The Bishop: A Tanglewood Novella Read online

  His blue eyes study my shape beneath the blanket, and I flush with warmth. Embarrassment? Yes. Maybe even some indignation. There’s something else…

  A hint of attraction that has no place in my life. No place in this room.

  “Would it be so bad?” I ask, because everything is a weapon when you’re backed into a corner. I’ve never used sexuality before, but it was only a matter of time. “To notice me as a woman? To desire me as a woman? I find you handsome, too, you know.”

  His eyes turn sharp as glass. “You want to have sex with me in exchange for that chess piece? That’s quite an expensive fuck. Not sure I noticed a gold-plated pussy when I helped you piss.”

  My cheeks burn. “That’s crude.”

  “Not that I think we’d get that far. I think if I took you up on your offer, you’d pass out within ten minutes. If I wanted an unconscious woman, I’d already have had you.”

  “Or maybe I’d disarm you instead. I might be out the door in ten minutes.”

  He glances at the door, looking unconcerned. “I really don’t recommend that. There’s another man downstairs, and he doesn’t have any particular reason to keep you alive.”

  Of course he isn’t alone. Even only seeing the room, the crown molding and the plush carpeting, the ornate wood hearth—everything speaks to money. And money means space. Even if I could get out of the room I’d probably get lost in the maze of the mansion.

  He crosses the room to the dresser, preparing another syringe.

  “No,” I say.

  That earns me a derisive glance. “I can see you’re hurting.”

  There’s a low throb from pretty much every muscle in my body. A few spikes of pain in my side and my head. It’s nothing I can’t live with. Nothing I haven’t lived with before. “No medicine.”

  A sigh. “You don’t need to put on a brave face.”

  “I’m not being brave. I’m being practical. If you’re going to hurt me I’d rather be fully conscious.”

  “If I were going to hurt you, I wouldn’t bother dulling the effects with medicine.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  He looks amused now. “Do you?”

  “You’re building up the anticipation. Making me better so that it hits me even harder when you try to tear me down again. It’s a mindfuck, a trick, a performance, and I’m not falling for it.”

  He comes to sit on the edge of the bed. The depression he makes causes me to roll toward him before I catch myself. I’m acutely aware that there’s only a thin blanket shielding my body from him. Blue eyes flick down to my breasts, to the soft points of my nipples through the fabric, before he meets my gaze. In his eyes I see the promise of what we could have been—if I weren’t a few minutes from passing out. If he weren’t holding me captive until I give back a chess piece.

  The back of his hand strokes my arm. Only a few centimeters apart. A few strands of wool. I can feel the warmth of him. “A performance. Like when I met you in the Den.”

  My throat tightens. I was already his enemy then, but he didn’t know it yet. Is it supposed to be a city? It’s whatever you’d like it to be. “You saw what you wanted to see.”

  His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with a pale sprinkling of hair. His hands are strong and scarred. Dangerous hands. I’ve learned to be afraid of men with strength, but it’s disconcerting to realize he uses those hands to heal people. “Right. Because you’re one of those.”

  “Yes,” I say, letting my frustration bleed through. “One of those people who think art means anything. It can mean expression. It can mean salvation. Right now it means I’m trapped in this bed.”

  “I like things that have clear answers,” he says, repeating his words from that night. “Mathematical equations. Scientific hypotheses. I like things to make sense. In this case, it’s only a few words that solve the problem. A location, for starters. Where’s the chess piece now?”

  I glare at him, pressing my lips together. Part of me knows it’s futile to resist. He knows I’m guilty. Except I can’t give him what he wants. Having the conversation won’t change that.

  “How about a name? Who are you working with?”

  “I have nothing to tell you.”

  He lifts his hand to toy with my hair, the dark lock a sharp contrast to his pale, strong fingers. “Black and gold,” he murmurs. “Like the city at night. Beauty and danger.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. It turns into a throb, a heavy beat that grows louder with every second. He wasn’t entirely wrong about the sex. I would have passed out within minutes. I’m doing it now. My lids are lowering, even when I’m struggling to stay awake.

  A small smile. “Sleep, Natalie. We’ll talk later.”

  No, we won’t talk. I have nothing to say to you. Help me, help me. I’m in so deep that I don’t know how to get out. No sound escapes my lips. My eyes shutter closed, and he’s far away again.

  Chapter Seven

  Anders

  Black hair. Golden skin. I’m downstairs, but I can’t escape the haunted look in her dark eyes. God, someone really fucked this woman up. Not only the obvious ways—the contusions and cuts on her body, the bruised ribs. It makes me wonder if they hurt her sexually, too. I didn’t see any swelling or redness when I washed her, but that doesn’t mean shit.

  Would it be so bad? To notice me as a woman? To desire me as a woman? There are a thousand ways men have learned to hurt women, some that don’t leave a mark. Like the way she offered to let me fuck her in exchange for letting her go. The horrible part is that I wanted to say yes.

  I find you handsome, too, you know.

  Christ.

  “She still alive?” The question comes from the man already sitting in the library. He stands when I enter and heads to the bar, where he pours us both two fingers of scotch. It probably costs ten thousand dollars a bottle. It’s expensive, like the house itself, which he also owns.

  I accept the cut-crystal glass with a nod of thanks. “Yes.”

  He sits in an armchair, inviting me to join him. “Because I’d have a hell of a time explaining that to Avery. She’s already distressed, and I don’t like her upset in her condition.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “We aren’t precisely in the habit of keeping young women in captivity.”

  I raise my eyebrow at that, so he knows I haven’t forgotten how he got together with Avery. He was the winning bid at an auction for her virginity. She wasn’t kept here against her will, precisely, but she didn’t come for fun either. Circumstances and desperation drove her into his arms, which is the same reason the woman is in the bedroom above me right now.

  “She’s not being held captive,” I say, which is a lie. I wouldn’t let her leave, even if she were able. Which she’s not. It’s captive in every goddamn sense of the word, and Gabriel knows it.

  He tips his glass toward me. “Of course, I owe you a few favors.”

  “Of course.” That’s an understatement. He owes me his life several times over. People avoid the hospital when the authorities are more dangerous than even a deadly injury. That’s true for people dealing with corrupt cops or overzealous ICE agents. Or for people dealing with completely legitimate law enforcement, but who sometimes deal under the table—such as Gabriel Miller.

  Gabriel Miller and Damon Scott are the closest things I have to friends. I keep a room in the top floor of the Den as my permanent residence, but I’ll disappear for days, weeks, months at a time without telling them. The only reason our friendship works is that they don’t give me shit about it. I thought about bringing Natalie to the Den, but whoever she’s working with would predict that. They’ve proven they were able to break the security once already. Even with Damon going apeshit to correct that, I couldn’t trust Natalie’s safety there.

  “There’s a limit,” he says, studying the glass. “I won’t have Avery upset over this. I won’t risk her health or the baby because you’re on a revenge mission.
”

  I don’t show my surprise, but he’ll feel it anyway. That’s the thing about knowing someone a long time. There’s less hiding. “Damon thought I needed money. He almost offered me a loan.”

  A smirk. “Don’t ever take a loan from that bastard. The terms will kill you.”

  “It was never about the fucking money.”

  “I think I’d know a man bent on revenge when I saw him. I used to be one. Here’s a little advice from someone who’s been down that road—there’s no changing the past. There’s only now and how much you fuck up trying to do the impossible.”

  If I were a man prone to showing emotion, I’d probably frown or growl or do whatever the alpha men usually do when they’re pissed off. Instead I just stare. “That so?”

  “Fine, you don’t want advice. Of course you don’t. They say no man is an island, but you’re a goddamn glacier. When are you going to admit you need someone?”

  “I need you to stop talking about this.”

  He studies me over the rim of his glass. “Three days.”

  I throw back the whiskey. It goes down smooth. Three days to get the information from the woman sleeping above me. Three days not to fuck her beautiful body in that bed.

  Three days to avenge my family once and for all.

  * * * *

  A shower and a cup of coffee do little to revive me, but I don’t have time to waste. I’m back in the room when she stirs in bed, turning her head side to side, a notch of pain in between her eyes. I regret letting her talk me out of the Vicodin. Years of practice have left me somewhat inured to people in pain. Callous? Yes. I don’t have the ability to feel sad about every patient who’s suffering. All I can do is the scientific, logical steps to ease them. Something about her cuts through the heavy canvas, reaching a part of me that can still feel sympathy, a part I didn’t know existed anymore.

  I sit down beside her, trying to ignore the way her hair spreads across the pillow. It’s the same way she would look if her body were under mine, spread open, taking me again and again. I’m sick for wanting her even when she’s clearly hurting—but then I’ve been sick for a long time. Unlike my patients, mine is the kind of sick that scientific, logical steps can do nothing to cure. It goes soul deep.

  A low moan that makes the hair on my arms rise.

  I shouldn’t touch her, not without a clear medical reason. I know that, but somehow I’m running my palm over her forehead, trying to soothe her, even though nothing about me should calm her. She moves restlessly beneath the blanket, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Shhh,” I say, my throat tight with emotion I shouldn’t have. “You’re safe.”

  That’s a lie. She’s not safe in this room. She’s not safe from me.

  Maybe she knows, because she doesn’t settle. Instead her eyes press together hard. Her head thrashes on the pillow. Her legs move beneath the covers, and I tense, knowing she might pull those stitches in her arm right out. There are plenty of bruises from the beating, some cuts that I sterilized and glued shut. Only one cut needed stitches. A line three inches across her clavicle. The scar will be thin and small and hideable under clothes—but it will always be there, a testament to that night. A testament to her involvement with dangerous men. I think a man who’d hit a woman should be shot. Regardless, I can’t claim any moral high ground. Not as long as I keep her in this room.

  She moves more, with urgency, with agitation. A nightmare? Physical pain from not having an injection? Either way, I can’t watch her suffer. I gently shake her awake, careful not to touch any of her bruises.

  Her lashes lift. Her gaze is still unfocused. She’s half in the dream world, and it’s not a pretty dream. There is conflict and fear in those dark depths. Demons, too.

  Slowly she comes awake. “Anders.”

  “So you do know my name.” It’s a start. Proof that she knew who I was all along, even back at the Den. I didn’t doubt that, but maybe now we can move forward. My information wasn’t in the auction program. The seller was listed as anonymous.

  She closes her eyes on a sigh. “I was supposed to get close to you. Seduce you. If I got you to trust me, I could get the chess piece. Then suddenly you were selling it, and I had to move fast. I figured it would be better that way—better if you knew me.”

  Every cell in my body rebels at the idea of not knowing her. Even finding her this way, as a thief, as a traitor, as the woman working with my enemies, I’m still glad it happened. Strange but true. “Where is the chess piece now?”

  She shakes her head, a gesture of helplessness more than refusal.

  I should push her harder. She’s already opened up to me. I know more than I did before. She’s admitting planning and complicity. She’s admitting she stole it; this is when I should press my advantage. Once I know where the chess piece is, I won’t need to keep her locked up anymore.

  Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I tell myself silently, my internal voice mocking. Once I know where the chess piece is, I won’t have an excuse to keep her with me. I’ve never cared much for money. It’s easy not to care when you have more than you need. I’ve never cared about cars or big houses. I’ve never been greedy before. The sensation is foreign and real. I’m greedy for more of her secrets, ones that don’t even have to do with me or the chess set or the bastards she’s helping.

  The bed might as well be as big an ocean—that’s how small she looks. That’s how adrift. Her eyes reflect defeat as she watches me, probably waiting for me to pounce. I should lean over her, intimidate her with my size, maybe threaten her to speed things along. It wouldn’t have to be overt. This woman understands nuance. I could know what I need to in a matter of minutes.

  Instead I turn away from her. I stride into the bathroom, with its faux-antique copper handle and shiny white marble. The faucet pours water into the gleaming tub. I stare at the swirl of steaming water. What the hell am I doing? I barely know this woman. It doesn’t make any sense to throw away plans decades old for a nice fuck. There’s no chance of anything more than that, not with a woman I already know is a thief.

  Chapter Eight

  Natalie

  I have no reason to trust this man.

  I also have no choice but to trust him. I rely on him for everything at this moment—for food and shelter. For security. The low throb in my body is a constant, steady reminder that I need his help. I expected him to push his advantage. He could have made me betray everything. He still might, but apparently that’s not on the agenda right now.

  He comes back into the bedroom, his sleeves rolled up, his hands glistening from the water I hear rushing in the next room. His expression has morphed into one of severe professionalism. His eyes look cold enough to make me shiver. “Bath time.”

  My heart thuds against my ribs. “Excuse me?”

  “I used a washcloth when you got here, but you were too out of it to hold your head up in a tub. Now that you’re conscious and not high, there’s no better time.”

  I can’t deny that I must need a bath after four days in this bed. And I know he’s already seen me naked—but like he said, I was unconscious for that. And I was high on pain meds. “I can do it myself. You don’t have to be there. You don’t have to…”

  Watch. That’s the word I almost said. He doesn’t have to watch me bathe like a voyeur.

  The unspoken word hangs in the air between us. His hard gaze challenges me. As does his hand reaching toward me. He grasps the blanket and pulls. A quick, efficient tug, and then I’m bared to the room. To his ice-blue eyes. To the disdain and desire he’ll inevitably feel.

  Of course I don’t see any disdain. Or any desire. There’s only clinical assessment in his cool gaze, methodically cataloguing every bruise and mark on my body. He looks every inch the doctor, even standing in a bedroom. The kind of doctor that attends the rich in their homes. It’s hard to imagine this man murmuring words that sound of poetry. Like the city at night. Beauty and danger.

  Cold air turns my nipples in
to hard peaks. I shiver in embarrassment. The clinical assessment seems somehow worse than sexual interest right now. I hate feeling weak, and there is no state weaker than being laid up in bed, almost an invalid.

  “I can take a bath by myself,” I say again, forcing false strength into my words.

  One pale eyebrow raises. It calls me a liar.

  “All right,” he says, as calm as anything. He takes a step back, leaving the blanket out of my reach. There’s only a bed with my naked body, a carpeted floor that might as well be a marathon, and an open door with the sound of water running. His body looks lean and impossibly strong as he crosses his arms and waits. And waits. And waits.

  For the first time since he unveiled me I look down at myself, really examine my body, and what I find makes me blush. My legs are splayed like a baby doe who’s never walked. I’m skinnier than I was a week ago, and it’s not a good look on me, all ugly knobs. Even my breasts look smaller in the pale light of morning. God, no wonder he isn’t attracted to me sexually.

  I force myself to sit up. Dizziness swirls around me, and I clench my whole body not to heave. The idea of taking a bath even with help feels unlikely. My hair falls around my face, and I welcome the moment of privacy when I’ve been stripped bare—both physically and emotionally. Something tickles my neck, and I reach up to feel a tight row of something foreign. Stitches that go from my clavicle to my shoulder. Was that from when he knocked me down on the pavement? Or from when I fought him?

  I remember again the glint in brown eyes, the certainty that he was going to kill me that night. I was supposed to hand over the chess piece. Instead I’d checked into that motel room empty handed.

  In that moment I never thought I’d see another sunrise.

  Keep going. One foot in front of the other. Part of me knew even as I lay there in that alley that my mother might already be dead. I can’t accept that, though. I have to find out. Step one of that plan involves standing up and walking to the bathroom.