Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Violet

Damn right he should've talked to me.

He's got to go and play the damn trust card on me.

No fair.

Of course I trust him. There's no one in the world I trust more than him, but I'm not a patient girl. I've never even pretended to be any different than I am.

I don't trust people easily, but when you've been through what Cain and I have together… things are different.

I knew it the first time I looked into his eyes after he'd killed a man. There was a stark honesty and fearlessness I'd never seen in another human.

Ever.

And yes… I trust him.

But down in the living room, with the cinnamon-scented pinecones decorating the mantle, and pumpkin spice everything being cooked up in the kitchen… it reminds me that Christmas is coming.

My parents were killed at Christmas.

I feel as if the days are passing like sand through an hourglass, and I'm not sure where we'll be when the last grain of sand falls.

After we secured Skylar, I made a promise to Cain, and I always keep my promises.

I remember the conversation well. He was sitting in his office when he beckoned to me. He explained how he would help me find my parents and what he'd ask from me in return.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you."

"Me?"

"You.All of you.Carte blanche to do whatever I want to you, whenever I want to. Anytime, anywhere."

"I have the distinct feeling I'd… both hate and love every minute of what you'd do to me… yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Cain. I accept your terms. I'm yours."

And I've given him… me. All of me. Over, and over, and over again, and no, it hasn't been painful. Ours is a unique relationship, unlike anything I've ever experienced before, and it honestly goes far beyond mere sex.

There's an intensity to Cain I crave. A fearlessness. One might label him an "alpha male," but that only scrapes the very surface of who he really is.

What he really does.

Cain Master is a man in a camp of his own.

And I prided myself on understanding that. On understanding him.

At what cost?

Has he used me? Has he kept me here with him for companionship, never fully intending on helping me find my parents' killer?

Or… has he found that there's nothing but dead ends?

I don't know what to expect. I don't know what to hope for.

I don't even know if I'm ready to face my parents' murderer, but I know it was what brought me here, right to his doorstep, ready to barter.

I didn't have the money he charged for a job like this. All I had to offer him was me.

My skills. My talents.

My body.

I never planned on whoring myself out, but now that I'm here…

No. No, I won't let my mind go there.

Cain's huge, rambling mansion of a house overlooks the Salem waterfront north of Boston. This time of year, the leaves have mostly fallen, leaving stark branches that warn of cold winter days and impending snow and ice, but a few brilliant orange maple leaves still cling with tenacity to low-hanging limbs. Cain brushes past them, and a few more flutter to the ground.

He yanks open the back door, and the smell of roasting chicken, potatoes, and Alma's homemade bread wafts through the door toward us.

I hate the thought of leaving here. I hate the thought of starting afresh when I had the promise of everything I wanted right here. I hate the thought of leaving Cain.

But I'm too independent to wait on a man. Even the huge, hulking, alpha of a man plowing his way to his office right now.

"Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, Mr. Master," Alma calls from the stove, where she's stirring a large skillet of greens.

"Might not be down tonight, Alma."

Interesting. How much does he have to show me?

She looks over her shoulder at me, and I shrug at her. "Would you like me to keep the food warm for you?"

He shakes his head. "No, thank you. I'm not sure when we'll be down."

"I'll send it up then."

"Perfect."

Well that's promising. Maybe he's got more to tell me than I expected he did.

We walk through the house, him a few paces ahead of me. My senses are assaulted by everything Skylar's done to decorate. Scented pinecones on the mantle, rustic wooden orange pumpkins on the bookshelves, and a smattering of scented candles in yellows and browns on a little side table.

I should be happy she's enjoying herself. The weeks following her abduction and assault were dark for Skylar. At first, she wouldn't get out of bed or talk to anyone for days on end. I pushed through. I made her talk to me. I would bring her breakfast in her room and chatter away, even though she sometimes didn't respond at all. It was days until she began to talk to me, and once she did, it seemed she had quite a bit to say.

Cain likes that we've befriended each other. He's told me we're the two women who mean more to him than anything in the world, and he likes that we're here, under his roof. Can't be that way forever, though, and we both know it.

Eventually, Skylar will have to be independent again. She'll find a love interest, or a job that requires her to travel, or… something.

And me? I don't belong here and never have.

I'm here to fulfill a mission. I'm here to fulfill my end of the bargain. And when that's over… my heart hurts at the thought.

Henri's in the living room, on his laptop, when we enter. Older than I am but a bit younger than Cain, Henri is pale, with a receding hairline, but wiry and strong. He lost eyesight in one eye during a fight overseas, and now swears off any formal office arrangement.

He nods in greeting to us, but never takes his eyes off the screen. He says he's allergic to a desk. I think it has something to do with his poor eyesight and the bright lighting in here by the large picture windows.

Henri opens his mouth but, seeing that Cain's on a mission, he slams it shut.

Joe's gathering a few men in the hall for a training of some sort. They're wearing camouflaged gear and boots, and standing at attention like soldiers in boot camp. When Cain passes, they all watch him with wide-eyed wonder and admiration.

He inspires that type of response no matter where we go. It's got something to do with the way he carries himself, I think.

"Cain," Skylar yells from her room on the third floor. "When can we get a Christmas tree?"

"Christ," he mutters and rolls his eyes. I'm guessing that won't be an after-Thanksgiving special for him then.

His phone beeps with a text, then again with a call. He glances at the screen with a scowl, then powers it off.

Oh. Oh, wow. I've never seen him shut his phone completely off.

He really is giving me his undivided attention.

I wonder if I've read him wrong all this time…

When we reach his office door, he drops all semblance of being Mr. Nice. I watch, with more than a little trepidation, as he yanks open his door, then gestures for me to go in. "Please," he says with a frown. "You first."

I walk ahead of him tentatively, as if waiting for him to pounce on me at any minute or at the very least smack my ass.

I have no idea why. I can't really put my finger on it. I don't know if it's the predatory look in his eyes, or his take-no-prisoners tone of voice. I don't know if it's because he's basically told everyone who works for him to leave us alone, or because I threw down the gauntlet by the training field. But he has plans for me, and I have no idea what those plans are.

The door shuts behind us, and I let out an audible gasp.

"Why so scared, Violet?" Cain asks, in a tone that tells me he's fucking pleased with himself.

"You just have that look in your eyes."

"What look?"

He stalks to his desktop like he's about to wrestle it to the floor, and when I don't respond at first, his narrowed gaze cuts to me. I open my mouth, and I'm about to respond, when there's a sharp knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Cain practically fumes.

"Joe."

"Come in." He points to a chair for me to sit in, and I glare right back at him. No, you do not, Mr. Master. He shakes his head at me, his frown promising that we're going to have a serious talk when Joe's gone.

The tension in the air must be palpable because Joe freezes mid-step and looks from me to Cain. "Bad timing?"

"No. What is it?" Cain asks. He fires up the laptop.

"Got another call from Robbins."

"Fucking hell," Cain mutters to himself. "What now?"

"Wants an update?"

"I'll give her a fucking update," I volunteer, but Cain slices a hand in my direction as if telling me to knock it off. The goddamn nerve of him…

"She says it's been three days, and she wants to know when you'll have the information."

"You can tell her, per our contract, that I need a week or more before I respond, but that I always try to respond within a week. It's been three days."

He grimaces, then nods. "She's impatient."

Cain's eyes narrow. "So am I."

He's got that right.

The door finally shuts with a bang when Joe leaves. Cain stands, storms over to the door, then throws the deadbolt.

My heart beats faster.

I let my eyes rove over him for a few seconds, and I don't breathe while I do. He's wearing one of those long-sleeved faded tees in a dark gray that brings out the blue-gray storms in his eyes he gets from time to time. It's tight across his chest and arms, like most clothes designed for normal humans typically are. He's wearing faded jeans, frayed at the bottom. One might think they're stylish, but if I know Cain, it's because it's one of only a handful of pairs he owns, and he's owned them for decades.

His heavy, thick boots are planted on the floor, and his hands are on his hips. I sit in his huge, leather desk chair, absolutely dwarfed by it, and nonchalantly plop my feet up on his desk.

I like poking the bear.

He growls low.

"What?"

"Strip."

I stare at him in surprise, not expecting that command. "Strip?"

"You heard me." He doesn't move.

Oh, great. He's pissed, and now he's either going to fuck me to remind me who's boss or use my body in some way to punish me.

"Okay, so let's get this straight. You made me a promise. I made you one. I kept my end up, and now you're… getting mad at me or something?"

"Do I look mad?"

I nod. "You look fucking pissed. "

He frowns slightly, then nods. "I am."

I throw up my hands in exasperation. "You're maddening, you know that?"

"Takes two, babe."

"What? You think I'm maddening?"

"I do." No reaction. He glances at the clock on his desk. "You have two minutes, starting right now."

"Or what?" I throw back at him, even as my hands fly to unfasten my shoes.

"Or I'll strip you myself, and I'll strip more than your fucking clothes."

Oh God.

My hands tremble as I remove my shoes, then stand up and quickly disrobe. The rest of my clothing falls to the floor in a crumpled heap until all I'm doing is standing in front of him wearing nothing but my birthday suit.

"You're beautiful."

I look away. I can't handle praise like that. It makes me uncomfortable.

"Thank you," I murmur. I shiver, though I'm warm in here. He pulls out his phone and talks into the speaker. "Tell everyone I don't want to be disturbed until further notice."

He slides his phone into his pocket.

"Come here, baby," Cain says. He walks to me, sits at his desk, then pulls me onto his lap. Once again, I'm struck by the contrast of him fully clothed and clothed well, and me stark naked, straddling him.

He lives for an imbalance in power.

Thrives on it.

I'm not so sure how I feel about this.

"Are we… talking about avenging my parents while I'm… naked?"

"We'll be talking about a lot of things with you naked on my lap like this."

A glimmer of excitement rushes through me before I can stop it, and it aggravates the hell out of me because this puts him at a decided advantage. After only days with Cain mastering my body, I began to be conditioned to crave more.

And I like it. I like all of it. I love the way he is with me. But I wonder if this isn't to his full advantage to "discuss" things when I'm not wearing any clothes.

"It sounds to me like you'll be getting the long end of the stick on that one?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. You might be getting the long end of the stick, too."

Oh God. Men.

There's a smile in his voice though.

He wants me naked and at his mercy, begging for him to touch me or allow me to come… because that's when I'm at my most submissive with him, and he knows it.

I sit up straighter on his lap, as if to remind both him and me that I'm not going to cave so easily.

"I know there doesn't seem to be a pattern about the cases I've been taking, but there is. You think I've been wasting time or taking random cases, but I haven't. Every single one of these cases were related."

"Were they?"

He nods, gently kneading my shoulders, and my rigid spine begins to soften. It doesn't take long before I nestle up against his chest, and he weaves his fingers in my hair. "They were."

"How so?"

"I'd like to see if you can put it together like I did."

"Checking on my intellect and ability?"

"Violet."

His tone is a warning he underscores with a sharp tug of a lock of my hair, but I don't back off. I want to know.

"I'm serious. Are you checking to see if I'm as astute as you thought I was when you hired me?"

He leans in close, gathering my hair between his fingers, and pulls me to him so that his eyes bore into mine. "No. You've blown every fucking employee I have here out of the water. I want to go over the facts, because I want to be sure I didn't miss anything."

"Alright, then," I say, very, very aware that I'm naked, and he's not, and I'm at his mercy.

When he's got me good and secured on his lap, he wraps his hands around my waist like a seat belt. The concept amuses me, even as my body thrums with need. His thick fingers graze the very edge of my sides. As he talks, he strokes the pad of his thumb down my side.

"You assumed I'd forgotten about your parents."

"Well… no, I wouldn't go that far."

He stills the gentle massaging. "Why the tantrum then?"

I sputter. "I didn't have a tantrum. "

"Babe, you stormed out of the house. You went to the training field. You grabbed a fucking cudgel."

"I love working out with a cudgel."

He holds still, his fingers still wrapped around my body before he continues. "You like working out with a cudgel when you're angry."

I don't deny this.

"And you're angry because something set you off today, reminding you that we've made no headway with your parents."

I'm glad his back's to me since I don't really want to look in his eyes right now. He has a way of peeling back every defense mechanism I have with his eyes alone. If he had a superhero talent, I'd hazard a guess it would be x-ray vision.

I stare at the painting on the wall that hides his safe. When I speak to him, my voice is low, tremulous. "I know how to move that painting, Cain. The one that hides your weapons. I know the numbers to push to unlock the safe. I know when the safe door opens, the exact pile of weapons that will wait for me, the heft of the knife or the barrel of the gun when it slips into my palm. To others, the closed safe looks like a work of art. I, however, know it's only a doorway."

His arms tighten an infinitesimal amount. He doesn't speak.

"Anyone else would think it's only something pretty to decorate your wall. I know better, though." I draw in a deep breath. "Do you know that you're the only one in the world who's ever found me out? The only one who knows how to manipulate me so that I open up, revealing my inner truth."

My eyes flutter closed when he kisses my bare shoulder before he grazes the sharp edges of his teeth along my bare skin. A pulse of arousal thrums between my legs when he licks the place he bit.

"Don't I fucking know it," he says in a low whisper. "And feel honored that you'd trust me with that."

I close my eyes, trying my best to hold onto the truth, to really push him to reveal everything he knows to me. I decide to let him in a little more.

"Today, when Skylar began pulling out the decorations, it reminded me that Christmas is coming. Every time the door opens, and the freezing cold air rushes in, it reminds me that Christmas is coming." I draw in a breath, before I release it slowly. "My parents were killed at Christmas."

I can still see the bloodstained carpet in front of the tree, the flash of brilliant red that told me they were gone. I had been only four years old and remember hardly anything else about that time, but I can't forget those few details.

He nods slowly. "I know."

He knows. What else does he know? My voice is quiet, but I'm slightly on edge when I respond. "You have done research, then."

"Every damn night, Violet. I haven't said anything to you because I didn't want to give you false hope."

My heart soars, then sinks, that quickly. Elated that he's done this, that he's given himself over to doing exactly what he promised—then deflated again when he admits he may not have much to go on. False hope?

I square my shoulders. "What have you found?"

Nestling me square in the center of his lap, he pulls me slightly to the left so he can get a better view of the computer screen. "First, public records."

He double taps an innocuous icon on the bottom right corner of the screen, and several police reports come up. They're poorly written in scratchy handwriting and the details are hard to read with the darkened page, but they are neatly organized. My throat feels tight when I see my parents' names alongside mine… or the name I used to go by, anyway.

Russell and Anya Bates, murdered on Tuesday. Found dead. Buried in a funeral mass celebrated by Pastor Descamps at the First Church of Christ, Salem

"Why did you change your name, Violet?"

I don't know why it surprises me that he knows I changed my name. Security and investigation are his bread and butter.

"How did you know that?"

He doesn't answer at first, then scrolls further down. "When I began investigating, I found no local deaths for anyone by the name of Price. And there aren't that many Violets in the world, you know."

He hasn't really answered the question.

"I know." It's why I changed my last name. I couldn't bring myself to change the name that my mother gave me. I have this strange feeling that it's the only part of me that's unique, the only part of me that no one else can ever replicate.

"Once I found out my parents were killed, I felt it best to hide who I was."

It feels awkward that he knows my history, this small part of me that no one has ever really truly seen, but in order for us to find the real truth, he has to.

He nods. "Now it's time to tell me everything. I can't help you piece together what you need to find if you don't."

I knew this was coming. I'm prepared.

I nod.

"Violet, you told me when you came here, your father was an assassin. How did you find that out?

"I was only four when I first went into foster care, so I don't remember much about the first few couples that had me. I was thrown around like so much baggage, really, but it wasn't until I was much older that I realized someone fabricated a story around me. By the time I was ten, it was well accepted that my parents were killed in a car accident during a rainstorm. I didn't argue with what people thought they knew. By then, I knew there was a reason for the lies and discrepancies."

"Understood. I'm not surprised you were clever even as a child."

I shrug. "I tried. Sometimes I succeeded and other times I didn't. I was terrible in school…"

"Let me guess. Not because you weren't academically gifted, but you had a hard time doing as you were told."

I smile at the sardonic lilt in his voice. "How'd you know?"

He pinches my bare ass. "Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, baby."

I smile. "So anyway… I was finally taken in by a minister and his wife." I can't keep the bitterness out of my tone. "They made no pretense about liking me but had no qualms about taking me into their home. Their kids were sheltered and judgmental, and the years I spent with them were the most miserable of my life."

Cain's quiet while I tell him this. I stare at his screen, at the old police reports, and imagine I can see the police station, the officer who's likely retired by now, filling out all the details and leaving so many blanks. "Tell me what they did to you."

I can't stop the shudder that runs through me, that runs through him, at the memories he pulls from me with those few little words. The memories I've tried so hard to keep hidden.

"No."

Again, his arm tightens around me. No one says "no" to Cain, so when I do, it always seems to throw him for a loop.

"Violet." Another warning tone, but the gentle caress of his thumbs across my thighs softens the rebuke. "I want to know."

And just like that, I'm ten years old again, locked in the dark closet where they punished me. I didn't have to do anything wrong to make them put me there. It was who I was they were trying to cleanse from me. It was the wife who beat me, when her husband wasn't home. I wasn't the only one—she beat all her children, quoting scripture as she did. None dared to cross her, and even the littlest one would flinch when her mother turned her way. But I bore the worst of it.

"Look at my back and tell me what you want to know," I say. "That bitch told me she'd scourge the devil out of me and God, did she try." I flinch at the memory.

I feel Cain's fingers along my back. I don't see them, but I never forget they're there.

"Their names."

"Cain, no. "

I know him. I know what he'll do. He'll make it his mission in life to punish them for the harm they did me, over a decade before he ever met me. His justice is swift and merciless. I've stared into his eyes after he's killed, and I know when he feels it's justified, there's no remorse. My grim reaper in the flesh.

"I'll find them, Violet. You know I will. I just wanted your buy-in before I do."

I blow out a breath. Now that he knows, I can't stop him.

He strokes my back until I relax, until I'm slumped against him.

"Now, baby. Tell me the rest, and we'll get started."