27. Chapter 27

Time passes.

It could be minutes, or it could be hours.

I'm starting to believe it doesn't even matter.

When I'm with her, they seem to be one and the same.

Most moments feel like a lifetime, and yet they're never long enough.

If I'm not careful, I'm gonna turn into a total sap for this woman.

As we sit on the couch, trying to catch our breath, the cold of the air-conditioning begins to chill my overheated skin.

I feel Siren shiver against me from where she sits on my lap, knees still hugging my hips, and I know she feels the same.

I hug her tighter against my chest.

The way she's molded to me makes it feel like God designed her with me in mind.

The more time I spend, whether it's watching her on the cameras or when I'm with her in person, the more my stomach churns at the idea of letting her go when this is all over.

Up to this point, this has been the safest place for her.

Despite our squabbling, I've never once regretted bringing her here.

She's somehow woven herself seamlessly into the fabric of this house, my mind, and my life.

But when Gaspari is finally dead, she'll be free.

Free to go back home to her apartment and a life that doesn't include me.

My chest tightens at the thought, and I war with the knowledge that my chosen life doesn't make a good foundation for a real relationship.

I can't give her the 2.5 kids and white picket fence she deserves.

Even if I wanted to, I don't think I'm cut out for that kind of life.

She may be a hellion now, but I know she'll want those things someday.

To settle down with someone and make a family and a home.

A home that doesn't include a man with a tragic backstory, questionable sources of income, and even more questionable morals.

I don't know how long we have left together in this house, but I intend to make the most of it.

So I push all thoughts of my home devoid of her presence from my mind because the more I think about it, the more my chest hurts.

I quickly look around for my discarded phone, finding it lying at an angle against a throw pillow nearby.

As I pick it up, I realize that it's actually still recording.

My mind races at the thought that it may have captured some video of Siren tormenting me.

At the very least, it still would've picked up the surrounding noises after she dropped it.

As my finger hovers over the red button, I pause before stopping the video.

On a whim, I turn it around to the front-facing camera and pull it back to capture the image of Siren resting against my chest.

As I angle the camera towards her face, I realize she's fallen asleep.

Something in the vicinity of where her cheek lies squeezes painfully.

I sit there momentarily, staring at the reflection of her sleeping form.

Her lips are slightly parted, and I can feel her warm breath dance over the tattoos on my chest.

Her hair is wet with sweat and stuck to her forehead.

The dark circles that were present under her eyes when she first got here are gone.

Long dark lashes now lie in their place.

Has any other woman ever looked so breathtaking? Drenched in sweat and snoring lightly, she ticks every box I didn't know I had.

It's possible these boxes didn't even exist before she came around.

I wouldn't put it past her to have created them without either of us knowing.

Why do I get the feeling that those boxes will end up being the blueprint against which every other woman will be measured? A small voice inside whispers that they'll all be found lacking in comparison.

Pushing the thoughts away before I dwell myself into an early grave, I turn off the phone and gingerly stand, kicking off the loose-fitting pants that still hover around my ankles.

I leave them behind as I carry Siren down the hall and into the bathroom.

With my softening cock still inside her, I keep her lower half pressed tightly to my own, prolonging the connection for as long as I can.

As we enter the bathroom, I reluctantly pull out of her and sit her down on the counter.

The marble must be cold because she startles awake with an audible hissing sound.

As she lifts her head to look at me with sleepy eyes, she almost appears … innocent.

When we first met, I never thought she could have an innocent side.

Now, I know better.

She may not put her vulnerabilities on full display for the world, but I've seen them because sometimes she lets down her guard enough to show me, and other times, without her consent, via a video monitor.

In moments like this, when she's half asleep, her default settings of combative and apprehensive are turned off.

As she looks at me with lowered lids, there's only trust staring back at me.

I'm not sure I deserve it or if she's even aware it's there, but I don't question it.

I take it while I can get it.

"Stay there.

I'm gonna turn on the shower,"

I tell her.

After making sure she's alert enough not to fall over, I turn and start the water, waiting until it's nice and warm before helping her down off the counter and to her feet.

I move to pull us into the shower, but I turn back when I feel a resistant tug on my hand.

She gnaws her bottom lip as she glances anywhere but at me.

Eyes narrowing, I jerk her hand, catching her off guard, and she stumbles into me.

Cupping her ass, I lift her up again, forcing her to wrap her legs around my waist.

Whether she likes it or not, we need to get clean.

We're both sweaty, and in this position, I can feel the slick residue of my come as it leaks out of her.

The knowledge that there's something of me still lingering inside her causes my cock to stir, which only reinforces my determination to bathe us both and stave off the clawing need I already feel to fuck her again.

Careful not to slip and end up having to make another call to Theo, I maneuver us into the shower, lowering her back down to her feet.

Her stiff posture tells me how uncomfortable she is.

No matter the fact that we've been together several times, and despite everything I've done to convince her to the contrary, my gut instinct tells me she'll always feel some level of unease when it comes to being fully naked in front of me.

Which is why I had her take that video in the first place.

We may have used my phone, but that was only because it was more readily available.

With as many cameras as I have in this house, I have plenty of footage for my spank bank.

No, that video was for her to keep.

I'll send it to her phone later so she can rewatch it when she's alone.

Or, at least, when she thinks she's alone.

I want her to be able to see what she does to me, what her body does to me.

So she knows she's not just some time filler but instead something of an obsession at this point.

In the beginning, it was a bit of a game.

She was beautiful and bitchy, and the combination appears to be my kryptonite because, even after I got her into bed, I couldn't stop thinking about her.

That hyper-fixation only intensified when I got the call from Merrick that she was missing.

From that moment, it was no longer a game.

It became sleepless nights and too much coffee: anxiety and anger.

Where was she? What was being done to her? Who the fuck thought they had the right to take something that was mine? There's that word again.

Mine .

Growling it against her skin while pumping my come deep inside her was one thing. The heat of the moment and all that. But thinking it while in control of all my mental faculties is something else. As I roll the word around in my head, I must admit that it doesn't sound … wrong. I still don't know what this is but I do know one thing. I don't want it to end. If I'm honest with myself, I don't want her to leave. As a terminal bachelor who never allowed people into his space, I can't imagine my house devoid of her energy now. I don't think I want to. It's selfish of me because I know this winding road can only lead to a dead end. Determination makes me want to stay in the car forever, but I know that's impossible.

I keep my thoughts to myself as I step up behind her, leaning down to rest my chin on her shoulder.

She tilts her head, and looks at me quizzically.

My palms itch with the desire to run my hands all over her.

To soap her up and stay here for as long as it takes to watch each bubble pop.

But I also don't want to push her further than she's comfortable with.

I guess I'll have to find creative ways to navigate around her resistance so she won't realize I'm systematically breaking down those barriers until after all her walls have crumbled to the ground.

With a small sigh, I say, "Let's make a deal.

I'll wash your hair and you can do the rest."

She thinks about it for a second, but I feel her acquiesce before she even opens her mouth to respond.

I don't think she fully realizes how expressive her face and body language are.

With my chin on her shoulder, I can feel them relax.

Her arms drop to her sides from where I know she was using the fidgeting of her hands as an excuse to hold her arms up in front of herself.

It's gonna take time and effort to get her to the point that she can trust that I mean what I say when I tell her that her body is perfect.

The effort, I don't mind giving.

But time isn't exactly on our side.

The best I can hope for is to do everything possible to convince her with the amount of time we have.

The faster we find Gaspari and put him in the fucking ground, the sooner she'll be gone.

Emotions war with each other as I debate the merits of letting the bastard live longer so that I'll have an excuse to keep her here.

But I want her to make the conscious decision to stay.

I don't want to trap her here with me, creating another prison for her, albeit one with a nicer guard.

Besides, every second that Gaspari is allowed to breathe fresh air is a second too long.

Although … there was some merit to the idea of keeping him alive to hurt him the way he hurt her.

To torture him, slicing open his skin and watching the blood drain from his body, so that he could feel what she felt.

Death by a thousand cuts, right? But no, as cathartic as that might be, he doesn't deserve to inhabit the same planet as her.

As thoughts run riot in my head, I silently reach up for the bottle of shampoo that sits on the little built-in shelf.

It's not mine but one I had brought from her apartment.

As much as I like the idea of her walking around smelling like me, I recognize the scent as soon as I pop the cap.

The familiar hints of coffee and chocolate invade my nose, and it's a smell that has become synonymous with this woman.

She has the same brand and scent in soap form and I remember the first night we were together, the way it made her skin taste under my tongue had me practically drooling.

Or maybe that was just her.

Either way, I can't smell a cappuccino or eat anything with chocolate in it without my cock twitching in my pants.

The way this woman affects me is both inconvenient and entirely necessary to my well-being.

I squirt what's probably too much shampoo into my palm while she reaches up and takes down a bottle of her shower gel.

As I lather her hair, massaging my fingers gently into her scalp, she adds a generous dollop of the soap to a loofa, running it across her skin unhurriedly.

My eyes track the movement of the sponge, and it's not until she turns her head to face me that I realize my hands have stopped moving in her hair.

Clearing my throat so that my voice doesn't come out as a pitiful squeak, I say, "Sorry.

Got distracted."

Seemingly against my will, I lean down until my nose is about an inch away from the skin of her neck.

"Fuck, you smell good enough to eat."

Laughing, she says, "You did that already, remember?"

"And if we don't hurry up and get out of this shower, I'm gonna do it all over again," I warn.

She shakes her head, but I notice her movements are considerably slower as she turns back around and resumes her task.

Gripping the sides of her waist, I press my hardening cock against her lush ass.

The contact elicits a growl from me and a little gasp from her before she laughs again, though even that comes out slightly breathy.

"Okay, okay,"

she says, speeding up the motions of her hands.

After she finishes rinsing the shampoo from her hair, I add the conditioner.

As she rinses that too, I watch eagerly as the soap slides down her body along with it.

Shaking my head to clear it, I quickly grab my body wash, lathering it up and giving myself a cursory scrub down.

She still has her back to me, but as I wash the soap away beneath the shower head's spray at the opposite end, I catch her looking back at me over her shoulder.

If looks were physical touches, hers would cause enough friction to make me spontaneously combust.

I either need to get the hell out of this shower or I'm gonna have her pinned against the tiles within the next 30 seconds.

I'm just about to reach over and turn off the stream of water when Siren turns fully around to face me.

The move catches me off guard, but not nearly as much as what she does next.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, she steps towards me, coming just shy of our bodies brushing.

For a moment, I think she's going to lean up to kiss me, but instead, she keeps her eyes on mine as she slowly lowers herself to her knees on the heated tiles.

My lungs immediately seize up, and I wonder if my brain is leaking out of my ears because all rational thought has fled.

The image of Siren staring up at me from her knees with a look of supplication is better than any gem, painting, or artifact that's ever passed through my hands and, somehow, infinitely more valuable.

She places her hands tentatively on the base of my thighs, before slowly running them up until her short nails are tracing the V shape at the cut of my hips.

Without any other provocation, my cock jumps as though she's already got her hands on it.

At the movement, her eyes drop down and she stares at it, subconsciously licking her lips.

Did the temperature of the water just get hotter because I have the sudden overwhelming urge to pass out?

Bracing a steadying hand on the tiles, I try to get a grip on myself.

Which, of course, just makes me think of her getting a grip on me, and then there goes the temperature again.

As she continues to stare, it pulses, a bead of pre-cum appearing on the tip as it begs for attention.

Opening her pretty pink lips, she asks, "Can I taste you?"

My immediate response is, "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

It's probably not the most eloquent thing I've ever said, but coherent conversation is difficult when your only working brain cells have traveled down the drain along with your woman's favorite soap.

"God, you're such a man,"

she says.

I don't know what that means exactly, but she doesn't give me time to dwell on it as she leans forward, using her tongue to dab at the pearlescent bead of liquid.

I watch as she takes the drop into her mouth, rolling it around on her tongue thoughtfully before swallowing me down.

"Could use a little seasoning,"

she says, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

I bark out a laugh, throwing my forearm up to cover my eyes.

"Jesus, woman.

You do wonders for my ego, you know tha–...".

The rest of my sentence trails off on a moan when I feel her lips wrap around the head of my cock.

Dropping my arm, I look down just in time to see one hand trail from my hip, wrapping around the base of my dick to hold it steady as she slides her lips further down, taking more of me into her mouth.

With every movement of her lips, I lose a year off of my life.

I'm pretty sure I may die before this blow job is over.

Slapping my other palm against the glass of the shower door, I brace myself for what's to come.

As she finds a rhythm, I watch her lips slide up and down my length, and I can feel the glide of her tongue on the underside of my cock, running over the semen inside, already trying to climb its way up.

If she's not careful, I'm going to end up coming down her throat .

Bringing one hand down, I run my fingers through the wet strands of her midnight hair and say in a bemused tone, "Sometimes I wonder if I made you up in my head."

Her eyes flash up to mine, and with her full lips still wrapped around me, I'm more convinced than ever that she's some figment of my imagination.

Something that could only be created in my mind because this type of perfection shouldn't exist.

But as her hand tightens around me and begins to pump up and down in time with the movements of her mouth, I'm reminded that she is real.

She's real and she's here in front of me, looking up at me like I hung the stars while she's the one making me see them.

As her mouth and hand picks up speed, the little fingernails of her other hand dig into my hip as if to hold me in place.

My hand tightens in her hair and unconsciously, my hips buck, thrusting my cock deeper into her mouth.

As if on cue, she pulls her head back, avoiding the contact that would've had her gagging around the base of my erection before setting back in to continue my torment.

I'm so close to coming, and I entertain the sick thought of not telling her so I can catch her off guard, forcing her to take every drop.

Before I can follow through on that thought, I grip her hair in a tight fist, effectively stilling her motions.

"You have to stop, Siren.

If you don't, I'm either gonna come in your mouth or make a mess of you."

Eyes narrowing as if in challenge, she fights the hold of my hand, regardless of the pain it must be causing her.

Tightening her lips around me, she sucks hard, stroking me furiously with her hand.

With an involuntary yell, my hips jerk, and I shoot wave after wave of hot come into her waiting mouth.

As if hellbent on wringing every last drop from me, she sucks me as deep as she can until I feel myself hitting the back of her throat.

Still, she doesn't gag, breathing through her nose as she swallows down everything I have to give her.

With a final shudder, I pull her head back, and she reluctantly releases me from her mouth.

My legs are shaky and if it wasn't for my other palm still propping me up against the tiles, I have no doubt that I'd simply fall over.

Releasing her hair, I reach back, turning off the water that's already started to run cool.

After taking a minute to get my bearings, I hold out my hand, urging her to stand.

Pulling her to her feet, I look down at her red knees and then back up to her face.

She stares back at me with a look of smug satisfaction.

I pull us both from the shower, wrapping a towel around her and then myself.

I take her hand again, and lead her down the hall to the bedroom.

Next to the bed, I remove my towel and use it to dry most of the excess water from her hair before tossing it to the floor.

Her towel is the next to go and before she can utter a protest, I pull back the comforter, pick her up by the waist, and toss her in the bed.

She lets out an indignant squeak but still scooches over to the other side to make space for me.

Climbing in after her, I pull the blanket over us as I pull her back into my chest.

"I'm not sleeping on that damn couch anymore,"

I say close to her ear.

"Okay,"

she says quietly.

"Well, that was easy.

I thought you'd put up more of a fight," I say.

She's silent for a moment before she says, in a voice that indicates she's already bordering on sleep, "Seems only logical to have you here if I'm already thinking about you when I'm in it alone. "

Stunned, I lie there, taking in the scent of her wet hair on my pillow until long after her breathing evens out and the only light in the room comes from the night sky streaming in through the open curtain.

Something changed tonight, and whether she wants to acknowledge it or not, there's no going back to the way it was before.

I don't think I'd want to even if I could.

After about two hours of laying next to Siren and still unable to fall asleep, I give up the fight and ease myself out of bed.

I feel restless.

Too many thoughts and emotions swirling around my head.

Siren, Gaspari, Alexi's not-so-old-and-dusty trinket, and of course … my father.

I pull the blanket up over Siren and tiptoe from the room, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs and workout shorts on my way out.

Easing the door closed behind me, I head for the kitchen and the coffee maker.

I feel drained and exhausted, like I could sleep, but my mind just won't shut off.

I need the caffeine if I'm gonna be able to read even one sentence of the numerous emails and text messages I've intercepted to and from my father.

So far, he's been careful, making no mention of his little murder plot in his regular correspondence, but I honestly didn't expect any different.

He's nowhere near my level of criminal, but he's not a total idiot either.

Despite my extensive digging, I've yet to come up with anything I can actually use.

Sure, he does a lot of shady shit but what politician doesn't? I need something big, and I know this murder-for-hire scheme is it.

Could I save myself all this hassle and just have him killed? Sure.

Could I just do it myself? Absolutely.

I'd relish the task.

But death is too good for him—too quick and not enough suffering.

Call me petty but I want him brought down from his current lofty stature to less than nothing.

Even that's more than he deserves.

Not only for what he did to my mother and me but because the world would be a better place without him holding even a tiny amount of power or influence.

As I stand in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew, I swear to God, I'm having an existential crisis, simply staring off into space at nothing.

At the machine's telltale hissing that indicates it's finished, I have to blink hard several times to refocus my vision.

I pull down a random mug from the cabinet, filling it with coffee and make my way to what I've affectionately dubbed "The Vault".

To myself of course, considering no one knows about it besides Merrick and I.

Well, and now, Siren.

Merrick thought it was cliché, but then I reminded him that most people in our world knew him as The Black Knight.

That shut him up real quick.

Replaying the conversation in my head makes me smile a little.

Our friendship wasn't without its complications, but I'd trust him with my life, and I know he'd say the same about me.

We met at a crucial point in both our timelines, when we had nothing and no one else to rely on.

I became that person for him, and he became that person for me.

As I bypass the security measures to enter the vault, I hesitate when closing the door behind me.

My gut is telling me to leave it open, that I can trust Siren with my secrets at this point, but there's still the pesky problem of me spying on her at all hours of the day and night.

If I have that monitor up when she decides to walk in, I will lose all control of my bodily functions.

Not keen on the idea of shitting myself, I push the door closed, ignoring the little stab of guilt that the action invokes.

For the next several hours, I work in silence, the only sound in the room coming from the quiet hum of the servers behind me and the constant clicking of either my keyboard or mouse.

I've combed through so much information that I'm going cross-eyed.

I rub my hands over my tired face, cognizant of the fact that I haven't shaved in several days and I've grown quite a bit of scruff.

Thank God I wasn't one of those blondes whose beard hairs grow in nearly white.

I was lucky enough for my beard to be several shades darker than my actual hair color, so I didn't mind letting it grow out every now and then.

Dismissing the notion of proper grooming for now, I sip my coffee even though it's long since gone cold and stare at the screen in front of me.

I nearly drop the cup into my lap when my phone suddenly buzzes on the desk beside me.

I roll my eyes as I look at the caller ID and the contact I've not-so-affectionately programmed in as "Stranger Danger"

but I answer nonetheless, putting the call on speaker before sitting my phone back on the desk.

"Rude of you to call me at such an ungodly hour, you know,"

I say by way of greeting.

I can practically hear the little uptick of his lips when he says, "It's not like you were asleep."

Eyes narrowing, I reply, "And how would you know that? Aren't most people asleep at 4 a.m.?"

"You're not most people.

I also might be monitoring your internet activity."

"Is that even legal? If you wanted to get to know me, we could've just gone on a date or something.

You'd pay, obviously," I say .

He lets out a chuckle.

"Do you really want to lecture me on legalities when you're digging through your father's life with a fine-tooth comb?"

I roll my eyes again.

The fact that he's somehow gained access to my system doesn't surprise me anymore.

It grates, but doesn't surprise me.

I make a mental note to shore up my firewalls and other areas that need to be checked for leaks but he's right.

People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones or in this case a boulder, which I'd much prefer.

"Fine, you win this round.

I'm assuming you bothered me for a reason?"

A thought suddenly occurs to me.

"Also, isn't 4 a.m.

a little past your bedtime??"

Silence reigns for a few seconds before he says, "I don't sleep much.

And yes, I did call for a reason.

I think I found the smoking gun you've been looking for."

My spine straightens and even though bringing my face closer to the phone won't change anything, I lean in anyway.

"What smoking gun??"

"What's the magic word?"

He taunts, and the urge to throat punch another human being has never been so strong.

"Fuckface?"

I reply sarcastically.

The chuckle comes again.

"Let's save the face fucking for at least our third date, da?"

At the growl that emanates from my throat, he continues, "Alright, I'll put you out of your misery, even though it's much more entertaining for me when I piss you off.

So … it would seem that the heir to the Hawkins name has a penchant for random … what do you call it? Hook-up apps? Fake profiles, of course, with the sole intention of one night-stands and the occasional date rape."

His voice hardens considerably on the last few words.

From the information I've gathered on him and the knowledge that he used to work in the sex crimes unit, it's no wonder that he finds that type of behavior appalling.

Continuing, he says, "To access these apps, he purchases a lot of burner phones.

He pays cash, but the idiot signed his real name when rejecting the optional device warranties.

I had a contact of mine create a fully functioning fake dating app from scratch, essentially a honeytrap that allows me full access to the phone as soon as the app is downloaded.

Let's just say the trap was very sticky."

The fact that my half-brother is a piece of shit is no surprise.

I've never made any effort to reach out to either of my half-siblings, and I don't ever plan to.

If what Alexi is saying is true, it just reinforces the notion that I don't wanna be within 100 yards of my slightly younger bro.

While the information is good to know, I don't see how it connects to my father.

It would be a scandal but not something a good team of PR people couldn't bury.

"Okay, but how does that help me with my problem? You know that's not gonna be enough."

"Patience is a virtue, Deacon,"

he says, followed quickly by, "And if you keep rolling your eyes at me, you know they'll get stuck that way."

My head jerks around the room, looking this way and that, because I did indeed just roll my eyes again.

Is he surveilling me even now? Or have I just become that predictable? Or, worse yet, is he just that adept at learning and memorizing mannerisms and which buttons to push to get which reaction? I don't think I like either of those possibilities, actually.

I'm on the verge of cursing him out when he starts talking again, and his tone swaps from taunting and sardonic to all business so quickly it nearly gives me whiplash .

"Well, it appears that the Senator thought it more prudent to use one of his son's already existing burners than to get a new one of his own.

It must've gotten mixed up with the others because Jr.

reused it after,"

he says, and I can actually feel my heartbeat pick up speed.

I wait … not patiently … but still.

After another second or two, he says, "I have nearly everything.

Emails and texts from your father to the hitman, as well as wire transfer information for what I can only assume is a down payment for the job because the amount sent wouldn't get you a five day vacation at Disney World, much less the guarantee of a dead body."

I jump to my feet, causing the chair to roll backward, bouncing off a nearby table.

Running my hands through my hair, I barely suppress the instinct to yell my excitement to the rafters.

My elation is short-lived, however, when my mind replays the first sentence of that last bit.

I put my palms flat on the desk, leaning down to get closer to the phone again as I ask, "What do you mean, nearly everything?"

A heavy sigh comes through the speaker.

"I have everything you need to burn his world to the ground, but every bit of information I've gathered is a one-way street.

I still don't know who the man behind the mask is or when it's going to happen.

That wasn't your father's choice, but his.

Apparently, that's how this man operates.

If I don't know who he is, I can't prevent Cole Sykes' death.

Granted, Sykes is nearly as crooked as your father, but he belongs in prison for his crimes, not in the ground."

Fuck .

Frustration bubbles in my gut, climbing up my chest like heartburn.

I don't necessarily want the man to die either, but his survival has never been my primary goal.

Can I live with him being collateral damage? Can I also live with the knowledge that there's a hired killer still out there, waiting to take his next job? I honestly don't know.

With a sigh of my own, I say, "Bring the phone with you when you guys come.

And listen … thanks, man.

I'm sure you've spent more time on this than you would've liked.

I appreciate the help."

Even though I mean it, the praise still burns my throat, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm actually developing acid reflux.

"Deacon, are you flirting with me?"

he asks, effectively ending any sense of obligation I felt to be nice to him.

"Get fucked, Fed."

In a dry tone, he says, "Maybe on our fourth date, but only if you pay."

A groan of exasperation escapes me, and just before I hit the red button to disconnect the call, his deep chuckle echoes in my ear, mocking me.