The Castle Read online

  THE CASTLE

  SKYE WARREN

  “Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.”

  – Emily Dickinson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Excerpt from Tough Love

  Other Books by Skye Warren

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Gabriel

  I deal with dangerous men every day. Criminals. Lowlifes lurking in the darkest corners of the city, without ever flinching. Bruised knuckles and bare tits. That’s what I know.

  It’s this gilt and glamour that makes me itch.

  Men in tuxes. Women in glossy gowns. An enemy who greets me with a handshake.

  Hair on the back of my neck rises.

  Geoffrey James is a businessman with a lot of influence in Tanglewood. He has a reputation for being honest, despite his family legacy. Generous, despite his wealth.

  The skin around his eyes wrinkles as he smiles. “Gabriel. Or do you go by Gabe?”

  “Gabriel will be fine,” I say smoothly.

  “Of course.” A jovial laugh. Does he practice that? “I wouldn’t want to call you Miller. That’s more your father’s thing. The formality.”

  Formality. That’s one word to describe my father’s penchant for violence.

  In contrast to this glittering estate, we lived in a goddamn hovel. Such very different social spheres. So very similar, once you get beneath the surface. The James family fortune was built on the backs of whores and drug addicts.

  That part is common knowledge if you’re connected to the Tanglewood underworld. What isn’t common knowledge is that his construction company is a front for the Russian mafia.

  “My father is no longer”—I pause, savoring the words—“in business.”

  For a brief moment James appears nervous, his wide forehead slick with sweat. He pulls a handkerchief from his jacket, wiping hastily. I do him the favor of averting my eyes. I have no plans to break him.

  Not tonight.

  Normally I don’t enjoy the pretense of fancy things—diamonds and gold. Pretty wrapping on dark cruelty. Though I have to admit this estate is tastefully done, the lawns a demure rolling green, the front of the house in an old manor style. A rich moss scent saturates the night air. Fireflies dance in the distance.

  The wide front door opens, revealing yellow light and sparkling laughter.

  “Built it for my wife,” he says, gesturing to the house with his damp handkerchief.

  I vaguely recall that he’s widowed. “My condolences.”

  “A long time ago now, but thank you. It’s just me and my little girl these days.”

  As we watch, a Bentley pulls up into the curved drive. A young valet sprints around the car to catch keys worth more than he’ll make in a lifetime. Another glittering old couple ascends the staircase.

  A young woman steps onto the front portico to greet them, her smile bright enough to light the entire mansion. Her pale pink dress ruffles in the summer breeze. In a world of falsehoods, she looks completely genuine as she greets the newcomers, giving them warm hugs.

  Even from ten yards away I can tell she squeezes them.

  What would it feel like to be held in her slender arms, her body lithe and pale beneath that floaty fabric? It would tear beneath my hands. The dress. Her skin. I would ruin her.

  The couple and the woman go inside, leaving me to catch my breath.

  I manage to look sideways and catch the glint of pride on James’s face. Good Lord, that’s his little girl? He would probably have a stroke if he knew all the ways I want to defile her.

  “It’s her graduation party,” he says.

  Then she’s eighteen years old. Legal. I should probably be ashamed for thinking of her in sexual terms, but shame was beaten out of me years ago. “Give her my congratulations.”

  “Of course,” he says, lying through his teeth. The girl will never know I was here. Never know my name at all. “Shall we go inside? I keep the good brandy in my study.”

  “Let’s.”

  What we have to discuss is best done in private anyway.

  Wouldn’t want to spoil the party by talking about dirty money. Wouldn’t want to ruin little Ms. James’s celebration by exposing her father for a fraud. I’m sure she worked very hard at her expensive prep school, wearing plaid skirts and dark green cardigans and curl-tipped pigtails.

  At least that’s how she looks in my imagination.

  James isn’t lying about the brandy. A thousand dollars a bottle, I think, breathing in the cherry notes. I take a sip and amend my evaluation. Two thousand, at least. Delicious, I’ll give him that. If only he had spent that money on his debts instead of fine liquor.

  He settles across from a chess set, and I wonder whether he actually uses it. It doesn’t look dusty, but good housekeepers can fix that. I pick up a wooden pawn, running my thumb over the ridges. The beige wood doesn’t have a single visible knot, every imperfection whittled away before being allowed in a place like this.

  His gaze tracks my movements, clearly displeased. I guess he knows I’ve seen the books. He’s at a disadvantage, enough to let me do what I want. With this chess set, at least.

  With his daughter? That would take more work.

  I sit down on the white side, making myself comfortable.

  “I’ve been looking over the records,” I say because we’ve done enough pretending. Enough gold. Enough diamonds. “My father’s records. A lot of it’s missing. A lot of blank pages.”

  He looks relieved, so I set the pawn on the board—not in its starting position. I set it down two spaces forward. An opening move. He needs to understand that we’re playing.

  And that I play to win.

  He meets my gaze, his dark eyes wary. “Much of our negotiations were verbal, you understand. Agreements between gentlemen.”

  I once saw my father piss on a prostitute’s back because she had cried too much when a customer whipped her. Gentleman? Hardly. “Although, the numbers I do have don’t add up.”

  “Well, like I said. Verbal agreements. I can’t control what your father wrote down. Can’t control what kind of records he kept. But I can assure you that our dealings were always the utmost aboveboard.” He’s talking too fast, nervous and revealing.

  “You traded on flesh and weapons,” I say, unable to hold back the venom in my voice.

  Not because I’m above them. No, I’m taking over the family business like a good son, the monster my father raised me to be. But I won’t pretend to be something else, won’t smile as a photographer from the society section flashes his cam
era.

  His expression hardens. This is the face of a man that buys and sells a girl his daughter’s age without remorse. “Whatever your father told you, I never cheated him. We were even at the time of his… disappearance.”

  “Interesting that you think he told me anything about you. At the time of his disappearance, as you put it, he had more pressing matters to consider.” Like my knife at his throat, my knee on his back.

  I’ve committed many sins in my life, but his was the first life I took. It saved the life of a woman, but I can’t claim any noble purpose. His death was long deserved. And extremely profitable for me. I’ve spent the past two weeks taking over every arm of his business.

  James sputters, heat rising to his ruddy cheeks. “This is a rough business. I’m sure you know that. No matter how much I want to give the benefit of the doubt, I have to protect my interests.”

  “I’ve found it’s the dishonest who are most paranoid about other people lying.”

  He stands abruptly. “How dare you accuse me of stealing from your father.”

  I follow more leisurely, standing and straightening my suit jacket. The truth is, the penguin suit is growing on me. As is the velvet brandy on my tongue. As is the pretty girl I saw outside. All the money in the world doesn’t matter if you don’t have anything to buy. Cars. Drugs. Women. None of it interests me, but suddenly I know exactly what I want—everything he has.

  “Stealing?” I say, tasting the word. “I didn’t say anything about stealing. Is that what you did?”

  James takes a step forward, apparently trying to be menacing. His physical body doesn’t offer any threat to me. I managed angry customers twice as strong when I was half as old. “Look here,” he says, almost snarling. “How dare you come into my house, throwing around accusations. That’s not the way business is done, and if you want to challenge me, go right ahead. You’ll find I have a lot of friends in this city.”

  “Friends can be bought, the same way you acquired them.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, boy.”

  Boy. It’s meant as an insult, but it amuses me. It’s been a long time since I felt young or innocent. Actually I’ve never felt that way. Thirty years is long enough to see every form of depravity in this city, most more than once.

  “Relax, old man. I have no issue with you or whatever deals you made with my father. You have a clean slate with me.”

  Relief wars with anger on his puffy face. He wants to stay pissed at me for my insinuations, for the old man comment. But he owes too much money to my father not to take the gift.

  “Of course,” he finally manages. “Naturally that’s the state of things. Good to hear you agree. Then we can complete the final shipment as planned.”

  I give him a hard smile. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

  And I won’t accept any underhanded bullshit. That’s the point of this little visit.

  Except I can see by the glimmer of greed in his eyes that he doesn’t accept the warning. Christ. It’s a miracle he’s stayed alive this long. Paying off the right people can do wonders. That’s the lesson I’m taking away from this.

  I should steer clear of him. After this last deal, no more. No more opportunities for him to steal. Except for the girl with her pink dress and bright smile. She’s a fucking goddess, all of Tanglewood society at her feet. So pure and shining. I want to drag her into my lair, to fuck her so hard she begs for mercy. I want to make her cry. All the people here celebrate her bright future. I want that for her, too. As long as I can drag her back into the dark every night.

  He manages a stern expression. “No hard feelings,” he says gruffly. “Look forward to doing business.”

  He has no goddamn clue, but that works in my favor.

  Then again maybe I should leave well enough alone. He does have quite a few friends, bought or otherwise. Quite a few resources. I could use him as an ally, never breaking him. Never breaking his daughter.

  Eighteen is still so young, so innocent. The kind I’ve never been.

  She would be better off with some rich kid, one who will insist on plastic surgery even while he fucks around with the nanny. That’s the life she was born for.

  Not for the likes of me.

  I work the question in my mind like my thumb against the ridges of the pawn, feeling it out, testing as I leave the room. The hallway is full of antique vases and plush rugs. Is this what prep school girls like? Of course it is. If a man does something foolish and ridiculously expensive, it’s probably for a woman.

  Would the young Ms. James want a house of her own like this?

  It’s like my mind conjures her from thought alone.

  When I turn the corner, she’s there, her hazel eyes wide, her body leaning back in surprise—back toward the open staircase. I catch her arms, the sudden lurch in my heart more than shock, more than relief. It’s the feel of her soft skin beneath my hands, the knowledge that I’ll leave finger-shaped bruises on her flesh. She smells like fucking strawberries.

  I want to slam her against the wall, to growl at her about the risks of being so damn edible around men who like to eat pretty girls for dinner.

  But her father is in the study behind me, only a few yards away. An entire crowd of people mill around downstairs, their jewelry sparkling from the chandeliers. This isn’t the place. This isn’t the time.

  In that second, staring into her wide eyes, looking at her pink lips, I know there will be a place. A time. I won’t be able to leave her alone, not now that I’ve seen her, touched her. She’s going to be mine. No matter how many antique vases I need.

  I’ll buy the entire city to own one young woman.

  I settle her firmly on the landing, making sure she’s sturdy before moving down the staircase. I catch glimpses of worried looks from the partygoers. Even in this goddamn suit they can tell I don’t belong. Too dangerous. Too cold. They aren’t as safe as they think. Half the men in this room are my customers now. The other half wish they were rich enough to be.

  By the time I’m done with this city, I’ll own every goddamn neck in the room. Every wrist. Every sunshine smile.

  Chapter One

  Pandora was the first woman to be created by the gods. Zeus ordered that she be formed from the earth, her creation a punishment for Prometheus’s theft of fire.

  In that way her curiosity was foretold, part of her fate.

  I pause with my hands on the keyboard, studying my words. Like taking a breath after too long underwater, I’m back at school. I have two correspondence classes, this one Gender in Classical Greek Literature. An analysis of the first reading assignment is due tomorrow.

  The woman signifies more than the punished; she’s the punishment itself, retribution for events that occurred before her conception. Blame without agency is a central theme for women in Greek literature.

  The other class I’m taking is Subjectivity, Individualism, and the Crisis of Morality. At first it seemed like a stark contrast to study the breakdown of traditional customs while studying an ancient civilization.

  Then again, who better embodies nihilistic randomness than the Greek gods?

  They acted on impulse, creating lives and destroying them, rewarding and punishing on a whim. Vengeful and cruel, without the inherent gifts of morality imbued on other modern deities. Gifting humanity with a beautiful woman only to condemn them for her eventual curiosity.

  At ten o’clock Gabriel still hasn’t returned. I wander to the window. A full moon lights up the maze of hedges, the line of trees beyond. Jonathan Scott might be in those trees. He might be anywhere. My eyelids are heavy, but I’m afraid to sleep.

  A stream of cheery notes startles me. My phone.

  Please tell me you’re having wild sex right now.

  Thank God for Harper. A reprieve from the nightmares.

  And she’s one of my only links to the outside world now that I’m trapped here. I flop onto the large bed, plush and utterly cold without Gabriel. The estate
is large and so very lonely.

  Coursework is a good distraction from the fact that I can’t actually leave. After the fire and the creepy switched painting of my mother, I know there are real dangers outside these walls. But I also can’t help but long for a simple trip to a coffee shop, a walk in the park. How persistent is the danger? How serious is the threat to me, specifically?

  I can’t shake the feeling that Gabriel isn’t telling me everything.

  I type back. Why would I be on my phone if I’m having wild sex?

  Lie to me. I need to live vicariously through you.

  A snort. Good luck with that. I’m stuck in Gabriel’s fancy house.

  At least you have a hot man coming to service you every night.

  My cheeks heat. He certainly makes the most of the time we spend in this bed together. It’s almost enough. And then every day he leaves before it grows light. It’s like he’s a dream, something I made up to ease the loneliness of this prison.

  What about your harem of frat boys? I ask.

  Dry spell.

  I’m not sure how she can run out of boys with two different colleges within driving distance. There are parties every night, some huge and boisterous, some private and exclusive. And Harper always goes.

  I send her a long line of question marks, nothing else.

  There’s a pause when I think she might not respond. Our conversations sometimes end this way, fading and then starting where we left off the next day. I try to imagine her in her dorm room with its small desk and the WWII poster of Rosie she hung above her bed. If she’s not heading to a party, she would be dressed in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, like most of the other girls on the floor. Not like my lace nightgown, one of many that magically appear in my drawer each day.

  Gabriel loves to rip them off me, to literally rip the fabric with his bare hands. He ruins them with a ferocity I feel in my core, as if my flesh is made of satin, as if he’s tearing me apart.

  I’ve grown addicted to ruin.

  Another little bleep from my phone.

  They seem so young, she says. Even when they’re grad students. What’s happening to me?