Chapter 33

Thick dust fills the air as we follow Thomas, though we’re at least a few blocks away from where the Goldstone building stood.

Holy fuck! The building is demolished.

We were this close to being inside when it gave way but sprinted down the hidden corridor Thomas led us through, and moments later, the world shook around us. It was like an earthquake, but so much worse. Seconds later, the rush of dust and smoke billowed up behind us, and we were all running as hard as we could. Only when our lungs could do no more did we slow down, but still, we walk.

It’s unimaginable, unfathomable. An entire building in ruins.

There’s no doubt that it’s Blackwell’s doing. The pure, absolute madness leaves no question.

But at least we’re all alive.

We emerge into the night, sweet air filling my lungs for the first time in what feels like forever. Jonathan pulls keys from his pocket, and a huge Suburban beeps. We automatically aim for it and pile in. Steven takes the wheel, pulling out carefully. It feels like he should be peeling out of the lot, getting us clear of the danger zone, but he can’t. There are too many onlookers, and debris clogs the street.

Steven carefully makes his way clear and gets us on the move away from downtown.

“Escape Plan Omega,” Jonathan says when we’re clear of downtown. Steven nods once and accelerates slightly.

The vehicle is silent as we drive. I think no one knows what to say. I certainly don’t. I knew that Blackwell was sick, devious, and cruel, but this is on a completely different level.

This is more than murder. This was wholescale, indiscriminate slaughter.

Lance leans over, putting a hand on my thigh. “Are you okay?” he murmurs in my ear. “Any injuries, anything?”

I shake my head, biting my lip as I meet his eyes questioningly. “I’m clear too. Everyone clear?” he asks the rest of the car.

A hum of ‘Okay’ and ‘Just shocked’ sounds out, and while it’s hard to believe considering the devastation, we’re all uninjured, just dirty and dusty.

The Suburban returns to silence, and Lance takes my hand, like I’m precious and he almost lost me. The truth is, I almost lost him because of my own insecurities and lack of trust. But this second chance is all I need to do better and have a little faith. In him, in myself, in us. And it was almost taken away by Blackwell’s devastating action.

Lance presses his lips to the top of my head, rubbing his lips across my filthy red curls, and I sigh, closing my eyes. “I love you, Lance.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, shuddering as his body starts to purge itself of the emotions inside. “I know how much it cost you to say that. I won’t betray that, I promise. I love you too.”

Well outside the city, in the woods surrounding Roseboro, Steven pulls into a hole in the trees lining the roadside. I would’ve driven past and never even seen the opening. He stops, tapping a quick code on a camouflaged keypad, and a near-invisible, green-painted gate slides open in front of us.

Steven continues driving down what’s basically a grass path until he pulls up in front of a cabin. Well, it’s built with logs, so I guess that makes it a cabin, but it’s huge, like a mountain version of a mansion.

Izzy asks the question we’re all thinking. “Where are we?”

“A cabin I bought through a line of shell companies,” Thomas explains. “It can’t be traced to me. It’s stocked, secured, and prepped.”

“It’s basically our shit hits the fan property,” Mia says. “Just in case.”

I think it’s safe to say the shit hit so hard, the fan was reduced to bits and baubles. Just like Thomas’s building, I think sadly.

But we’re together. We’re safe. We’ll survive.

Inside, the cabin is breathtaking, hand-carved creatures shaped into the wood beams and warm, cozy looking furniture dominating the large space. I’d love to come back some time when I can truly appreciate it, but right now, it doesn’t seem appropriate to ask about Thomas’s decorator.

Not that I have anything to decorate since the bakery is gone. But I’ll rebuild, a better 2.0 version of Cake Culture, I vow. I only hope Thomas can do the same.

“Okay, here’s the game plan,” Jonathan says, his voice making me jump in the quiet. He’s been on the phone most of the way here, texting away and even having a couple of quick, hushed conversations before we’d plunge back to silence. But he knows things, has been working his network, apparently, because he says, “The assumption is that we are all dead.”

My jaw drops open, and Izzy cries out, “What?”

“Emergency personnel are onsite. Looks like the building was already mostly empty, and the fire alarm made everyone else evacuate. But being on the top floor, no one thinks the elevator would’ve been working, much less get us downstairs in time. Your assistant told the police who was in your apartment when she came up, so the assumption is that everyone is dead. The only good thing is that she didn’t see me.”

He pauses, pulling up early media reports on the collapse. After a moment, the video shifts, and there we all are . . .

Thomas Goldstone, CEO. Mia Karakova, fiancée. Gabriel Jackson. Isabella Turner. Charlotte Dunn. Lt. Comm. Lance Jacobs. Steven Wilson.

“Good,” Thomas says, handing the phone back to Jonathan.

“Why is that a good thing?” Mia asks, confused. “And no offense, but I’m more than just your fiancée, for damn sure.”

“I know. We’ll make sure they fix it for the real obituary.” Then he looks to Jonathan. “So, what’s your read, Jon?”

Jonathan looks around our assembled group, stroking his chin. “I don’t know yet, but at least we’ve got something held to our chest.”

Thomas and Jonathan talk through options and scenarios. Honestly, it mostly goes over my head, and since it’s beyond my involvement, I just try to stay supportive. Especially of Mia, who looks to be near losing it as Thomas talks about next steps.

“Wait, the first step is making sure we tell our families that we’re not dead!” she protests. “Papa’s going to be heartbroken!”

“We can’t,” Jonathan says, and in the corner of my eye, I see Gabe and Lance nod. “Your safety really depends on Blackwell thinking you’re dead. And Vladimir Karakov acting like anything other than his daughter being dead would cause suspicion.”

“I think Vladimir can be told,” Thomas says quietly. “But the folks at the Gravy Train, our colleagues, others... they have to be kept in the dark. Charlotte, your family—”

“Priscilla and Sabrina aren’t losing any sleep,” I assure him. “And Dad... it’s better if they don’t know.”

“Lance?”

He frowns. “My family’s assumed I’ve been dead before. They’ll understand why . . . later.”

Eventually, it’s decided that Jonathan will go back and speak as a representative for the company and for the Goldstone family.

“Next, we need to find Trixie,” Jonathan says, setting off a new discussion.

I try to dissuade them from that, but in the end, I get outvoted. She’s our closest link to whatever Blackwell is planning.

“We have to think strategically,” Gabe says, his voice low and rumbling. “Blackwell thinks he has us in checkmate. But he doesn’t. We have the advantage. Once Thomas comes back to life, though, that advantage disappears. We need to make our plays before that happens.”

“And Trixie could be the key to that,” I reply sadly. I look around, seeing the faces of my family.

Plan agreed upon, or mostly, at least, we break. Jonathan heads back to Roseboro to start his end and get a handle on the press while Steven sets up watch on the bank of security camera feeds.

Slowly, we all drift into separate bedrooms in the cabin-slash-mansion.

The guest room Lance and I walk into is stunning, or it would be any other day. There’s a dark wooden king-sized bed, covered with white cotton linens, and a bank of windows that look out to the treetops. Through an attached door, I find a well-equipped bathroom decked out in white and grey marble and bright lights that blind me.

I blink, and Lance comes up behind me, adjusting the lights with the dimmer switch I hadn’t noticed. “Let’s take a shower, wash this grime off.” I turn to look at him and realize he’s still filthy, remnants of the fire, of jail for him, and the building collapse. I must be too, and all I want is to wash it away, start fresh and clean, hopeful and loving.

“That sounds good.”

The shower is hot and steamy, but there’s no romance to getting undressed. We both just want to be out of these clothes.

Naked, he opens the shower door, letting me step in first. He follows and watches as I let the hot water sluice over my skin, wetting my hair to run in fiery waves down my back. We switch places, and I watch as he does the same, running his rough hands over his chest and abs.

“Lance,” I say, but when he opens his eyes and pins me in place with his gaze, I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” falls off my tongue, but it doesn’t seem like enough, not remotely so.

“I know. It’s okay,” he says gently, cupping my face. “I get it that it was a shock, and everything pointed to me, and it was all too easy for you to think I was just like everyone else who’d let you down. But I’ll keep proving to you that I’m not them. I’m here and not going anywhere.”

I lean into him, and he wraps his arms around me. “You’re amazing, you know that? You could have anyone. Why me, when I’m so difficult?”

I feel his smile against my hair, and his hands pull me tighter. “I’ve told you, I like you just as you are. Sassy, fiery spitfire and scared, untrusting heart. It makes you real, makes you mine, and I’ll keep proving that to you, show you that you’re safe with me.”

I snuggle in, warm in the water and his embrace. “I am safe with you—heart, body, and soul. I just . . . forgot for a minute?” I say, letting a bit of levity into my tone.

“I won’t let you forget again,” he rumbles, his voice full of lush, dark promise. “I’ll make sure you know, without a doubt, inside and out, that you’re mine. Always.”

His hands rub up and down my back, and instead of the comfort he offered earlier, this is an offer to make me forget.

Forget the war raging at our door. Forget the way I almost destroyed us as surely as Blackwell destroyed Thomas’s building.

“I need you,” I whisper. “I need to apologize . . .” I don’t finish the sentence but slip from his arms, sliding down his body and lowering to my knees before him.

“Char, you don’t have anything to apologize for, and you damn sure don’t have to do it on your knees, ever,” he says gruffly, but his cock is thickening before my very eyes, bobbing toward me greedily.

“I know. I want this.” He’s right, and I’m not blowing him as some sort of twisted apology but because I need to feel him, love him, worship him. The way he does me. I want his light to suffuse me, fill in every dark corner of pain I hide, and show him that I am worthy of his love. Because finally, I believe that I am. He’s taught me that, and I will forever be appreciative of his patience with my ’fraidy-cat heart.

I lick a long line from just above his balls to his crown and press a soft kiss to the velvety skin there. After a swirl of my tongue around the ridge, I take him into my mouth fully, getting deeper, inch by inch, as I bob up and down on him. He looms over me, blocking the water with his broad back as he watches his cock disappear into my mouth.

His thumb swipes along my brow, catching the few water droplets that threaten to run into my eyes, then his hands weave into my wet tresses. He guides me, feeding me his cock and dipping into my throat as he groans and grunts. “Fuck, Red. Take me.”

And I do. I take him gladly, letting him have control. Of my mouth, of my heart, of my everything. It’s all his.

He holds me still, thrusting into my mouth so fast I can barely keep my lips closed around him, slurpy, wet sucking sounds echoing against the tile surrounding us. I spread my knees, letting my hands dip down to cup my pussy.

As he fucks my mouth, I slip my slick fingers over my clit, matching his pace. I moan at the dual pleasures, and he freezes deep in my throat. “Do that again,” he snarls.

I moan, vibrating my throat along his head, and I can taste the precum that’s leaking from his tip, the first tease of the treat I want. He picks up the pace again, long thrusts but occasionally holding me to him, my nose buried in the short scruff of hair at the base of his cock, not letting me breathe.

My fingers speed up too, keeping tempo with him, and we’re both getting close.

Without the walls of civility, he fucks my mouth raw and rough. This is punishment for not trusting, absolution and forgiveness wrapped up in one. This is fear that we almost died but celebration that we’ll live to see another day. This is a promise for the future, that whatever comes, we’ll handle it together.

I cry out around him, ready to fall but wanting to take him with me. He yanks himself free of my mouth, his voice rasping in control. “No, not yet.”

I whine, need fiery in my veins and the edge so tantalizingly close, promising release and relief. He grabs under my arms, pulling me up, and takes my honey-coated fingers into his mouth, savoring my flavor.

“Bed. I want you in the bed.”