In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (35 page)

“I can accommodate that,” he replied.

“Especially with Jace still roaming around,” I said, unable to stop the shudder that went through me.

“I told you, you don’t have to worry about him anymore.” Now his lips brushed my shoulder and his hand drifted down my stomach.

I frowned. “Why not?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

His mouth fastened over my nipple as his hand slipped between my legs. My flesh was still slick from our lovemaking and the slide of his finger made my questions drift away.

I trusted Devon. If he said he’d take care of it, then he would. He’d keep me safe . . . from Jace, from everyone. He cared about me, even if he hadn’t said he loved me. I could, and would, wait for his return, and his love.

In the morning, he was gone. On my bedside table I found three things: a gun, a set of keys, and a note.

Happy New Year, sweet Ivy.

Until we meet again—

—D

E
PILOGUE

T
he man flipped through the channels on the decrepit television. There was nothing on.

“Piece of shit,” he groused to no one, tossing aside the remote. The cheap motel had the most basic of cable packages. But what had he expected? He was practically in the middle of fucking nowhere to find a motel where they took cash and looked the other way.

He was out of cigarettes, too. Mumbling more curses, he grabbed his keys and headed outside to the stolen Cadillac that was so old, it probably predated him. A few minutes later, he was buying a pack of smokes and a six-pack. Glancing up at the television in the corner of the store while the clerk counted his change, he saw a blonde anchorwoman giving the news. Her hair was long and straight, but not as blonde as it should be.

Not as blonde as Ivy’s.

The mere thought of Ivy gave him a hard-on. Angry now, and frustrated, he slammed the car into gear and tore out of the lot.

It was getting dark and his mood was no better when he returned and unlocked the motel, juggling his beer in one hand and the key in the other. Tossing the key onto the cheap table in the corner, he twisted the cap off one of the beers and took a long swallow.

It wasn’t until he turned around that he saw the shadow of a man sitting in the corner.

He choked on the beer, the bitter liquid making him cough as he spluttered and reached for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans underneath his flannel shirt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jace,” the man said.

Jace froze, now seeing the outline of a gun in the man’s hand.

“Very slowly, take that gun and set it on the table. One wrong move and you’ll be dead.”

Jace complied, his eyes glued to the man’s gun, which remained steady in his grip.

“Now put the bottle down,” he ordered. He had some kind of British accent, his voice all calm, like they were talking about the latest football scores.

Jace did as he was told. “Who are you? What do you want? I don’t have any money.”

“That’s good because I’m not here for money. Take off your clothes.”

A cold sweat broke out on Jace’s forehead and he didn’t move. “I’m gonna yell, man. Even if you shoot me, the manager will hear the shot.”

“That manager’s been paid very handsomely to be utterly deaf until morning,” the man said.

Jace began to panic. He knew very well how easily someone could be persuaded to look the other way, especially in the type of company he kept.

A shot rang out and Jace jumped about a foot.

“That’s your only warning. Now take off your clothes.”

Realizing he had no choice, Jace hurried to comply, stripping off the flannel shirt and cheap blue jeans until he stood in his socks and underwear.

“All of it.” The man’s voice was like steel and sent a cold shiver of terror through Jace. His hands shook slightly as he removed the rest of his clothing.

“Now use these,” the man tossed him a pair of handcuffs. “Lie on the bed and cuff your wrists to the headboard.”

Jace eyed his discarded gun on the table.

“Try it and you’ll be dickless.”

He glanced over. The man had his weapon pointed directly at Jace’s penis. Without any other choice, Jace climbed onto the bed, acutely aware of how naked and vulnerable he was. It took a couple of tries to get the handcuffs fastened, but they finally clicked into place.

“What do you want?” he tried again, embarrassed at how his voice shook.

“What do
I
want?” the man asked, putting his gun into the holster hidden under the suit jacket he wore. “I’m here for some long overdue justice, Jace.”

“How do you know my name?” Jace’s thoughts scrambled, trying to think of whom he’d wronged that they’d send an assassin after him, because it was obvious that’s who this guy was. It had to be someone with some serious cash because this guy had to cost a bundle to hire.

“I’ve heard it spoken,” the man said as he reached into his pocket. “Told to me quite calmly in a story that would leave most sane people horrified. And I’ve heard it spoken in terror, in a nightmare that I could only imagine paled when compared to reality.”

He paused and pulled a switchblade from his pocket, hitting a button that flipped up a six-inch blade. “Tonight, you’re going to feel that terror, Jace, and feel the utter despair of knowing that no one is coming to help you.”

Fear washed over Jace in a cold rush and his arms jerked at the handcuffs, which held fast.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jace yelled.

“I’m a friend . . . a very close friend . . . of Ivy’s. She sends her regards.”

All the blood left Jace’s head in a rush as he stared, horrified, at the man.

“So I have quite the evening planned for us, Jace,” he said, walking to the corner and returning with a wooden broomstick, minus the broom. “First, I’m going to acquaint you with this, hit you about a bit, tenderize you, so to speak. Then I’m going to sodomize you with it. Will that be a new experience for you, Jace? I do know you were in prison. Perhaps you were someone’s bitch? A pretty boy like you had to have had a boyfriend or two.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Jace choked out, but the man didn’t look it. He was dressed in a goddamn suit, for chrissakes.

The man’s face turned hard and cold, his eyes inhuman and terrifying. “I’m not the one who likes to rape little girls.”

“She wanted it! She liked it!”

The slam of the wooden handle across his crotch made him scream as pain licked him like fire, curling up his belly and into his throat. Vomit spewed from his mouth, dribbling down his chin and coating his chest. He choked and coughed, drawing his knees up in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Jace,” the man chided. “If you’re having that much of a fit because of a little bruise, you’ll no doubt cry like a baby when I cut it off.” He slammed the knife down, point first, into the wood of the bedside table. The light glinted off its blade.

“Was there anything else you’d like to say?” the man asked, again so calm. “Maybe you’d like to beg. I think I might like that. Yes, I’d like to hear you beg for mercy.”

Jace began to cry. He knew with a dead certainty that this night would be his last, and that it was going to be filled with terror and pain like nothing he’d ever known. He also knew that the only thought the man would have as he stood over his dead and mutilated body was to make sure there was no blood to mar the pristine silk of his tie.

T
wo days later

“So tell me again what this relationship
is
exactly?”

Marcia looked confused as we stood in the break room fixing our coffee. She’d hounded me that morning about whether or not I’d texted Devon or gone by his place, and I’d caved to the desire to tell someone about him. I’d glossed over the details—saying he worked for the government and traveled a lot, most of the time doing things that he couldn’t tell me—but enough to where she got the gist. I’d finished by telling her that I was going to move into his apartment and that I’d see him again . . . sometime.

“It’s the greatest sex you’ve ever had,” she continued, “but you can’t call him, don’t know when he’ll be back, and he never said he loved you or admitted to any kind of feelings at all?”

Well, when she put it like that . . .

“Um, yeah, I guess that’s about right,” I mumbled, dumping creamer into my coffee.

Marcia sensed my chagrin because she softened her words. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand. It seems you’re in this . . . relationship . . . that most men would kill for and most women would run from. He owes you nothing, isn’t committed to you in any way—he’s not secretly married, is he?—but can just stop by and have sex with you whenever he feels like it?”

“I love him,” I said stubbornly, despite the way I knew my cheeks were burning.

The sympathy in Marcia’s eyes bothered me, as if she knew this was destined to be an epic fail. “I know,” she said. “I really do. There isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t been where you are—in love with a man who won’t commit. I just want you to be aware of what you’re doing. I’d sure hate to see you get hurt, Ivy.”

“I do,” I insisted. “I know what I’m doing.” The chances of Devon and I ending up together—safe and happy—were minuscule. But I had to try.

“So long as you’re going into it with your eyes wide open,” she cautioned.

“I am.”

We fell into a kind of awkward silence as I finished stirring my coffee. I did know what I was doing. Maybe. Probably.

“What’s that? What happened?”

I glanced at the television behind me and it was flashing one of those news alerts. We both moved closer and Marcia turned up the volume. An on-site anchor was standing outside one of those strip motels that were cheap and ubiquitous, renting rooms by the hour. The banner across the bottom of the screen read “Escaped Parolee Found Murdered.”

“. . . Jace Croughton, a released felon wanted for not reporting for parole a few weeks ago in Kansas, was found murdered inside this motel. Though the owner says he didn’t see or hear anything, the victim was found to have been brutally tortured for hours before bleeding to death . . .”

“Oh my God,” I breathed, my eyes wide.

“Wow, that’s like totally medieval,” Marcia said. “Probably some kind of gang or drug thing.” She shrugged and grabbed her cup of coffee before heading back to her booth.

I didn’t answer, still reeling. Devon had killed Jace, there was no doubt in my mind. I wanted to tell Marcia, but couldn’t. It surely spoke to some kind of feelings Devon had for me that he’d done this—committed murder to avenge me. But that wasn’t exactly something you wanted to point to as a sign.
He killed my stepbrother who used to abuse me, so he must love me a little, right?
Yeah, somehow I didn’t think she’d take it as proof of Devon’s devotion. Mental instability? Yes. Love? No.

I felt . . . relieved that Jace was gone, but I shouldn’t be glad at someone’s death. That seemed wrong somehow, to not just be relieved but to have that spark of satisfaction, of joy even, that he was dead.

But no matter my confusion over my feelings, one thing was crystal clear. Devon had been right. I didn’t have to worry about Jace any more.