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“Soon, sweet girl,” he whispers against my lips, and then a moment later he’s slipping a card into my hand. “This is my number. If that asshole comes near you again, I want you to call me immediately. If you’re sick, I want you to call me. If you’re hurt, I want you to call me. If you’re scared, or feel unsafe, I want you to find somewhere safe and call me, and I will come to you. If I find out you didn’t call me, believe me when I say, you’ll be in a world of trouble. Do we understand each other?”
I find myself nodding before he’s even finished talking, the need to please him making me go against my better judgment. If Brad shows up, there’s no way in hell I’m calling Rayne to deal with it. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me. And yet, his ‘do not underestimate me’ look has me nodding despite myself.
Rayne stares at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for something, and I quickly remember his words from before. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good girl,” Rayne praises, his smile so breathtaking it almost knocks me off my fucking feet. It’s so at odds with his harsh exterior and the dark eyes that seem to look straight into the depths of my soul. His praise heats my skin, making me feel impossibly warm considering it’s winter and I’m half naked in an apartment with no heat.
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, as if committing the feeling to memory. His eyes sweep over my face, making my cheeks heat in their path. No one has ever looked at me like this, like I’m the most precious thing in the world, like their world would stop if I were to walk away. It’s addictive, and I don’t ever want him to stop looking at me like this. “Give me your car keys.” He holds out his hand.
“You have them,” I tell him. “They’re on the same ring as the keys for the apartment.”
Rayne nods once. “Your car will be here before you need to leave for work.” His fingers move from my skin and he takes a step back, putting distance between our bodies. I feel the loss immediately, and I crave his warmth the moment the cold air rushes around me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he’s walking out the door, leaving me half naked in the middle of my living room, trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. What the hell just happened?
Rayne Saint James is going to destroy me, and I’m going to love every single second of my own demise.
8
Rayne
Leaving Emerson’s apartment feels like a marathon. Every step is harder than the last, because every one of my instincts screams at me to turn around and get her the fuck out of here. I don’t want to leave her here, but she needs time to accept that she’s mine, and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.
That doesn’t stop the uncertainty from creeping in. Leaving her alone gives her time to have doubts, to overthink the way her body reacts to mine, to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t want me even though her body begs her to give in to her desire.
The way Emerson’s skin flushed was fucking intoxicating, the tinge of pink on her cheeks and chest proving just how affected she is by me. I don’t want her to have time to close in on herself like I know she’ll want to.
But someone like Emerson will not take kindly to her freedom being taken away, or her independence being stripped from her without being able to process it. And I have shit to do. I was supposed to meet Storm half an hour ago to deal with the most recent Russo issue, and I haven’t even told him I’m running late. I still need to find someone to get Emerson’s car here before she’s due to leave for work tonight. I can’t break my promise to her, no matter how much I would like to have the car crushed and have her quit her job at that asshole’s establishment.
My phone rings as I buckle my seat belt, and a moment later, I’m speeding down the street. “You got my information?” I ask as the call fills the car. I need to put some distance between Emerson and me so I can think clearly. She clouds my judgment, and that’s really fucking dangerous in my line of work.
“I’ve just sent it to you,” Everett says. “You want me to give you a rundown?”
“Please,” I reply impatiently.
“Emerson Anne Miller. Twenty-three. Studying counseling at the University of Chicago. Good GPA, due to graduate next year. No arrests, no run-ins with the cops. Works three jobs, a youth center her family owns, the diner under her crap box apartment, and one of the Russo’s clubs. Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Up until nine months ago, she didn’t have a dollar of debt in her name. Got a full-ride scholarship for college, didn’t have a credit card, nothing. Then suddenly she has six maxed-out credit cards, and a student loan that was never used for school. That’s when she moved to the shitty apartment, sold her car, and bought what appears to be a death trap of wheels. If I had to have a guess, I’d say your girl has a drug problem.”
“How much debt?” I ask. I’ve been in her apartment, I’ve seen her belongings and the clothes she wears, and I’ve watched her eat the saddest looking sandwiches every day for lunch. Emerson is not living above her means by any stretch of the imagination, if anything, she’s living well below them. And as for drugs, there is no way the very straight and narrow Emerson Miller is involved in drugs. I know better than anyone that even the most unexpected people can become addicts, but she’s too sweet and innocent for that, and she’s way too dedicated to the Center to jeopardize it in any way.
“Seventy grand.”
I let out a whistle. Fuck, that’s a lot of cash for a student to owe. “Holy fuck. Any chance you looked into her family and the youth center?”
“You know me so well.” Everett chuckles. “The dad owns his house outright, has for the last fifteen years. Her mom’s not in the picture, seems she left and started a new family when Emerson was twelve. The youth center lost most of its funding a few years ago, but they’ve been surviving off donations. I had a look at their incoming funds since the credit cards were opened and the money definitely wasn’t donated.”
I nod to myself as my mind ticks over. Not her dad. Not the youth center. Not school. What on earth could she have spent so much money on? “Any boyfriends?” I force myself to ask despite the idea of another man touching her making me fucking homicidal.
“Brad Stevenson came up in my searches, but there doesn’t seem to have been much contact in the last six or so months, and any contact I did find was totally one-sided. Brad is a piece of work. Three arrests on file, ranging from drug and firearm possession to spousal abuse with an ex-partner whom he did time for. He’s been calling her pretty consistently for the last six months, but the call and text logs indicate she hasn’t answered him at all.”
“You got an address for Brad?” I ask through gritted teeth. If I were a betting man, which I very much am, I would bet every last penny I have on this Brad guy being the same guy that had Emerson cornered this afternoon and the one that has her drowning in debt.
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Thanks, man, I owe you.”
“What’s your interest in this girl anyway? You said it wasn’t Frost related, so I assume she doesn’t owe you money?”
“No, she doesn’t owe me money. She’s mine.”
