1. Madelyn

The trembling is constant and I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Another shudder runs through me as the chill of the cell slips across my barely covered skin. My shoulders shake involuntarily as I bring my knees into my chest and stare at the vent where soft promises filter through of what awaits me. I can hear all the men, everything they’re saying and how they’re to leave me alone.

He said no one touches her.

Leave her there until he’s ready.

They don’t ask questions but they know I’m here, tucked away in the basement, huddled in a corner of my cell.

There’s a soft drip from the spout in the cinder block wall behind me that’s a relative constant and occasionally the heat kicks on, a loud click signaling its start but the warmth isn’t for the cell, it’s for upstairs.

The cotton nightgown I was wearing when I was taken is torn and thin, leaving me freezing, alone and waiting for the same person as the men upstairs: Connor Walsh.

Just thinking his name does horrid things to my heart. It skips and halts in place. The rough stubble of his jaw, the hard lines of his cheekbones and the depths of his dark copper gaze only add to the dominating air that surrounds him.

He’s a damaged man with nothing left to lose. Men like him are dangerous. That’s what my husband used to say. He knew that all too well and now he’s dead.

Leaving my fate in the hands of a man hell-bent on revenge.

The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock from up the stairwell sends a pulse of shock and a new wave of terror through me. The first step on the narrow wooden stairs seems hesitant, as if whoever owns the movement is unsure of it. With my palms scraping against the grit littering the floor I attempt to scoot backward, as far away as I can get, but the stone wall at my back is unyielding.

Step by step, he takes his time.

His black jeans come into view first, followed by his black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The shirt is tight on his broad shoulders, and then those eyes … they pin me where I am.

Connor is a hardened man; I’ve known him nearly all my life. Or at least I’ve known the whispers of him. In this small run-down town with corruption on every corner, two feuding families ran things for decades. There was my husband’s family, the mob formed by his father, and there were the Walshes.

Now there’s only Connor Walsh.

His heavy footsteps stop outside the barred door of the cell. The room I’m confined to feels so much like a prison, for a moment I think of Connor as my warden.

The tension is thick between us and even though he’s feet away, I’m enveloped by his heat.

The cords in his neck tighten as he swallows, his gaze roaming down my body, appraising every inch as it travels lower.

Too much time passes in near silence and fear takes over, begging me to plead with him. “My baby?—”

“You’ll do what I say.” His tone is low and his words spoken with a cadence that’s calm and eerie. It’s one I’ve never heard from him. One that paralyzes me. “Did you hear me?” he questions and tilts his head, as if willing me to defy him.

Something I have no intention of doing.

“Anything. I’ll do anything you tell me to,” I say, the words leaving me in a rush.

“Good.”

“My baby?” I’m barely able to get the words out. He’s only a month old. My little one.

“He’s fine.” He has the decency to pull his eyes away from me as he speaks. “He’s taken care of, and you’ll be with him soon.”

Hope rises along with an eagerness to get to my baby.

“Come here,” Connor commands and I don’t hesitate. Unsure of whether I should stand or crawl, I crawl, lifting the torn nightgown and balling the fabric in my fists. The floor isn’t gentle on my knuckles but I don’t care.

It’s not until I get to the bars that he tells me, “You could have walked.”

Embarrassment colors my cheeks and just as I look up at him to tell him I don’t know what he wants, he reaches through the bars, and his strong fingers wrap around my throat.

Instinctively my hands reach up to his, and I instantly regret it.

He isn’t tight with his grip, just firm, not so much that I feel the need to fight. Slowly, reluctantly, I lower my hands. All the while his amber gaze blazes and keeps me still.

“Stand,” he tells me and I do as he wishes.

A chill filters through and my nipples harden; the thin gown does nothing to hide that fact. Staring down at the veins in his arms, I attempt to hide the shame of what comes over me.

“You know what I want from you, don’t you?” he questions, his breath low and not hiding his desire.

I attempt to nod without looking up at him, but his grip tightens and my eyes flash to his.

“Yes,” I answer in a whisper.

My heart pounds as heat floods through me with the way he looks at me. It’s the same way he looked at me years ago, before the war, before the bloodshed, before he became the man he is today. Years ago when we were reckless and life hadn’t taught us how harsh it could be.

His hand loosens just enough for his thumb to brush along my bottom lip, prompting me to open my mouth.

“Suck,” he murmurs this time and I do as I’m told. The roughness of his skin begs me to scrape my teeth along it and I do. I suck the taste of him, I press my tongue against him and give him exactly what I know he wants.

It’s only when my eyes close that he pulls away, leaving me standing there with the bars between us and a power imbalance that puts me at his mercy.

He reaches into his pocket for the key, and plays with it between his thumb and pointer, as if debating.

My pulse rampages but before I can beg for anything from this man, he tells me, “Your child needs you. Get him back to sleep, then you’ll come to me. Understand?”