Arthur gathered me close, the first time he’d touched me with affection since we’d walked through the doors of the jail. “I already have everything I need. I’ll just be happier when it’s all finished.”
You and me both.
Wallstreet smiled. “You’ve earned it. And when Dagger Rose are no more, you’ll be one step closer to our ultimate goal. Don’t let me down.”
Arthur bristled beside me. “I’d never let you down, Cyrus. Never.”
I was left with a horrible gale inside my heart, howling with uncertainty and queries.
Would Arthur be so blindly loyal if he knew he was being lied to?
And how exactly could I show him the truth without him hating me?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Was I strong enough to protect Cleo?
Was I old enough and wise enough that I wouldn’t be so fucking naïve again?
I’d achieved more than I’d ever dreamed. I’d created wealth from nothing. Re-created a life from near impossible odds. And I had a wealthy, intelligent guardian angel who’d become fundamental in my plans and rehabilitation.
He was my saving grace.
He’d taught me everything I knew.
And yet when it came to Cleo, I still felt endlessly uncertain.
The same boy loving a girl who was never meant to be mine.
The same boy with the same damn insecurities.
—Kill
I looked at the clock.
2:30 a.m.
Ugh.
I rolled over and found an empty bed.
Where is he?
The sheets were thrown back and the forlornness of his empty side hurt my heart.
After we’d returned from visiting Wallstreet, Arthur had spent the afternoon on his laptop, trading the foreign currency market as if it were an addiction. He clicked and studied and made notes in his ledger, slowly unwinding the more he traded.
We hadn’t spoken much as we’d had dinner and headed to bed. I couldn’t shake my confusion of going to see Wallstreet. I couldn’t line up his cryptic answers or make sense of anything.
And I couldn’t understand why Arthur didn’t realize that Grasshopper was related to Wallstreet.
To me it was so damn obvious. But to him—to a man locked in the winds of vengeance and single-minded determination—it had never registered.
Then again, maybe he does know and it’s all part of the hidden agenda?
Getting back to sleep was a lost cause. I would never relax with buzzing questions or the emptiness of the mattress beside me.
Deciding to go find him, I sat up and swung my legs out of the warm cocoon. Dressed only in one of Arthur’s black T-shirts, I padded down the corridor and drifted down the stairs.
No lights were on.
I wanted to keep it that way. I liked the anonymity the dark provided. I enjoyed creeping through the shadows, almost as if I crept through my own mind.
The house had been spotlessly tidy and clean when we’d arrived home. Whoever Arthur called to come take care of it had also left his home in immaculate condition.
Knowing where I’d find him, I kept ghosting silently until stopping on the outskirts of his office.
The four smashed computers had gone, replaced with unopened boxes of new gadgets and technology. The glass from the equation poster had been swept up and the desk re-buffed.
It was as if the break-in never happened.
I found Arthur on the floor by the safe behind the couch. He rested against the wall, his legs up and head bent. His eyes glued to the photos I’d seen when he’d opened the safe yesterday.
He didn’t notice me and I took the opportunity to stare at the beautiful man whom I’d been privileged to watch grow from boy to teen to capable, protective adult.
His strong hands flexed with power around the delicate photographs. His tanned and kissable throat rippled as he swallowed. His entire body was sculptured and groomed into a fighting machine—every inch spoke of readiness and a ruthless temper that could kill.
I sucked in a breath at the tiniest shimmer in his green eyes.
Tears?
No, it can’t possibly be.
Anger.
Glittering anger that never left him alone—no matter how gentle and loving he was with me.
Arthur’s neck snapped up; he quickly slapped the photos color side up on the tiled floor. “What are you doing up?”
I didn’t take my eyes from the hidden images. “I couldn’t sleep. You left—I couldn’t go back to sleep without seeing you. Without reminding myself that you’re real and not a dream.”
He sighed, opening his arms. “Come here.”
Moving around the couch, I slid down the wall beside him and snuggled into his masculine warmth. He kissed the top of my head, breathing in the scent of my shampoo. “I am real. You are real. We’re never losing each other again.”
His voice was strained, the strange mix of hatred and guilt plaiting together to form a heavy oath.
“What are the photos of?” I murmured. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable and force him to show me things he’d rather not reveal, but at the same time, I wanted truth. I wanted to rip aside the curtain and see the secrets beyond.
“It’s nothing, Cleo. You should go back to bed.” His arms tightened in direct retaliation of his words. His mouth said he wanted me gone, but his actions said otherwise.
I sighed, liquefying against him. “What are you so afraid of?”
He tensed, not answering.
I waited for a few minutes, but he never slipped or admitted.
“When will you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“The story of how you ended up in prison? The tale of what happened while we were apart? The fable of why you were so adamant I was dead? There’s so much I don’t know. So much I need to know before giving everything that I am to you.”
“You haven’t given me everything?”
The darkness was a soft voyeur around us, hushing our confessions. “No. Not yet. You’re keeping too many things from me.”
“You’re keeping things from me, too.”
“Yes, but not on purpose. I remember in sporadic bursts. I can’t control it.”
Arthur squeezed me hard. “Is it getting easier?” Once again the fear and hope waged war in his tone.
I sighed heavily, wishing he would stop lying and tell me what he was so afraid of. Anger filled me and I stiffened in his hold. “Wallstreet means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
Arthur went deathly still. “He’s the reason why I’m free and rich and in a position to take revenge on those who betrayed me. So, yes… he means a great fucking deal.”
Tracing the grout between the white tiles by my toes, I whispered, “You do know he has other plans for you? The way he watches you, Art. He’s hiding so much but demands everything in return.”
Arthur pulled away, untangling his arm from around my shoulders. “What exactly are you saying?”
Sitting taller, I braced myself. I hadn’t meant to rip open this particular festering wound, but he’d left me no choice. “Do you know what he’s truly after? Do you know what he’ll take as payment for everything he’s given you?”
Arthur stood up in a rush, pacing in front of me. “What the fuck has gotten into you, Cleo? You can’t be fucking jealous of a guy who was the only one there for me.” Stopping, he growled, “I don’t care what his ultimate plans are. They’re in my best interests, and I could obey every request and still not give enough to repay him for what he’s done.”
Pushing up off the floor, I stood with my hands fisted. “What exactly did he do, Art? Please tell me, because I’m sick of living in the dark. What is he making you do? What does he want?”
Arthur dragged both hands through his jaw-length hair. His body rippled with anger, his chest rising and falling fast. “It’s none of your business!”
“You’re wrong.” I pressed forward, deliberately taunting him to face the tru
th. I might be floundering in the dark with incomplete memories, but he was worse—he willfully ignored things right in front of his face. “Do you know who Grasshopper is?”
Arthur stopped, hands tangled in his hair. His green eyes popped wide. “What? What the fuck does Hopper have to do with this?”
I wanted to shake him. “Come on. You haven’t noticed? In the years you’ve been dealing with both men, you haven’t ever truly looked at them?”
Arthur froze, his eyes blazing as realization pounded into him.
Finally.
“Oh, fuck.” His hands fell from his head, hanging by his sides. “You’re right. They look—” He shook his head. “It can’t be. Jared’s last name isn’t Connors. It’s Shearer. They can’t be…”
Closing the distance between us, I rested my fingers on his arm. “Not having the same name doesn’t mean a thing these days. He could be illegitimate, having taken his mother’s name. Hell, he could’ve changed it. Look at me. Cleo Price has a grave and a death certificate confirming my demise. In the eyes of the law I don’t exist; only Sarah Jones does. Isn’t it possible that everything you think you know has two meanings? Two purposes?”
He grabbed my shoulders, bringing me closer. “You’ve been worried about this? Why?”
“Why?” I frowned. “Because I’m protective of you. I don’t like to think of others taking advantage of your intelligence or skill. What if they’re not on your side?”
His fingers dug into my flesh. “I’ll say this once and only once. I love you for worrying about me and I’ll never dismiss your impressions or instincts, but regardless of what you think you know of Wallstreet or Grasshopper, they are good men. Honest men. I agree, to you it looks as if they’re using me, but, Cleo, this is an instance where you have to be patient and trust me.”
His hand came up to cup my cheek. “I would never let anyone else take advantage or screw me over. I’d kill them instantly. I went to prison for something that was a lie. I served time for people I thought cared about me, only for them to destroy me without a backward glance. Everything I’m doing is to ensure they never have the opportunity to screw anyone else ever again. And I will not rest until they’ve paid for what they’ve done. Do you understand?”
The ferocity in his eyes weakened my knees with sheer promise of bloodlust. “I understand.”
Running his thumb over my bottom lip, he nodded. “Good. Now, no more worrying about Wallstreet and his motives. Don’t look for flaws in the man who kept me alive and sane. But I can tell you that he’s been on my side since the day I met him. He’s put things in motion for me, given me a purpose, a plan—and a way to get even.”
My eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
His jaw tightened. “It means there is so much more than you know happening in the background. So much more than Pure Corruption and Dagger Rose. Bigger than anyone knows.” He went silent, almost as if wishing he hadn’t hinted at the depth of what he wasn’t telling me. But then he scowled and finished, “What I’ve been working on, Cleo, will mean my life won’t have been for nothing. That living those years in prison believing you were dead weren’t in vain. I’m owed this. You’re owed this. And Wallstreet is making that possible.”
A shiver darted down my spine. “But, Art—what are you planning—”
He pressed a finger over my lips, hushing me. Whispering softly, he said, “Let me worry about him. Trust me that it will all work out.” Ducking, he pressed a small kiss where his finger had been, murmuring, “I have something for you.”
The deliberate change of subject didn’t go unnoticed, but I forced myself to relax and let him continue to hide for a bit longer. “Oh?”
He took my hand, guiding me back to the safe. Stepping carefully over strewn photographs, he picked up a ring box.
A ring box?
Turning back to me, he held it out. “For you, Buttercup.”
My heart rate exploded. Conclusions tripped and collided. Was he going to propose all those years ago? Had he bought a ring only to think I died and held on to it all this time?
My hands shook like crazy as I took it.
Arthur chuckled. “It’s not what you think.” Placing his hand over mine, he added, “You gave me the Libra eraser because I told you you made more mistakes than anyone else I knew. I gave you this because I couldn’t figure out a way to tell you how fucking mad I was about you. I couldn’t sort out the love I had for the little girl I’d grown up with and the woman I saw you becoming. So I let something else show it instead.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, he helped me open the lid.
The moment I saw what rested inside, the past stole me away.
“Sneaky, Buttercup.”
I giggled as I climbed in through his bedroom window. It was past one a.m. and the compound, including our parents, was fast asleep. Arthur lay on the top of his covers in nothing but his silky boxers playing PlayStation.
My mouth went instantly dry. “I see you dressed up for me.”
His eyes trailed to his groin. I waited for him to bounce up and cover himself, to prevent any chance of something other than platonic friendship from happening.
But this time was different.
He let me stare.
He let me witness the rapid hardening of the part of him I wanted to see more than anything.
The room shimmered with lust.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmured. The tone of his voice was pure sex, sending wetness between my legs and an eternal throbbing that made me pine for his touch.
“I’m supposed to be wherever you are,” I whispered, breathless.
Art suddenly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and patting the mattress beside him. “Come here.”
The command sent a delicious clench through my core. I couldn’t breathe. Seriously? He was finally going to give in to us?
Sitting nervously, I struggled to keep my eyes away from the erection now straining against the silk of his boxers.
Without a word, Art reached under his pillow and drew out a ring box. Dropping it into my lap as if he didn’t have the self-control to touch me, he breathed, “Here. This is for you.”
I almost dropped the box, I shook so much when opening it.
Inside rested a mood ring, but not just any mood ring… a large stone encircled by the Sagittarian archer with an arrow locked in his quiver.
My head snapped up. “Art, I love it.”
Plucking the ring from the box, he grabbed my hand and we both sucked in a harsh breath. Electricity and forbidden want crackled and blistered between us. I would’ve given up everything for him to kiss me, to press me onto my back and climb on top of me.
I whimpered as the intensity became too much.
Art shook as much as I did as he slowly slid the ring onto my middle finger. The stone immediately turned a smoldering red.
Art chuckled. “According to the chart it came with, that means you’re hungry.”
“Hungry?”
He dropped his eyes. “Yeah, hungry for passion, love, connection.”
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do this anymore.
Launching myself at him, I scrambled onto the bed, knocking him onto his back.
His mouth fell open as I pressed my lips to his, sucking in his soul, his desire, every emotion that clogged my brain whenever he was near.
My entire body shuddered, pleasure rippling in a core that suddenly knew exactly how to get relief.
Arthur groaned as I straddled his hips, rocking and pressing my night shorts against his rock-hard erection. I didn’t care the dusky pink of my pajamas was drenched from being around him. I didn’t care that I could smell myself—smell how much I needed this boy.
Puberty had hit and Arthur had been teasing me ever since he first kissed me in the park. It was time for him to stop teasing and deliver.
“Cleo—wait,” he hissed in the darkness.
His head arched back as I pressed viciously
hard, driving myself to the point of pain as I rode him.
“Shit.” He snapped.
His hands came up, capturing my face, kissing me savagely.
A moan ripped from my lungs as he thrust up, hitting the perfect spot and making me melt and freeze all at the same time.
We kissed as if the world would end. We fed, we dined—we ate every inch as our mouths attacked hungrily. When his hands fell to my hips, pressing me harder onto him, the seam of my shorts rubbed in just the right way.
I cried out, flopping onto his chest.
Instantly he stopped, his heart drumming so hard against mine. “We can’t. Cleo, go. Leave before—”
“Before you fuck me?” I rocked my hips.
Temper darkened the red hot heat between us. “Don’t say such crass things. It’s not ladylike.”
Ladylike? I wasn’t a girl or a biker president princess, or even a woman in that moment.
I was his. I wanted to be used, abused, taken. I wanted dirt and filth and raw primitive fucking.
“Fuck me, Arthur Killian. I’m begging you to fuck me.”
He threw me off him, tearing off the bed and moving to his wardrobe. Yanking on jeans, he dragged both hands through his hair. “Shut up. They’ll hear you.”
I sat panting on his bed, running my finger over my new mood ring, which now glowed a horrible black. Looking for the box, I found the placard that stated what each color meant.
Black: Sadness, depression, rejection.
Yep.
Art came closer, ducking to his haunches before me. His hands landed on my knees, tracing circles that only amplified the tangled feelings inside. His eyes fell to the damp patch between my legs; his jaw clenched.
“You told me once the traits of a Libran. I did some of my own research on you. Want to know what I found?”
I shook my head, hiding myself behind a curtain of fiery red hair. I didn’t want to look at him—not after he’d turned me away, like all the other times.
Brushing the thick crimson strands behind my ear, he murmured, “You’re bright and inquisitive, energetic and enthusiastic, adventurous and honest.” His voice slowly leveled out from desire-filled raggedness. “You’re passionate to a fault and fearless.” He smiled. “I can attest to that. You go after things you want with no thought to the consequences and suffer from incorrigible optimism.”