“Does it feel the same?” he asks. “When I do something to you, when I exert my will, does it feel the same to you as when Frank or Leone does it?”
“No,” I admit.
“It cuts both ways, Raven. No one can order me to do anything. Not even C. If he wants something from me, he asks or suggests, and I step up. The only person I’ve ever let order me to do something I didn’t want to do is you.”
“When did I—?”
“When I was sick,” he says. “It was miserable. The pain and the fevers and the fucking weakness. I could barely roll over. Bone-deep pain. Bone-deep exhaustion. I wanted it to end. I was ready to die. But you said fight, and I fought. You said stay. And I stayed. You got in my head, and that’s where you’ve been ever since.”
I rise and cross the room to him. I stand between his knees, take his face in my hands, and kiss him. Our tongues touch, our breath mingles, and our arms wrap around each other.
I don’t know if we’re good for each other, or if we’re going to destroy each other. I only know we can’t stay away from each other anymore.
* * *
Anvil
When we go to the castle, things are calm and under control.
To her credit, Zoe’s a great hostess. The four of us are in the kitchen and I notice she doesn’t sit down, but otherwise, she flutters back and forth making appetizers and serving them on crystal platters I didn’t even know C had.
Rachel’s wearing an indigo dress and some exquisite dark makeup that makes her look like an urban fantasy cover model. Made up, she’s got that kind of freakish beauty that makes me want to carry her upstairs, tie her to the bed, and fuck her till she passes out.
Trick wanders in and scores some freshly made guacamole by moving it to a separate counter where he’s the only one who can reach it.
“Rachel, I agree with ‘Vil. That’s a good look,” he says.
Rachel looks between us, confused, since I haven’t said shit.
“Don’t fuck with her head,” I say.
“You sure? Because I’ve got a bigger mind fuck that I was going to share with the whole group. But I can wait for the business meeting instead.”
“Don’t be a tease, Trick,” Zoe says. “What? Tell us.”
“Frank is putting Rachel up for sale.”
“What?” Zoe hisses.
Trick dips a tortilla chip into the guac bowl and eats it. “As the creator of Rachel’s Palermo Princess brand, and as the creator of Rachel, he feels entitled to compensation.”
For the fifth time in twenty-four hours I regret not choking the life out of Frank when I had the chance.
“The fucking nerve,” Zoe snaps.
“Am I expensive, Trick?” Rachel asks, mock casual. “Or have I been discounted because of my low class bastard daughter beginnings and the taint of my recent abduction?” Her casual sarcasm mimics Trick’s deadpan delivery.
Trick’s gaze cuts to me, which is smart, because I’m smoking mad.
After a beat of my silence, he says, “Expensive. I’ve never bought a girl for more than a weekend, but working out the math, yeah, if there were an auction, we’re talking Sotheby’s.”
“God damn it, Trick,” Zoe says, slapping his arm and laughing. “It’s not funny. Frank’s such a dick.”
“Is it an offer he’s made just to C Crue?” C asks.
“What’s the difference?” Zoe asks.
“I want to know if he’s asking us to buy Rachel’s brand and her freedom. Or if he’s trying to traffic her to the highest bidder,” C says.
