11. Thomas

CHAPTER 11

Thomas

Iris only says one thing to me on our way back to the estate. Her voice is curt, and I can tell she's still pissed at my recklessness in the meeting.

"What is your plan for Clara?" she asks, her pitch black stare pointed out the windshield.

I have no answer for her, and neither of us is happy about that fact.

When I see the Bentley pulling into the gate ahead of me, though, my mood gets unspeakably worse.

Raleigh must see me in her rearview, because she stops the car just inside the gate and pops her head out her window. I leave my car idling and step out, slamming the door harder than I mean to behind me.

"Oh hey, Tommy!" Raleigh calls out as I stomp up to her driver's side door. "Nice timing! Can we get takeout? I'm starv-"

"What the hell are you doing leaving the estate?" I demand, and the shit-eating grin vanishes from her face. I wonder if it's the bit of dried blood around my ear that's thrown her, or the unusual amount of anger in my voice .

"B-Buying some clothes to replace the ones I lost," she says.

I duck down, looking past her into the car. "Then where are the bags?"

"In the trunk-"

"Raleigh Eleanor Warwick," I say slowly, clamping down hard on my rage, "your house was burned down last night. Someone attacked you. Do you understand that fact?"

Raleigh's cheeks flush. "I'm not a fucking idiot, Tommy-"

"Where did you go, and why did you go there without-" I cut myself off, a horrible thought occuring to me. No, she wouldn't. But then, I never imagined she would let a Speare waltz into her house until she did last night. And I know my sister well enough to know that when she acts as pleased to see me as she did when I pulled up, it's because she's done something that is guaranteed to piss me off.

"Where is Clara?" I demand. Raleigh's mouth closes, and I know. "Give me your phone."

"You're not serious," Raleigh splutters.

"If you don't want me to put you under house arrest until you're thirty-goddamn-years-old, you will give me your phone now ."

Raleigh yanks her phone out of her pocket and shoves it into my hand. I go back to my car, where Iris stands at the hood, observing.

"Make sure she doesn't leave the house," I tell her. Iris only nods, and I get back into the car with another door slam.

There are pages of useless apps on Raleigh's phone, but finally I find her navigation app. I jailbreak all of Raleigh's phones to make sure no tech company has more information about my little sister's whereabouts than I do, and sure enough, I only have to open the app and press a few buttons to see her car's last recorded route. I make note of the cross-streets where she pulled a u-turn back to the estate, toss the phone into the passenger seat, and pull back out of the gate at top speed.

I try not to think about the fact that Raleigh didn't drop Clara off at a building, either residential or commercial. She left her on the side of the road, and that means Clara's either planning to hitchhike her way out of the city, or take a bus. A pretty woman like Clara will be picked up in no time if someone sees her walking down the street alone, and I have no idea what the bus schedule is. I'm operating on a countdown I can't even see. All I can do is drive faster.

My tires screech when I turn the last corner and start barreling down the block. The shock of relief that floods me when I see Clara on the sidewalk is so powerful my fingertips start tingling. The rage that follows when I realize the three men around her are grabbing at her clothes and trying to lift her off her feet turns my vision red.

I step on the gas and swerve straight toward them. The men and Clara all throw their heads up when they hear my tires squeal, and I don't know if it's my imagination or not that Clara calls my name. I drive my car over the sidewalk mere feet away, wishing Clara weren't in the way so I could just run down the men who would dare to touch her. Before I'm even out of the car, my silenced gun is in my hand.

One of the men has released Clara and gone for his own gun. They didn't bother pulling weapons on a woman, and that's what's going to kill them. I blow out his left kneecap, then put a bullet in his brain when he goes down on the pavement.

The other two have realized that I'm not just a good Samaritan. One keeps his grip on Clara and stumbles back with her. He's trying to stuff her into the backseat of a parked car, but she's got her feet braced against the frame. His friend levels a gun on me. I shoot a hole through his throat before he can even aim. The last man curses and drops Clara hard. I put three dents in his concealed body armor, sending him stumbling, kick his knee out from under him, and kill him with one last bullet to the head.

There's a ringing in my ears that makes the whole world feel like it's pulsing. It took me twenty seconds to kill three men, and that's hardly a record for me, but you'd think I'd just run a marathon. I'm breathing too hard and my heart is pounding too fast.

It's just adrenaline , I tell myself. Shake it off, goddamn it.

I turn to Clara, crumpled on the curb beside the unmarked car, and kneel over her. "Come here," I murmur unnecessarily, scooping her into my arms. Immediately she throws her arms and legs around me, clinging. It feels natural to press my hand against the back of her head, to bury my fingers in her hair.

"Thomas," is the first thing she says. It's all she can say. Her breath is hot and fast and shallow on my neck. Her heartbeat races with mine as I carry her back to my car.

The door is still hanging open, but Clara doesn't loosen her grip on me, so I duck into the driver's seat with her in my lap and slam the door behind us.

It's not enough, I realize, as we breathe into each other in the cramped quiet of the car. It's not enough that the men who tried to grab her are dead and she's in my arms.

She's not safe until she's beneath me, and I'm buried inside her.

I shove my hands between our bodies and start working at the buttons of her top. Once again, she has no bra on beneath her shirt, and every bit of friction between us makes her nipples firmer. Adrenaline , I chant as I harden beneath her, as she lets out a bitten-off groan, as I get her shirt open and fill my hands with her breasts. Adrenaline, adrenaline, adrenaline- I squeeze her hard, and Clara gasps, her body arching against me. Her hands are fumbling at my own buttons, and I help her a little by shrugging out of my suit jacket and untucking my shirt from my pants.

"You saved me," Clara gasps, her fingers focusing on my belt next. "You saved me- thank you. Thank you, Thomas."

Not enough. Not safe yet. I have to be inside her. The space in the car isn't ideal, but I reach down for the lever and slide the seat as far back as it'll go, giving our legs some much needed room. Reluctantly, I push Clara up off my lap, but only long enough to unbutton her pants and slide them down her legs. I'm startled at first that there's no underwear beneath them, but then remember that I took her only pair from the bathroom. Was that just this morning? It feels like ancient history.

I lift my hips so that Clara can yank my pants down, but when she tries to settle herself on top of me, I hold her up so I can thrust two of my fingers inside her instead. Clara half shrieks at the sudden sensation. Undamaged , her uncle said. Are my fingers the first things to ever pleasure her? I rub my thumb across the length of her clit, watching the muscles jump in her legs as she struggles to hold herself up. Cupping her pelvis in my hand with my fingers hooked inside her and my thumb pressed against her makes me dizzy with need. But if I stop so I can finally get my cock in her, will she keep making these delicious little whimpers?

She's disheveled above me, her pants down around her ankles and her shirt pushed off her shoulders and bunched around her elbows. Her otherwise naked body presses against mine, ready for me to use. Her auburn hair is a wild mass spilling over her shoulder. There are scrapes on her arms from last night. From just now.

Not safe yet. Not until I'm inside her and around her, everything she sees and smells and feels and knows .

"Thomas," Clara whimpers, burying her face in my hair. " Thomas ."

Now, now, now.

I pull my fingers out of her and bury myself inside her warm pussy with one stroke. Clara arches against me, gasping as she accepts as much of me as she can. She's so fucking tight and wet and hot . My hands squeeze her hips like they did in the dark hours this morning. How was I not thinking of fucking her senseless then?

I demand more of her body with every thrust, but Clara takes me with little cries that light my blood on fire. I don't waste focus on kisses or tender touches. I'm not making love to her. I'm claiming her. I'm taking her back from all the people who've dared suggest today that they have a single right to her. That right is mine alone, and I prove it every time I fill her up.

Clara agrees. Her fingers grip my hair. Her teeth graze my ear as she pants, "More- more !" I increase my pace, slamming our bodies together until she shrieks her satisfaction against my skin. Her body bucks against mine, her fists pulling at my scalp. With one last thrust, I spill myself inside her, my pleasure chasing hers.

I stay inside her until our rough breaths even out and our bodies finally stop trembling. Time doesn't feel real inside this car anymore. I can't imagine lifting her off of me and pulling my clothes back on. The pleasure clinging stickily to my thoughts makes me want to recline my chair back and pull her down with me into lazier fucking. Then we can fall asleep naked and wake up and do it all over again. This might be her first time after all. Surely I should make it last a bit longer.

Adrenaline , my drunk brain reminds me, and I realize what I'm feeling is the aftermath, not just of sex, but of the rush that led me here in the first place. I lift Clara off of me, and she lets out a whine at the sudden loss of me. I almost rethink everything right then, almost decide that a day of wild car sex is a totally reasonable thing to have after an especially shitty morning.

Instead, I manage to deposit her in the passenger seat and say with a steadiness I don't feel, "Get dressed." I'd rather wash up, but that's not an option right now. I pull my own clothes back on and get out of the car.

The three dead men on the sidewalk are a jarring reminder of what the hell I'm actually doing here. I search them for wallets and their car for paperwork and weapons, anything to tell me who they are and who they work for. When I'm satisfied I've found everything to find, I drag the bodies into the car and set the whole thing on fire with a spare lighter from my pocket.

There's a discarded daypack on the ground by the bus stop bench, and when I snatch it up, a sketchbook slips out. The cover is faded and edgeworn, and when I flip it open, I'm not entirely surprised to see that the dates go back ten years. I know very little about art, but I imagine the graphite sketches are good for a teenager's work. The rest of the bag is full of toiletries Raleigh definitely scrounged from the house, as well as a suspicious stack of bills.

By the time I get back to my car, Clara is still sex-rumpled, but she's dressed. Her cheeks are a brilliant shade of red, and her brown eyes are wide, but she's having trouble looking at me. Fair enough. That was an incredibly stupid mistake on both our parts.

I almost say that aloud, almost tell her it was the adrenaline, just the adrenaline, and to forget about it sooner rather than later .

But I don't.

Without a word, I hand her the daypack and sketchbook to hold. She hugs it to her chest as I turn the car around and drive us back toward the estate, leaving a burning car and burning bodies in our wake.