she asked, her voice wobbling with worry.
“Don’t worry about it.” Hugging her closer, I asked Mo, “Where is this mystical practitioner?”
Mo pointed toward the lounge. “That way.”
I moved as straight and as streamline as I could with the walls bowing and swaying.
Leaving the foyer, I stepped into the open-plan lounge. The lights were dimmed, highlighting abstract artwork. The large space was both designer and comforting with sliding doors all along one side, a kitchen equipped with every mod-con a person could need, and an area for dining and entertaining.
The blackness outside made the glass doors act like a mirror, reflecting Cleo and myself as I marched across the carpet in muddy boots.
The dining table was my destination, along with the stranger waiting in a pristine white coat.
The woman watched as I stopped before her.
Her coiled brown hair, basic makeup, and wide blue eyes hinted at intelligence and no-nonsense.
Th
e moment I stopped, she smiled professionally and pushed off from the table. “You must be Mr. Killian. I’m Doctor Laine.” Her attention dropped to Cleo in my arms. “Please, if you’ll put the patient on the table, I can begin tending to her.”
The thought of putting Cleo down was a lance to my fucking gut.
Cleo stroked my chest, soothing me. “Thank you, Art. Thank you for bringing me home safely. You can let me go now. I won’t break.”
“You heard the girl,” Doctor Laine said softly. “Best if you leave the rest to me.”
You better know what you’re fucking doing.
The doctor never took her eyes off me as I very carefully deposited Cleo on the table. She winced as I transferred her weight onto the hard wood.
Taking a few steps back, I murmured, “I’m right here.”
My arms felt empty and weightless after carrying her. I ached to pick her back up again and keep her safe.
The black duvet slipped from one of her shoulders, revealing the translucent beauty of her skin marred by shiny scars that would never disappear.
Her flaws could be called ugly—an imperfection to be hidden. But it only made me fall deeper in love with her. She had the strength to bare them—even using them to define how others saw her.
The doctor peered at the blood covering Cleo. Urgency sprang into her tone. “Are you bleeding?”
Cleo shook her head. “No, it’s not mine.” Touching the large bump on her temple, she added, “The only injury is from when they knocked me out.”
My hands curled into fists. My fucking father would pay. He’ll pay a hundred times over.
Turning to face me, the doctor looked over my shoulder at Mo and Grasshopper loitering in the background. “You can go now, gentlemen. If I need anything, I’ll call.”
“Sure thing,” Grasshopper said.
They shuffled immediately to the exit.
I was glad. I didn’t want them seeing Cleo if the doctor asked her to remove the blanket.
I crossed my arms, bracing my legs against the pain, and waited for the doctor to tend to my woman.
Doctor Laine cleared her throat. “You, too, Mr. Killian. I’ll call when we’re done here.”
I scowled. “I’d rather not.”
When I refused to budge, the doctor narrowed her eyes. “Privacy would be appreciated. She’ll be perfectly fine with me. I want to do a full examination.”
“If you’re asking me to leave behind the only thing of value I have left and trust you with her life—well, you don’t know me very well.” Grasshopper lingered over the threshold, not entirely leaving as I’d requested. I asked him, “You checked her credentials?”
Grasshopper frowned. “Of cour—”
“Arthur … it’s fine,” Cleo interrupted. “Just go. I’ll come find you when it’s your turn.”
My heart clobbered against my ribs. Why did the thought of being away from her break me out in a cold sweat?
Because the last time you were apart, she disappeared for eight years and then became a toy for your fucked up father.
I swallowed hard.
The doctor glowered. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you discussing my skill set.” She pointed at the door. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m telling you to. She’s in better hands with someone experienced in medicine. Now leave. I need to tend to your wife.”
Cleo’s face broke out in an adoring smile, her eyes locking with mine.
Wife.
My legs threatened to topple like a hurricane-lashed tree. I’d never heard anything I wanted more. There’d never been any doubt that Cleo would end up becoming my wife, but hearing it spoken by a complete stranger made it entirely real.
I couldn’t help it.
Crossing the small space, I captured Cleo’s cheeks and kissed her on the lips.
She froze, then softened in my hands. A soft moan escaped her as the tip of my tongue flickered over her bottom lip.
Wife. Mine.
The feverish lust sprang into being—a ghost that could never be exorcised.
Her mouth parted, welcoming me to take more.
Doctor Laine coughed loudly.
I smiled against Cleo’s lips. “Will you be okay without me … wife?”
Her entire body deliquesced, her green eyes glowing. “I’ll be fine.” She kissed me one last time. “And for the record, I love that word.”
“Time to leave, Mr. Killian. My patience isn’t infinite.” Doctor Laine tapped her foot.
Grasshopper appeared behind me and tugged my ridiculous stolen Hawaiian shirt. “Come on. Let the women heal in peace. I think you deserve a drink.”
Ignoring his pulling, I couldn’t tear my eyes from Cleo. “I’ll be back soon.”
She nodded. “Can’t wait.”
“Drink, dude. Let’s celebrate the Dagger Rose bonfire.”
There would be celebration but no alcohol. I would abstain until I fixed the mess inside my brain.
Stealing one last kiss from the woman who kept my heart beating, I allowed my VP to drag me from the room.
Two damn hours.
Two interminable hours of waiting.
I sat with a single shot of untouched whiskey, staring at the wall. All I wanted to do was slip sideways on the couch and slam into sleep, but every time my eyes closed, Hopper was there with his damn annoying voice and his pestering rules.
Don’t fall asleep.
You can’t go to sleep until your concussion has been assessed again.
No sleeping.
Over and fucking over.
I was ready to knock the motherfucker out just so he would go to sleep and leave me in peace.
Even though I was ready to wring the guy’s neck, it didn’t mean I wasn’t grateful. Even as I called him a cocksucker and a nag, he knew I appreciated his attempts to keep me alive. I would never admit it to him, but the way my brain throbbed and my vision flickered, I honestly didn’t trust in my ability to wake up.
Grasshopper was a reliable friend. Wallstreet was my savior, mentor, and advisor. I trusted both men explicitly, but at the same time, I always understood that my partnership with Wallstreet was for mutual gain. Wallstreet wanted me to transform and rule the Corrupts—which I did. He wanted me to become friends with senators, journalists, and police—which I did.
He wanted more.
Always more.
Same as me.
Everything he asked me to do, I did.
Everything he requested had a reason.
A reason bigger than just Pure Corruption. Bigger than trading. Bigger than both of us.
We both wouldn’t stop until we brought about a revolution, and that revolution was on the horizon.
Wallstreet gave me a dynasty to oversee.
Mo came into the room after completing another patrol around the grounds. “Brothers are in place, Kill. I’ve set up a rotation of three Pures to stake out the house—they’ll share the workload. No other asshole is breaching this place.”
My head was the weight of a damn skyscraper but I nodded in thanks. “Appreciate it.” I trusted Pure Corruption far more than the hired security firm from before.
Bastards.
They’d get an ear-bashing and a lifetime of bad press after what they let happen.
“In a few days, we’ll arrange a better alternative.” Mo stalked across the small sitting room where we’d taken up residence while waiting for Cleo. “Perhaps you could move to the Clubhouse for a bit—until this is all done and fucking dusted?” Helping himself to the open bottle of whiskey, he poured a generous shot and knocked it back.
Glancing at Grasshopper, he shook the bottle. “Another?”
Hopper shook his head, wiping his mouth. “Not for me, dude.”
Turning to face me, Mo said, “No doubt the next few weeks will be full of war. Best to rest where you know you have reinforcements.”
My blood thickened. “Not war …” I grinned coldly. “Genocide.”
Grasshopper reclined i
n the single leather chair he’d commandeered. Tipping his glass in my direction, he cocked his head. “Exactly. Genocide.”
An utter bloodbath.
There would be no more waiting around. No more putting chess pieces into play and striking off a never-ending to-do list. That had been systematic and time-consuming. This would be swift and archaic.
And at the end of it, my revenge will be sated. Wallstreet’s goal completed. And Cleo cemented in my future.
If she forgave me, of course.
My stomach contorted into a knot.
Wallstreet’s plans meant I inherited larger and complicated tasks the more successful I became. In the scheme of things, my father was a fucking fly needing to be swatted with my shoe. He’s inconsequential.
Nothing would tax me more than what Wallstreet and I’d been working toward all these years. I couldn’t afford to be ill.
“By the way. We found him.” Mo fisted his glass.
“Who?” I rubbed my temples, hoping to dispel some pain.
Mo took a swig of his drink. “Adam ‘Alligator’ Braxton—the cocksucking snitch who infiltrated us and started this fucking mess. He was staying at Dagger Rose.”
The asshole had bolted before we’d had time to apprehend him. But running and hiding wouldn’t save him.
Nothing would save him.
He’s already dead.
Mo ground his teeth, dragging a finger across his throat in the sign of execution. “He’ll pay when we catch up to them.”
The door cracked open and Doctor Laine entered. Her eyes skimmed over the wall where a blown-up map of the world hung. I’d stood for hours at a time staring at islands and cities, wondering where Cleo might be if she hadn’t died that night.
Her gaze drifted to the small cluster of seats all placed on a deep turquoise rug that looked like an oasis in a sea of white tiles.
“How is she?” I asked, leaning forward to place my glass on the kidney-shaped coffee table. The distance wasn’t much. My arm span was more than enough to place the glass safely on the table. But somehow … I missed. The lip of the wood caught the liquor, tipping the entire thing upside down and drenching the carpet.