Toni’s fingers curl around my comforting hand and she squeezes. She squeezes so hard that yet another crack appears in the stone I’m attempting to crumble.
And it will. Soon, she’ll turn into tiny flakes of debris and dust, and I’ll use the aftershock as my cover, as my way out.
“Are you still hurting, Emery Jones?” Toni asks, tilting her head. “Have you healed? Or are you still hollow?”
My heart clenches in my chest. It’s a good question. One that I’ve been terrified to answer. But my fear is now irrelevant. The answer doesn’t need my approval, my commendation, my support. The fact I’m here, chained up, battered, and trying to survive says it all. The fact I’m sitting here with my fingers interlocked with my captor’s, a woman who will most likely kill me, says it all.
What once was hollow is now burning with fire.
A fire to keep going.
A fire to live.
They did this to me. They’ve filled me with purpose. With passion. With meaning.
God, I hope they find me.
God, I hope I live.
I look up at Toni, my answer tailored to fit my carefully written narrative. “I don’t think I’ll ever be fully healed,” I whisper. “You’re lucky, Toni. You’re lucky you have someone that cares about you. I-I think I’ll be hollow until the day I die.”
“You…” Her gaze flicks down to my quivering lips, and I force my expression to remain solemn, somber, and borderline broken. “You are not hollow, Emery Jones. You,” she cups my cheek. God, I want to jump for fucking joy. Her thumb caresses my hairline, the pressure firm and tender. And then I do it. I lean into her touch. Her breath hitches. “You are not what I expected.”
My chest rises and falls as I carefully orchestrate a symphony of glorious, needy breaths. It’s easier when the target is beautiful. It’s easier when their touch genuinely ignites a spark of intrigue.
“What did you expect?” I ask in a breathy voice, eyelashes fluttering.
She quickly pulls her hand away and abruptly stands up, towering over me. “Not this,” she grunts and walks away.
I collapse backward into the mattress, grinning up triumphantly at the ceiling.
We’re almost there, Luna.
We’re almost there.
THE RED KEEPER
QUINTON
Jonathon,Damon’s father, taught me early on in my career that life is a series of transactions. Everyone wants something, and if one wishes to remain on top, powerful and revered, they must be willing to give just as much as they take.
As the the winter sun filters through the curtains in Vivienne’s living room, I forgive myself for last night’s transaction. In our world, where wealth rules all, there are far more interesting forms of currency other than stone cold cash. Sex, in our circles, is often worth more than gold.
I thank whatever god is watching over us that Vivienne Delareux is an insatiable woman with little morals and a thirst for the unavailable. I’m sure there will be a moment today where she’ll question her judgment, but I have to give it to her, for a woman in her late fifties, she’s got excellent stamina. I was surprised she managed to go for as long as she did. It took her eight hours before she finally tapped out.
Truthfully, Damon and I could’ve gone longer. We have in the past. It’s one of the great benefits of tag-teaming a target—plenty of time to rest before the baton is passed.
It’s been years since we were on the same team.
As Damon stands before me, adjusting my Windsor knot with practiced hands, I have a moment of deja-vu. I can’t even count the amount of times we’ve been here before. The aftermath. The debrief. Though the circumstances aren’t the same, the memories are there, crawling to the forefront of my mind. An era where life was nothing but laughter and sex. It was a long time ago though. B.A. Before Alison.
A smirk clips Damon’s lips as he tightens the tie. "Do you think she’ll be able to walk today?" he asks, his tone casual, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable.
I chuckle. "Enough to get to the car, I hope."
Our laughter is cut short as Vivienne emerges from her bedroom. She's clad in a minx coat and a silk scarf draped over her head. Designer sunglasses hide her spent eyes, her posture stiff. She glares at us with disdain. I rein in a knowing smirk. Oh, she’s definitely sore.
"I think you broke my pussy," she says, glowering at the both of us.
