4. Everleigh

Chapter four

Everleigh

W hat was I thinking? A million dollars is already a crazy amount. Why was I adding more to that?

In all fairness, it’s no less than his asshat, scheming, lying, horrible, two-timing, poo pants of a brother deserves but instead, it's going to cost his maybe not-so-bad brother. I’m still undecided on the not-so-bad part. I’ve been whisked away on a private jet to a location I still am unsure about, and my phone is nowhere in sight. I’m in a palatial room that is dripping in opulence, from the dark burgundy wallpaper to the plush rugs on the wide plank hardwood floors to the wainscoting and crown molding and fancy chandelier. All this for a bedroom, and one the house’s main occupant clearly doesn’t even use. The furniture, if sold, could probably pay for six months to a year of all our household bills combined.

We’ll discuss it at dinner.

That’s what Darius said when I’d asked for two million. I just pulled that number out of my ass because I was pissed and it sounded good to say. His lips had twitched, and then he instructed his goon of the month to untie me. When I saw the smile he was trying to hide, I knew I should have asked for more. The guy probably makes a million dollars a freaking minute or some crap I can’t comprehend.

And the worst part? I’ve been up here brooding about it for a few hours now, alone, without my phone or anything to do but worry. And think about my captor. I mean husband of convenience. He’s freaking handsome as sin—okay, his arm being all operated on and painful and scarred and sad-looking kind of makes me feel for him, but that’s neither here nor there—and richer than god. What the heck have I gotten myself into?

Even worse, when I got bored and started to explore the room, I found a dresser as well as a huge walk-in closet full of clothes, and they were all in my size. I suppose Bradford Asshole Lion the Turd filled his brother in, and he had someone do some personal shopping ahead of time.

Which was kind of nice of him, I guess.

I’d like to thwart him by not wearing any of it, but I don’t want to have dinner in the gauzy wedding dress from earlier. I say earlier because I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been out for. I want to say a few hours, but that would make it the middle of the night. Do people have dinner in the early hours of the morning? I freaking hope so because I’m starved. After I got over the shaking, the aching head, and the nasty tumbling tummy from the chloroform, I realized I was starving.

I’m feeling more than good enough now that I’m able to pick out a comfy-looking, flowy black dress that goes to my knees and a black cardigan that lands almost in the same spot. Next, I choose a pair of fuzzy pink slippers as a bit of a middle finger, and a fuck no, I’m not getting dressed up for this.

Then, I wait.

And wait.

Until finally, someone knocks at the door, and I hear it being unlocked because, yes, the goon locked me in here after he and Darius left. When the door opens, it’s said goon with all his tattoos and bulk and scariness that he’s perfected.

He gives me an approving once over and grins when he notes my choice of footwear. I think he actually likes the fuzzy pink, damn it.

“Dinner be ready. If you’d like to come and eat, my lady.”

I huff back a sigh. I’m so not rising to that. Not sure what’s up with the accents, but it’s probably yet another tool to throw people off or drive them crazy. I’m not even sure what that one was. Middle ages something or other? I let my fuzzy pink slippers lead me out of the room as I follow behind the big hulking figure.

I’ve managed not to shed a single tear about this whole bait-and-switch and basically being kidnapped thing, which is a marvel. At least I won’t be going to the middle-of-the-night dinner with swollen eyes. I’m going to need to be tough to bargain. Everyone underestimated me, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can use it to my advantage. I can drive a hard deal even in fuzzy pink slippers.

The house is a maze of doors and wainscoting, dark colors, fancy artwork, heavy drapery, chandeliers, and more artwork. It’s exactly like what I thought it would be—a fortress. But not like the rocky, craggy kind of castle-style fortress. No, it’s the kind of fourteen to twenty-million-dollar house that is extremely old school and built in another century. It’s the kind of place that probably does have stone on the outside, and on the inside, it has at least forty-three rooms.

The dining room is its own entity, with more dark colors, two huge chandeliers that are blindingly bright for my poor head, which still hasn’t quite fully recovered, and a table that is hewn from approximately sixty-eight trees, with at least as many chairs around it. At the head of it all, there are two places set, with one dark-haired gorgeous mystery of a devil sitting like a regal king, straight-backed and dressed entirely in black, and one hulking brute positioning himself next to him.

The place beside Darius is obviously mine. It’s the one thing in this place that might actually belong to me. He owns everything else. Everything that I see and touch. And now, by marriage and by merits of the money already in my bank account, he owns part of me .

If I were a child, I would take the place setting, move it down a good ten chairs, stick my tongue out, and pretend I couldn’t hear a thing that was being said. But I’m not a child, and I need to bargain. It’s up to me to save my family since I’m already screwed. The time for doubts and regrets is over, and I have to make my case.

I sit down on the chair the brute pulls out—at least he has nice manners. There are two covered domed trays on the table. Yes, for real. The wine is already poured—a dark red one—so I’m not surprised when I lift the cover to find a steak that takes up most of the plate and is thicker than my foot. The rest of the plate is heaped with long spears of asparagus and baby potatoes roasted in some kind of delicious-smelling herbs. My stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble loudly, betraying the fact that I have been too much of a wreck to eat anything all day.

“So…” I pick up the steak knife and the ridiculously heavy and likely very expensive fork and start sawing away at the steak. I’m one of those people who needs to cut the whole thing up before I eat even a single bite. I concentrate on that task so I don’t have to look up at the dark stranger who is my husband. But, after a long pause, I break and sneak a glance. “About that million dollar…”

A blink. There’s no smile of amusement, but there is laughter in his tone. Not mocking me. “Two million. You’re set on that, then?” He sounds like he really wants to know.

I grasp my fork tight, and the handle of the knife bites into my opposite palm. I’m holding it too tight, holding on for dear life. “Absolutely. I think I’m worth it. Judging from this place, the fact that you have a private jet, and the damage I could do to your family’s reputation if I don’t keep my mouth shut about what your brother did and how you drugged me and brought me here, I’d say the number is quite reasonable.” I can’t ask for more now. I just can’t. Two million dollars. That figure already makes my head swim. It’s the kind of money that makes it so a person has to worry about very little in life.

I inhale deeply, more for courage than to relieve my lungs, but I don’t smell the steak, wine, or dinner. I smell him . Clean, fresh, and manly. He doesn’t smell like a rich person. Not like Bradford did. My heart pulses so fast that it hurts. I don’t want to think about Bradford. Gross. I can’t believe I ever had a crush on him. That I ever thought he was a white freaking knight. He’s more like a turd on a stead. I focus on Darius instead. I have to admit, he’s much more captivating.

Get a grip and cut your steak. Steak is good, while Darius Anderson is bad news. He kidnapped you, and his brother tricked you. Don’t forget that. Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t feel anything.

I work at the meat, sawing, sawing, sawing, all while I get tingles in my posterior because, of course, I’m nervous. I note that under this lighting, which happens to be a series of huge, ornate old fixtures, my assumptions about Darius’ eyes in the church were correct. They’re just a very dark brown, and they even have a few specks of gold.

My mind gets away from me a little. I always kind of wondered what Bradford would look like without a shirt on, and that one gets chalked up and written into the books of everlasting shame, but I know what Darius looks like. I know what that admission cost him, yet he still showed me. He’s tall and muscled, his body carved in the gym for entirely different reasons than most people. There are two sides to him, one perfect and the other flawed, but both chiseled.

Yes, I know what Darius Anderson looks like without a shirt on, and the image will always be burned into my brain. He was so intensely muscled that I thought I would black out all over again. I know the spots where the metal of the car cut into him, and then, later, where the doctors and surgeons did—so many scars. The pain must have been nearly unbearable. How can it not hurt now? Is he lying about that?

He looks nothing like his freaking twin brother, and for that, I’m truly thankful. If I ever see Bradford again, I’m going to kick him in the junk. I really should have done that in the church and ran.

Darius is concentrating. His jaw is locked, and his eyes are down. He doesn’t look amused. I follow the trajectory of his gaze and realize his clenched teeth aren’t because I’m a brat for asking for that kind of money and threatening him but because he seems to be having a hard time with his knife. His fingers are clenched around the handle, but it’s like his hand has no power in it. He’s working it over his steak, but not much of anything is happening.

I can literally feel the goon tensing over Darius’ shoulder. Like he wants to step in and do it, but he would never shame his boss that way. I can feel the frustration radiating from Darius like a roaring bonfire throwing heat. His body tenses, and I expect him to explode and fling the knife across the room, but he just sets it down to the right of his plate, stabs a potato with his fork, and looks up at me.

He stills, and I remember thinking that his brother reminded me of something predatory in the church. Darius doesn’t have the same vibe about him. How I could have ever trusted Bradford is beyond me. Darius might be darker and have that clichéd black-as-night aura going on overall, but his eyes lack the same light that I once took for kindness in his brother’s. It wasn’t. It was calculation. Beneath that black sheep exterior, I bet Darius actually has a good sense of humor.

I bet he’s actually alright.

He realizes I’m watching him, and his lips thin out. His arm isn’t exactly a secret, so I take a chance because I’m too caring. It comes from years of having to survive, to be a mom to my sister because our mom was out working, and then later, constantly worrying about them both. I notice the smallest details because it’s practically ingrained in me. “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”

With his good hand, he nods and rubs at his jaw, which is clean-shaven. “I’m sure. It just gets stiff, and it locks up sometimes. My fingers are useless as fuck tonight.” He meets my gaze, and I squirm under the intensity of it. It’s intense but not unkind. “I can grasp anything, but it’s like there’s no power in it. It’s incredibly frustrating.” That admission costs him, too.

I drop my voice to a whisper as the goon behind the chair shuffles his feet. What was his name again? Hans? Was that it? It should be Scary Dude or Mr. Tattoo Bald Head. Or Badass Mess You Up. “You could ask the kitchen to cut it up for you.”

He shakes his head, and his darker skin tone can’t hide the color that rises in his cheeks. “No, it’s fine.”

“Ask him to do it.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry anyway, and it’s the middle of the night. No one eats like this in the middle of the night.”

Aha, so I was right about that.

“That’s too bad.” I study my plate and the steak I’ve already cut up. “This one is kind of underdone for my taste. Yours looks a little tougher. Want to switch?”

His expression says an eleventh toe just sprouted from my forehead. A hairy toe. Shudder. I dart my hand up to feel the spot where his gaze is burning a hole through. Nope, no toes, no hair. Nothing.

“Because I’m starving,” I go on. “But this is just…a little bloody. Too raw. It really looks quite awful. You’d be doing me a real favor if you gave me yours.”

I’m being suspicious. I shouldn’t be nice to someone who just bait-and-switched me, although it looks like he got the short end of the deal with his brother, too. It looked like he was eating glass when he confessed to me. And it looked like he was eating glass times ten when he took his shirt off and showed me his ruined arm like a truce so I would trust and believe him. It was like baring his soul, way too intimate. His arm might not hurt anymore, but his pride took a huge blow.

“For the love of god, Darius, just give me your plate. I’m hungry.” I snatch it from him before he can fight me on it, thrusting mine in front of him. Despite his proclamation about not having an appetite, he falls on that steak fast enough, jamming two pieces into his mouth and chewing.

I happily cut his, which is every bit as rare as the one I just had, and I no doubt prefer it that way or even less cooked. Even after everything, I can still appreciate the work and skill that went into making this meal because I haven’t had one like it in years. Every bite is delicious. I even let out a little moan, which I’m embarrassed about, and try to cover up. “So, are we in agreement? Because if we are, I’m going to need it in writing. And I want half up front now and half later. You can forget the healthcare for my sister. I’ll cover that with the money, obviously.”

“What’s wrong with your sister?”

It’s not a rude question and not nosy. Just honestly curious. I suppose that maybe, if he’s going to be the one padding my bank account, and we’re going to have to spend the next six months together, there are a few things I can tell him.

Great. You’re already accepting this, as fucked up as it is. Do I have any other choice at this point? Did I before? It was either this or becoming homeless in a few months and watching my sister suffer without the treatments she needed.

“She has cancer.” His fork clatters to the table at my words, and yeah, I kind of feel like gagging on the delicious steak I just swallowed. “Non-Hodgkin lymphoma.”

He slowly folds his hands in his lap. His lips purse, and he says nothing. The way he looks at me though, it’s enough to stop my heart completely. It’s his eyes, always his eyes. They’ll probably haunt me for the rest of my life because they’re so beautiful, so calm, so understanding. No one has ever looked at me this way before. One who understands the depths of pain, fear, and helplessness of another.

Except, I’m no longer helpless. I have the power to give Heather everything she needs if I go through with this.

“I’m sorry.” The words are so soft that they cut deep into my tender skin, which suddenly feels way too exposed.

“She was diagnosed over a month ago, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get her the treatments she needs. The tests were expensive enough, and she doesn’t have health insurance. We were…well, young and healthy, and it was expensive. I have insurance through work, but Heather is a waitress, and she doesn’t. I’ve been trying to get her some kind of coverage, but of course, no one is biting now because she’s already been diagnosed. The only thing working in our favor right now is that it’s not super aggressive. My mom and I have been trying to save up some money for her to get treatment. We’re just waiting until we can even partially afford the first one because they’re regular after that. The doctors agreed we could wait a few weeks, but not much longer than that.”

“Christ.”

I can feel the goon tensing up in the corner of the room. I don’t even have to look at him because he’s radiating some seriously killer vibes over there, but I think it’s a sympathetic kind of energy if that makes sense.

“My mom is working three jobs right now. She took another one after we found out Heather was sick. I was working two. And…and oh my god. I need to…I called in sick tonight, but I’m going to have to call and officially quit. And obviously, my job working as Bradford’s assistant is over. I guess I don’t have to call in for that one.” Oh, look, tonight does have one small bonus.

“So she’ll need to get chemo for a few months.”

“Yes, and then they’ll reassess. She’ll probably have to take some other drugs after that, but they aren’t sure yet. They’re going to have to wait and see how she responds. We’re just incredibly lucky that Heather was always super healthy, so when she got sick, we knew something was seriously up, and we went to the doctor right away, so she was diagnosed early.” Just thinking about Heather getting the treatments she needs and getting better works out some of the knots in my stomach and shoulders. The tension eases up in my neck and throbbing temples. I reach up and smooth my hand down one of the wild strands of hair I still haven’t brushed. Sometime between getting drugged and now, the careful style Heather did for the wedding was wrecked.

When Heather was diagnosed, we stood in the bathroom and cried together. She wanted to shave her head before her hair had a chance to fall out, long before her first treatment, so we did it together. I wanted to shave mine with her, but she wouldn’t let me do it. She smiled and laughed after the tears and informed me that she was now going to start rocking pink wigs. She always wanted pink hair.

I finally pull my eyes away from the table and look up at Darius. He looks…I’m not sure. I can’t really tell since I don’t know him well enough. Wrecked, I guess…a little. His eyes have an unusual sheen, and his lips are pressed together. I can also see a muscle leap in his jaw. He’s a good man. Everything that happened so far was unfortunate, but he’s not horrible. I know I’m too generous, and those thoughts are far too hopeful, especially since I can’t know that for sure.

All of a sudden, he reaches under the table for something, and then he passes me my phone. “Here. I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to try and attempt to escape. Trust me when I say I was more worried about you hurting yourself. You were recovering from being drugged, and you weren’t thinking properly. You were also confused, and I didn’t want you to do anything rash. If you’re going to stay, I’ll have a contract drawn up. You’ll be able to come and go as you please as long as you abide by the terms of the agreement, which is, if we’re married, we share a home, and the outside world has to believe it’s real. You can visit your family as often as you like, and I’ll give you the use of my jet and anything else you need to get there. What I have is yours while you’re here. I don’t do public engagements, so you’re safe on that front. If you want to work, I’ll find you something appropriate, and you can either agree or disagree with the position. You’ll have an allowance as well. I’ll set up an account for you. I despise vehicles, but if you require one, a suitable one will be purchased for you.”

My meal has been entirely forgotten. I don’t know why the walls still feel like they’re closing in on me. This is more kindness and generosity than I could have ever hoped for, and it’s totally not something Darius has to offer. “Could you…would you please tell me where we are?”

That makes him smile, just a shadow of it, but my heart still goes on an irrational walkabout in my chest. “Just outside Chicago.”

“What?” I gasp. “That’s like, really far from Philly.”

“Yes, but with private jets and all that, you can be back there fast.” He clears his throat. “The house has grounds. Gardens and space for your enjoyment outdoors. And inside, there’s a gym, a pool, a rec room—”

“Please tell me it has a bowling alley.”

He grunts. “No. I don’t bowl.”

“That’s depressing. You should,” I say.

“I’m shite with my left hand, even if I’ve been forced to get better.”

Oh, right. There is that. “I…well, you don’t have to be good to enjoy it.” I clasp my phone, curling my hand around it and tucking it into my lap protectively.

“Nah. Even before the accident, I didn’t like it.”

“Well, you’re missing out.” I eat a few more bites of the meal I just can’t waste before setting my fork down again. “I’d like to call my family now if that’s okay? I have a lot to explain. If…if there’s a contract coming or something, I’ll sign it. That is if we’re in agreement?”

I still have the urge to bolt, but that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to hide. I’m going to face this, even if the next six months last a lifetime. This man has the power to destroy me, and I could easily do the same to him by going to the media, but we’re not going to do that. He’s being kind to me, and I’m sitting here instead, agreeing not to flee, not to leave, not to sell his secrets.

One brief nod. That’s my answer. No handshake, nothing yet. I’m sure there will be some kind of paperwork later. “We’re in agreement.” His word. For right now, it’s more than enough. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I trust it.