Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"You know, you're really fuckin' lucky."

Atticus shifted his weight on the stiff leather cushion of his chair. His boots left imprints on the fancy rug beneath it, ones he'd have to take care of before he left. He gripped his bolt gun, letting it dangle between his spread thighs. His other hand loosely clasped his wrist.

Across the big man desk, strapped to his big man chair, Junger moaned. He couldn't scream anymore. Not because he'd run out of steam, but because his vocal chords were beginning to desiccate.

Treating the noise like it was a response, Atticus continued, "You are. See, if I hadn't looked in the trailer, she would have been locked in there for days. A week, almost, sealed up in that tin can with almost no ventilation. And if I found out that she'd been in there the whole time, what's happening right now would have been much, much worse."

He'd done a really good job of banking his rage. He'd focused on getting Carmine safe, taking care of her in the best way he knew how. Yeah, it wasn't perfect and he regretted not having more self-control when she needed it, but he'd gotten the message that she was with Zia and Adriana, so everything worked out.

Atticus liked to think that he wasn't a particularly violent man. He didn't take pleasure in it. He didn't throw things or raise his voice when he got pissed — not that he could, what with the damage to his throat, but still. He was an even-keel kind of man, as most hitmen tended to be. To do the work well, you had to be cool. Collected. Removed.

Harlan taught him early on that he couldn't invest himself in the shit they did to survive their world, and when they left the syndicate, he told Atticus to leave it behind.

He had, for the most part. And it wasn't like he missed it. Sure, he was restless and a little bored with his new life, but that was sure as shit better than wondering if he'd end up with a bolt in his brain every time he left the house.

He didn't miss blood feuds and back-stabbings and blackmail, but he was damn glad he'd lived that life when he tailed Junger from the meet-up spot to his gaudy mansion in a rich neighborhood east of Sacramento. Another man would not have understood what to do with the fury that unfurled in him like a coiled snake. A man who'd lived a different life wouldn't have been able to give Junger exactly what he deserved.

It was a thing of beauty, watching the businessman's face go ashen, then puce, when he cracked open the trailer to find nothing. Not even a box.

Atticus hadn't given him a second to reach for his phone. As soon as Carmine's absence registered, he put his gun to Junger's head and marched him into his own house.

That coiled snake didn't listen when Junger began to scream, to bargain, to demand answers and then beg not a moment later as Atticus tore his shirt in two and exposed his pasty belly to the world.

The snake waited, patient and terrible, as Atticus tied him to the chair and set up the lights on his desk. It waited as he donned a pair of sunglasses. It waited as he took his seat, made himself comfortable, and turned the lights on.

And then it struck.

"She's beautiful," he explained as Junger sobbed, his tears nothing but dust in the face of the UV lights slowly frying him. "Biggest blue eyes you ever saw. So expressive. So fuckin' smart. D'you know she has a degree in mortuary science?"

He eyed the blisters that had begun to pop on Junger's jowls. A little sunlight exposure wouldn't kill most fully grown vampires. It was a bit like how one might react to radiation. It was all about how long they were exposed — and at what level.

"How much did you pay for her? Whatever it was, I'm telling you it wasn't enough."

"P-Please turn the lights off," he blubbered. "I'll tell you. Anything. Everything. Please!"

"You'll tell me what you paid and who paid you?"

"Yes!"

Atticus shrugged and levered himself up. His ass was sore from all the driving, not to mention the hour he'd been sitting in that awful chair. Rich men have the worst fucking furniture.

Looming over the desk, he hit the button on the tiny remote. Instantly, the over-bright room plunged into darkness. Junger sagged in his chair and began to weep in earnest.

"Hey shithead," Atticus prodded, "numbers. Names. Now."

Junger's voice was barely understandable, but luckily Atticus had plenty of experience parsing agonized, desperate blabber. Junger told him the price. He told him how Carmine was offered at a discount because there was heat on the crypt, how Junger felt like a big man getting a steal on goods so precious. He gave the information on his various hidden bank accounts over, as well as everything else even tangentially related to the sale.

When he had nothing left to give, Junger rasped, "Please, I just wanted an heir. I don't understand what I did to cross you or Mr. Bounds. I'll give you anything. Take her. I won't try to?—"

"This isn't about me or Mr. Bounds," he calmly informed him. "And the fact that you haven't even considered that I'm here for her is the reason you're sitting in that chair."

Atticus turned the lights back on.

Junger squealed, his whole body jerking reflexively as if he could recoil from the light. "You said," he cried, voice cracking. "You promised if I gave you the information you'd stop!"

"I didn't promise shit, motherfucker." He settled back in his chair and checked his phone. A message from Harlan came through.

She's asking about you.

His chest went so damn tight, it was actually hard to breathe for a second.

She had to be so scared. The look in her eyes when he wrapped her in his coat and sent her off with Michael would haunt him for the rest of his life. Carmine had appeared so lost, but she'd looked to him for reassurance. For safety. For sustenance. For pleasure.

The bites on his neck throbbed with a deep, pleasant ache. They'd be gone soon. Bites healed fast, what with the coagulant properties of vampire saliva, but the thought didn't make him happy.

For the first time in a long time, Atticus felt the itch to run back home. He needed to see that she was settled with his own eyes. The jealous monster in him howled at the idea of someone else making sure she was fed and comfortable.

It needed her. Now.

Atticus leaned back in his chair and held his phone up to his ear. Harlan picked up on the first ring. "You must be almost done."

"Yeah. She okay?"

"Shaken and not very talkative, but fine. She slept in the guest room. She's been hanging out with the girls since she woke up, but the only time she really speaks is when she asks about you. I presume that's nerves."

"She's not used to talking much," he explained, rubbing his chest like it could ease the tender ache there. "Give her a minute and she'll warm up. Zia okay?"

"She's delighted. You know how she loves a full house."

Yeah, he did. Atticus had no doubt that soon enough, there'd be more than just Serafina running around on the estate. Zia loved having all the men over whenever she could, but he knew she wanted her house bursting with more than hardened criminals.

"Atticus," Harlan said, speaking in a low voice that always accompanied a scolding, "Michael said he saw bites."

"He did."

No use denying it. If he'd wanted to hide what they'd done, he would have told her to bite him somewhere else. But as fucked up as the situation was, he didn't want to hide it. He wanted everyone to know that she'd had those pretty fangs in his throat.

"So that's how it is."

He breathed past the reflexive, squirming guilt that still lived in his chest. "Yeah, that's how it is."

Atticus's jaw flexed as he watched Junger's head loll against the back of the chair, like he was trying to disconnect it from his body so it could roll away from the lights.

He wasn't sure how he was going to make it work, let alone convince her to give him a chance without implying she needed to in order to earn her place, but Atticus was in too deep to back out now. The moment she chose him over freedom with Captain Bennet, trusted him, there was no going back.

He'd never wanted a blood bride, but he'd do anything for her.

"You want to talk to her?"

His heartbeat accelerated. "Yes. Thanks, boss."

"Of course. We'll discuss this more when you get home." There was a pause, then some rustling. Familiar voices came through the connection — Zia's rapid-fire speech, Serafina's babble, and Adriana's gentle response to something.

Distantly, he heard Harlan announce, "Carmine, it's Atticus. He wants to speak?—"

There was an abrupt sound as the phone was jostled before Carmine's high voice came through, demanding, "Are you coming back?"

Atticus closed his eyes, savoring the sweetness of her voice. There was no guile, no shyness. Just an earnest desire to know when he'd be home.

Maybe she still worried that he'd break his word to her, but he chose to believe she just wanted to see him again.

"I'm almost done here, doll," he answered. "You doing okay? Did Michael behave?"

"I'm fine." She hesitated, making him tense, before she added, "And Michael was fine, but I don't think we're compatible. I prefer you."

Thank fuck. I love how she never sugarcoats shit. Swiping his palm over his mouth, he muttered, "Well, good. Need me to pick up anything on my way back?"

He'd already planned on grabbing her a phone, but he knew she needed more. Not just essentials, but every little thing he took for granted, like knick-knacks and a favorite shampoo and decorations for her room. Gods, she didn't even have real clothes.

"Zia and Adriana want to take me shopping," she replied in a lower voice, her unease bleeding through.

"Do you want to do that? You don't have to, doll. They can grab stuff for you if you give them your sizes. Or I can do it. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"I want to go." There was a pause, then, in the no-nonsense tone she used whenever she was trying to cover up her nerves, she added, "But I don't have any money, and I don't want anyone to pay for my things. I need a job. How soon can I start looking for a funeral home?"

He didn't bother explaining to her that he was more than happy to cover anything she needed — up to and including giving her his blood — because he understood that might make her feel even more beholden to them. Instead, he assured her, "We'll look into the job thing when you're settled. In the meantime, don't worry about money. Turns out your groom wanted to make things right. He gave you the price he paid the crypt and a bit more on top. My friend Tarrence is gonna transfer it into an account for you tonight."

Across the desk, Junger went very still, then began to thrash. Atticus imagined he would have screamed in protest if there'd been any moisture left in his throat.

"Why would he do that?"

"Because, dollface," he answered, flicking the lights onto their highest setting, "he's very, very sorry."