Capture (Siren Book 1) (4 page)

Eight

Milla

As I'm returning from my lunch, walking back from the caf, someone bowls into me. Sometimes the guys do that, to sneak a grope “on accident”. On instinct, I shove back, and curse at the guy. “Fucking
back off
.”

Strong hands catch mine, steadying me on my feet, over my protests. “I'm sorry.
Truly
I am.”

And I gulp. Dressed like
that
, no way he's one of us. Why isn't he in the administration building? I direct my gaze upwards, and blanch, to be face to face with Calder Roane. My fingers twitch, the urge to throttle him barely contained. “I, uh—I'm sorry, sir.”

Now's not the time or the place. But my time will come, and when it does, it'll be sweet. I won't just kill him, I'll
break
him. Just the thought makes my breath come faster, and my lips part.

His twitch into a smile, as he looks me up and down. “I don't think we've met. Calder.”

I blink, uncertain whether this is a trick. Is he trying to get my name so he knows who to fire for the disrespect? Whatever he's after, I'll take my blows standing tall. I tip my chin up and offer my hand. “I know who you are. Camilla.”

He squeezes my hand firmly, and releases it. “Well,
Camilla
, I'm
sorry
.” Heaven help me; he actually sounds
sincere
. Not rattled, just… not looking for a fight, I guess.

“It's okay. Some of the guys here play rough. I snapped.” I smile at him as appeasingly as I can, given who he is.

“I was just about to go out for a drink—are you off shift?”

“Just getting back from lunch, but I'm
pretty
sure I'm not supposed to say yes, either way.” I flash him a brighter smile, but it's still hugely nervous. I'll
never
hear the end of this, if the guys see it.

“That's too bad. I don't know the place real well. What's a good bar?”

He doesn't know the place too well
? Of course he doesn't. Probably any bottle in his liquor cabinet costs as much as my house would get me, were I to put it on the market. He actually wants to wallow in the filth, with the lifestock?
Fucking
rich people.

“Umm, McAllister's is usually my go-to, but—” I hesitate. Will he take the bait? “That's largely because they're cheap as shit, and half the guys here are regulars. It's really rough.”

He laughed, his baritone voice raising goosebumps on my arm. “Roughing it. I can do that. Thanks.”

He claps my shoulder, and turns away. I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, and turn back towards the
Kingsman
. I'm due back below decks, welding panels in, but the opportunity is too good to resist. I may never have a shot like this to get Calder Roane on his own again.

*              *              *

I try not to call attention to myself as I hurry to find Carl. I usually avoid playing the lady-pain card, but I might need all the help I can get to seize this chance by the balls.

He's overseeing those of us returning from lunch, and I wave at him, and put on my most pitiful expression. “Can I call out, come back later tonight? I feel—”

“Chrissakes, Millie, I don't have time for you to be a little
girl
. Whatever the fuck 'you feel', get the fuck back to work.”

I've still got one trick up my sleeve. I heave a deep breath, relaxing the muscles at the top and bottom of my throat and gasping for air, as discreetly as I can. I pull my tongue forward and cough, and as it has, all my life, it triggers my gag reflex. Within two coughs, the deck is spattered with bile, as are Carl's shoes.

“
Fuck
, Millie! What the—” He rethinks it, and swears to himself. “
Shit
. Fine. Get the fuck out of here.”

I cough a few more times as the retches peter off, and wave weakly at him. “Thanks—Ca—” And then, just for good measure, I cough again, retch another load of soda and bile.

He swears as he walks away, and I hightail it out of there, ignoring the strange looks I've gotten. I've just gotta remember to brush my teeth now.

At home, I go through the ritual on autopilot—shower, makeup, wig cap—pausing only to take deep breaths before I do my mascara, so I don't pass out and poke my eye out. Again, the dark wig goes on.

Maybe to most people, it looks like the tremble and flutter of a new crush, but I know the bloodlust better than that. Thinking of all the ways I could kill him, all I can do is bite my lip and hope the right way speaks to me when the time comes. Maybe he'll only get injured, and I'll get to finish it myself. If that happens, maybe I'll castrate him. Why should any of the rest of us live half-lives so that his family can thrive? A wicked laugh pushes through my reddened lips, and it takes me several minutes to calm the hysterical chuckles.

I pull the remaining liquid out of the fridge; I hadn't expected to need more this soon, and I've got maybe one dose left. I just have to hope it's the right strength this time, and that I can get more soon.

Nine

Calder

McAllister's was a good recommendation. They don't water down the drinks, and it's not full of that stupid neon culture that the bars usually do when they're trying too hard to be hip. If I wanted to be inside an 80s scifi movie, I'd just watch
Running Man
on replay.

Four shots in, I can finally put the stress of it all out of my head. I can empty my mind and focus on the woodgrain of the counter. It's mostly empty, this time of day, but at least no one's going out of their way to talk to me.

The door opens, letting in irritating sunlight, and as my eyes adjust to it filtering through the motes, a silhouetted figure strides confidently up to the bar, a few chairs down, and waves the bartender over. He plops a drink in front of her, heavy whiskey, and she nods, a little formally. It's that formality that tips my half-drunk brain into complete recognition. From the benefit.

I try to catch her eye, but either she doesn't see, or ignores it. It could be either, if last time is any indication. Finally, I speak. “You never did give me your name the other night.”

She raises an eyebrow as she turns to me. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I'm not really one for the social scene.” Her smile's a bit more welcoming, this time, so I take advantage of it.

“Can I let you in on a secret?”

She cocks her head, drawing my attention to her neck, and the soft skin where it meets her shoulder. “Sure.”

“Closer—” I taunt, leaning into her a little. She obeys, resting her weight on her elbows to bend herself toward me. A little of her perfume washes over me, as intoxicating as the scotch in my glass. Maybe I should take what I can get, but I'm just drunk enough to test exactly what that
is
. “Closer...”

She snorts, catching on to my game, but obeying anyways. The dim lights deepen the valley of her breasts, and draw shadows on her cheeks through her long lashes. She's close enough to kiss, close enough to pull her into my lap, to bury my worries in those muscular curves...

I remind myself of my original train of thought. “Neither do I,” I whisper, my lips grazing her warm earlobe. She gasps, a light, feminine noise that focuses my cock's attention on her.
Fuck
, I want to hold her, drown myself in her scent.

Maybe I'm drunker than I realized. Drunker? More drunk?

Definitely drunk
.

She grins, those scarlet lips curving alluringly, and those sharp, blue-green eyes aware. Wait—weren't her eyes brown?

Fuck
, I'm drunk. And enjoying the hell out of it.

She glances at the bartender apprehensively, though I don't quite get why. The emotion is mostly hidden, though. I wouldn't have picked up on it if I hadn't seen her last night. It only shows in the way her eyes narrow. “You're right though. I never gave you my name. Rachael.”

It doesn't flow off her lips the way I want it to. I'm not sure if I was just hoping for something else, something pouty and sexual, or if she's still less than happy to be offering it.

“Look—I'm drunk, and if I stay here I'm only gonna get drunker.” Damn you, liquor truth serum!

She titters, politely, and looks away. “I can't argue with that. I was thinking about asking how many you've had.”

“I'm just—if I'm drunk, I may as well be comfortable. Stretched out on my couch, I mean—nothing, nothing else.”

She chuckles, likely picking up on what I'm about to ask, but letting me flounder for it anyways. Her grin widens wickedly, and I go in for the win, catching my hand on the back of her neck and pulling her in for a kiss. She tastes like vanilla and whiskey, somehow the essence of femininity and comfort. I slide my tongue into her mouth to taste her more deeply, and to my surprise, she doesn't push me away. Her arms slide around me, palms flat against my shoulders. As hard as she's trying to be welcoming, there's tension there; she's not used to being held.

And it's that little vulnerability that pushes me to finally spit it out. “Want to continue this comfortably at home?”

She laughs, and pulls away. “That's the best pickup line you've got?”

“You saying I should try again in ten minutes when I think of a better one?”

She thinks it through. “Nah, I'm good. You're coming to my place, though; my mama always said not to trust strangers.” For a moment, whatever social mask she's wearing slips, and whatever's beneath it is lost: sad, scared, and a little desperate. She's got
something
behind her she doesn't want to think of, and my first instinct's to hold her tightly, surround her in something else. It would be easier to focus on someone else right now, rather than the fucking quagmire waiting for me at work. And it'd be a damn enjoyable experience.

“Oh yeah. I'm
obviously
the big bad wolf.” I blow it off, trying to distract her.

She grins, daring me to contradict her as she winks and chimes in, obviously no longer thinking whatever dark thoughts had plagued her—“No...
I
am.”

The perfect opportunity to show I
can
be clever, when my brain cooperates. And while I'm at it, absorb a little more of her fragrance, a faintly floral smell tinged with something almost dirty, as though she's spent the day outdoors getting her hands dirty.

“Are you? You gonna huff,” I lean in and inhale next to her ear, my lips tickling the lobe again. I swear to god, if she makes that little half-moan every o
ther
way I want to touch her, I'm not gonna make it. Goosebumps raise on her neck, and I use a palm on the small of her back to pull her off her bar stool. “And puff,”  I blow on her earlobe, catching it lightly between my lips and flicking my tongue against it as my breath runs out. “And blow my house down?”

I kiss her, again sliding my tongue into her mouth. She gasps, arching into me the rest of the way, and only then does it occur to me that I
really
don't want the headache of getting arrested for fucking her on the scuzzy pool table near the door.

She catches her breath, but doesn't let it go unanswered. “You know, I think I just might.”

Then her lips are on mine, and her tongue's in my mouth, soft and eager.

And I'm lost.

“Your place it is.”

Ten

Milla

Roane
bought
it. For a moment, I thought Chuck was gonna recognize me through the makeup, give me
away
. I'm giddy knowing how close I am. It makes it easier to relish his kisses, Roane's protective touches.

My finger slides against the syringe in my purse. Just knowing it's there comforts me. But something makes me hesitate; Roane's—no,
Calder's
... I can't blow this now—so
strong
. Will he really let me close enough to use it? He's already been so focused on
me
, I find it hard to believe he'll give me a second alone with him in which he's not worshiping whatever part of me is within reach. I don't know if I'll have a chance to go for it.

If I can't pull it off tonight, if all I get is maybe his number to lure him somewhere else in the future, will I still feel okay about this? If he fucks me, and I can't find an opening to fuck
him
back, will I
really
be okay wearing his marks?

The opportunity is too good. I
have
to risk it. It's not the end of the world if he gets one more good orgasm before he gets what's coming. Even if that orgasm
is
one I've given him. I'll just hurt him worse to make up for it, later. Maybe something involving fire. Or acid.

At the door to the pub, he hesitates. “My driver's around the block, I think. Where do you live?”

I snort. “Driver? Are you shitting me?” I let myself have a good long laugh at that. Where does he
think
I live? In a nice little beach-front place with room for him to park his Escalade in the garage? But I'm supposed to be playing nice. “Off Laurel Lane.”

His eyebrow scrunches, as he tries to remember where it is; at most he's only ever seen it on a map. “Really? Before I was born, my dad lived off Northwind. That's close, right?”

“Umm, within a few miles?”

“Oh. That was before he got successful, though. I've never actually been there.”

I refuse to release my breath until my cheeks redden, as though blushing at getting self-conscious about his obvious wealth for the first time. But I'm really hoping he's too drunk to realize that no
way
someone who belonged at that last fundraiser lives off
Laurel
, in the slums. “It's nothing to write home about. Your driver'd stick out like a sore thumb. Trust me—you're not gonna want him to wait around.”

He hesitates. “You're not
really
the big bad wolf, are you? If Evan's not around and something happens, he'll
ream
me later.”

I laugh. “Who's the boss here?”

The jibe works. He straightens his shoulders. “Alrighty then. Let's go home. I'll text him on the way.”

I steer him toward my beat-up pickup. His eyes linger on the scratched paint. “Don't ask.” I cock my head. “Wasn't exactly the sweet sixteen present I wanted, either.”

Something glimmers in his eye. “Your parents don't help you out?”

I can't think of a reaction other than the honest one. “Not anymore.”

His face falls, and he pats my hand. “That sucks. Can I ask—”

“No.”

I turn toward the rough part of town, and to his credit, he doesn't flinch. I can hardly keep my eyes on the road, my body humming with eagerness. Does he like his handiwork? Will he have
any
remorse for the eviction notices? But nothing. His eyes are glued to my face. No doubt my own fixation on him plays as barely contained lust.

No matter. He'll be sorry, soon enough. No clue why I expected him to have fucking empathy anyways; if he did, he'd have stopped this shit
years
ago. Stepped in when his old man died, and prevented the bitch from carrying on his work, rather than standing at her side like a good little whelp.

Even though I brushed my teeth, I swear I can still taste bile in my throat. Maybe it's new. Can I
really
fuck him, if it comes down to it? Can I
really
pretend to let him pleasure me, with his own goddamn
slum
visible from between the curtains?

Some part of me recoils.
Pretend?
He knows what he's doing. He wouldn't
have
to make me pretend. And that thought knocks even more rage and violence loose. I nearly swerve into a pole, just to have him dead
now
.

“Careful,” he says, and laughs, still obviously too tipsy to care,
himself
.

“Sorry—I'm fine. I'm fine.”

Maybe I
can
do this. I park as far up the driveway as I can, next to the side door, and lead him out, part eager to get this done with, and part not wanting him to be seen, just in case.

Unconsciously, he veers toward the front, looking at the garden and the neighborhood. Against my will, I'm
guilty
. What does he
think
about what he sees?

“It's not much to look at—it didn't
used
to be like this...” Rage creeps into my voice and I try to tamp it down. I devote myself to focus on my keys, and getting him inside. Maybe that'll feel like less of a judgment.

In the foyer, I put my keys down, slip out of my shoes. I don't want us to be here long, but he shouldn't think that. “Nice place,” he says, trying to put me at my ease.

His eyes linger on something near the front entry. I don't need to look, don't need the pain it'll cause. “Drive-bys are common here. They weren't always, but—”

He turns to put his hand on my shoulder comfortingly. “It's a
lovely
home. Very—homey.”

That has to be sarcasm.

He leans in to kiss me, obviously intending to pick up where we left off, smearing the
rest
of my lipstick onto him, but I can't take my eyes off the bullethole now that it's been pointed out. Even when the blood mostly wore away, I never could bear to fill it.
Never
. Some memories can't be allowed to fade.

His hand slides lower over my ass, and I tighten my fingers around the syringe in my purse. I'll just
die
if that fucker wants to screw me so close to where—

No
. I block it out. I need to keep my mind on the task at hand.

His lips make their way lower in a trail of kisses, to the base of my neck, and as he nips me softly, my defensive reflexes take over, and I slap him.

He laughs in shock, and I grasp for a way to cover up for it—if he storms out of here, I'll have a much harder time getting closer to him again. “I... I—”

He cuts me off, staring hard. “You coulda
warned
me you like it rough.”

“What?”

“That's what that was, right? You want to fight? You want to be hunted?” There's something intriguingly predatory to his smile, but more importantly, he's given me an out.

“
Yes
. That's it.”

There's no doubt he hears the relief in my voice, but from his smirk, he interprets it as a reaction to him validating the kinky desire.

Before I can think of any kind of follow up, his lips crash onto mine again, much more forcefully, and his hands catch both of my wrists, forcing my hands up. I strain in his firm grip, pain and tingles ringing through my fingertips; if he keeps this up, they'll be numb in a second. My syringe is out of reach, and I still can't tell myself it's the right moment.

Calder presses me into the wall, leaning his full weight against me, and panicked claustrophobia hits. He handles me like he knows what he's doing, like I'm not the first woman he's fucked while she tried to hurt him.

He pulls back long enough to say, “Safe word's
red
,” but before I can say it, his lips find my neck in a painfully aggressive bite. Pain blooms through me, chasing the fear away, leaving nothing left but the desire to fight. Not even the desire to fight
him
, just the desire to fight. One of his hands' grip has loosened, and I wrench my wrist away, swinging it to the side of his head. He swears as I clip him, and picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder.

I've never hurt someone so directly; I have a feeling it could be addicting. My nails scratch at every bit of him I can reach, clawing at his sides, catching in his shirt. He chuckles at my ineffectiveness, and swats my ass. I try to kick his hand, but I'm a second too slow.

He doesn't know his way around, and I'm not about to help him. I have to get closer to the ampule, find a moment of distraction to use it. But it's a small house, and it's fairly obvious that the room at the end of the hall is the master bedroom.

As the doorframe comes into view behind him, my weight shifts suddenly as he drops me onto my bed. Daylight streams through the window, highlighting him, with his shirt half off, obviously not wasting a second. His eyes meet mine. “You okay, Rachael? Too rough?”

That stings my pride. “I can take anything you can give me.”

I'll just hurt him worse for it later, when it's
my
turn to be the wolf.

He lets out a little feral growl that somehow sets my skin to humming, and lights a fire in my lower belly, a hunger to prove myself.

I
will
defeat this monster. With nails, teeth, and cunt.

“Red. Remember that.”

Fuck me.
That sly smile. I draw a deep breath, wondering where all the air went. No wonder he thinks he's some divine gift to women.

“
Fuck you
.”

His eyes twinkle at me. I’m somewhat surprised that he’s nonplussed by my language. And then his weight is over me again, pinning me against the bed, jerking my hands above my head, where I can't reach him. There's a metallic
ting
, and a moment of shock before I realize what it is, as cold metal closes around my wrist.
Shit
, I forgot to put my handcuffs in my purse; they were on the table in the entryway, where he obviously found them.

He's entirely too deft at this, confirming my anxiety that it's a normal thing for him. Panic blooms in my breast; how do I know how far he's gone, before? Maybe he just likes it a little kinky, or maybe it's worse than that. If anyone was likely to be the type to get off on torturing and killing a woman, it'd be him; that's practically what his family's made their fortune doing.

Still, I can't make myself say the safe word. I have to know exactly how
much
of a monster he is. And not just to truly
know
him when I take him down. I have to know, because it'll tell me how much of a monster
I
am.

My hands cuffed to my headboard, I carry out the fight on other fronts, kicking my feet erratically, in the hopes of catching him, knocking him away. I get a lucky thrash in, and knock him to the side. He laughs a little, but trusts that since I haven't used the safe word, it's all part of the fun. His eyes dart around the room, and he pulls my closet open, to dig around inside it. When he approaches me again, he's got a length of cord, the last remnant of an outdoors kit I used to have for when Robin and I went hiking.

I should be terrified at how far he's taking it, but either adrenaline's made me stupid, or I don't honestly believe he means me harm. I'm inclined to guess the first.

Calder grins, catching my eye since he's not yet in reach of my flailing feet. “I like a women who's not afraid to go for what she wants. It's what drew me to you in the first place.”

I huff, preoccupied with the metal biting into my wrists, and the inches until I can kick him.

“I mean it—I mean, I'd mean it
more
if you'd just said it;
god
, even the thought of those words falling off your lips, it goes right to my cock. See?” He catches my foot, stretches me until there's no way I can attempt to kick him, and leans close enough to stroke my foot against his rigid length. Unconsciously, a moan leaves me, and he flexes against me.

Fuck
, he's a beast. He expertly catches my other foot and has the cord around the both of them before I can yank either away. He wraps it several times to get it secure, and ties it off. The synthetic cord isn't especially rough, but it still catches painfully as I test my bonds.

“You do this with every random woman you take home?” I taunt, both adding fuel to the fire and satisfying my
own
burning curiosity. “You sling her over your shoulder like slaughtered meat, and throw her down, truss her up—”

He cuts me off with a laugh. “Like a pig on a spit? Don't give me ideas, sweetheart.”

A choked gasp leaves me as, emboldened by my lack of mobility, he pins me legs down to sit next to me. Now that I'm trapped complete, he starts tracing his hands along the curves my dress is hugging. A stab of self-consciousness rips through me when I realize my skirt's ridden up, exposing the lace thong I prayed to fuck he wouldn't get far enough to see.