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Phoenix just laughs. There’s no jealousy in our home—there’s no room for it. Any hint is quickly dispelled by warm hands and soft lips and hard cocks until they’re reminded that everyone here is equal.
But I must admit I have worried about bringing Alice here. After years of watching her, I know it’s not as simple as thinking of her like she’s our next mark. She’s so much more.
“Did he fuck her?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head against him. “But he will. He wants to.”
“He’s wanted to since before he cracked and spoke to her at the bar,” Phoenix says, and I agree. James has made that painfully obvious by now.
His hand finds mine, and he brings it up to his face, pressing a kiss to my palm. It reminds me of when we were young and freshly in love with no idea what was coming next. Like fools, we had hope for a future. Now, we have hope for survival long enough to destroy the Romano empire and anyone stupid enough to align themselves with that bastard.
“You sure you don’t want me to help you relax?” I say as he nibbles on my finger.
“Just this is enough,” he says. He’s not lying. There are moments where he just needs to be held, though he’ll never say it aloud. But Phoenix is also the sort of man who reaches out and takes what he wants.
That’s why I have no hope that he’ll be able to keep himself from Alice.
In the end.
And I can’t help but wonder about the fight they’ll all put up when I have to begin the plan. It will involve them all, yes. It will mean asking them to touch her, to bring her pain and pleasure, but I don’t know if they’ll do it willingly or only out of loyalty.
I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling of Phoenix’s mouth on my skin, and then Alice’s image rises behind my lids. She’s innocent, but she isn’t. She’s terrified and she’s brave all at the same time. She’s a survivor marked by death, and try as I might, I don’t see a way out for her. To give her the freedom she so desperately craves.
I wish that didn’t make me so sad.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Phoenix says.
I don’t. Instead, I stand up and move around him, sitting back down to take his face between my hands. It still kills me from time to time when his eyes don’t meet mine. There’s still fire in them, but it’s painted on the false irises. Now they’re made of acrylic—empty and wide.
I brush my thumbs over his cheek, and then I tug him off the bench and take him down to his knees. “I don’t want to talk, but I can think of something else to occupy your time.”
He smiles, just like I knew he would. And at the sound of my zipper going down, his lips part, and he leans in, taking me all the way to the back of his throat.
Chapter9
ALICE
I don’t knowhow long I’ve been down here now. I can only count it in the meals I’ve been served. The meals I’ve officially stopped eating. It’s not because they’re unkind—but the problem is, that’s also torture. I thought they’d have killed me by now, or at least started hurting me for whatever information they think I have on my father.
It wasn’t a huge leap to know that these men are some of my family’s rivals. I don’t know who, exactly. Not yet, but I’ve met people just like them over the course of my life. I recognize killers in the way they move and the way they smile. Especially men like James.
Fool me once. I always thought that saying was ridiculous, but I’m starting to see how it makes sense, considering the position I’m in. The first time James came to see me was terrifying and yet oddly comfortable, and maybe that was the point. You know that old adage about boiling a frog—how you put it in the water and slowly turn up the heat until the frog only realizes it’s about to die seconds before its last breath?
I can only assume they want that to be me.
They haven’t asked me a goddamn question, and every time I ask James what the hell he wants, he just smiles sadly and promises me that their god—whoever the fuck that is—will be by to see me soon. Except their god never comes. I’m just alone here except three times a day when James shows his annoyingly gorgeous face in my doorway.
And I can tell now I’m going to die like this. Or I’m going to crack. I don’t know which sounds worse.
I’m trapped in some dingy cell in a basement belonging to at least three psychopaths. I have fresh clothes that don’t fit well, and so far, I’ve had two showers. Other than that, I’m either trapped in the dark or under bright LED lights that make my head pound.
Time officially means nothing, and that’s when I know it’s over.
I’m not so sure how long I lasted thinking this was the lesser of two evils, but I know better now. Something changed—I just can’t put my finger on what.
Maybe it was the morning I woke up to find the silent redhead sitting in the doorway with a little smirk on his face, twirling a fork between his fingers. At the bar, he’d helped save my life, but in that moment, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to stab the prongs into my skin just to see what shade of red my blood was.
Maybe it was when James came after—with food and conversation like he actually gives a shit about me. I have no idea what meal I’m actually eating because all the stuff is so basic, it’s hard to tell. Is it breakfast? Lunch? Some weird mixture to keep me losing my mind? Am I being fed two meals a day or six?
