Denial Page 7

  His jaw clenches, eyes hardening. “In ways you don’t begin to understand and you never will.”

  “I’m the one his men attacked,” I argue. “I need to understand. I deserve to understand.” I’ve barely finished the sentence when a sharp pain darts through my head and immediately repeats, forcing my face to my knees, and a frustrated sound from my lips. “I hate this. I thought this was over.”

  “That was before you ran through a rainstorm.” His hand settles on my hair, his touch gentle, intimate. Familiar. “We need to get you someplace warm and safe.”

  “That would require going back out in the rain, and I can’t do that. Not now. It feels like someone’s poking me with a needle over and over.”

  “Which is all the more reason we need to get you out of here.”

  I turn my head to rest my cheek on my legs. “I can’t move right now, Kayden. And I really can’t ride on your motorcycle.”

  “Adriel left us his car.”

  “We still have to get to the car.”

  “Leave that to me,” he says, unzipping my purse where it hangs at my hip and placing the gun inside. “Security for both of us.”

  I shut my eyes. “I’m not sure what that means. I’m not sure of much besides that I’m pretty sure you’re very rich and probably even more dangerous.”

  “Not to you,” he promises, stroking my wet hair from my face.

  I shiver at the touch, my lashes lifting to find those blue eyes staring into mine, and even in this dim light they are as stunning as ever. “If you’re trying to make me feel better—”

  “You should feel better. Do you really want a saint helping you fight a mobster?”

  “Double-edged sword,” I whisper, pressure forcing my eyes shut again.

  “That’s it,” he says. “We’re getting you out of here.” He slides his arm under my knees.

  “No,” I plead, grabbing his shoulder, the sound of the rain splattering on the pavement promising misery I can’t take right now. “Please. Not yet. It’s too cold.”

  “The car is at the curb and the heater is running.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He scoops me up and stands, curling me easily against his body. Some piece of sanity breaks through the pain and I grab his jacket, fighting to even keep my eyes open. “I’m going with you, but I know how to use that gun and I will if I have to.”

  “That’s why I gave it to you,” he surprises me by saying, already starting up the stairs, pausing just before we’re about to leave the overhang. “Ready?”

  “No. No. I’m not. Kayden—”

  He steps out into the downpour anyway, and I gasp when the icy water instantly consumes us, huddling against him for the mercifully short run to the curb. Kayden sets me down on my feet, his arm shackling my waist while he opens the door and helps me inside, water pouring all over the expensive leather seats. I expect his quick departure, but despite the storm punishing him from all directions, he lingers by my side, hitting the button to lower my seat, his wet hair draping his face. And it’s all I can do not to reach up and shove it from his forehead, to see his eyes and try to understand the man who has become the only person I can depend on in this world.

  But I don’t, and he’s gone, shutting the door, and sweet heaven, the engine really is running as he promised, the warm air blowing on me, offering a tiny bit of relief. Still shivering, I roll to my side as Kayden climbs into the car and shuts us inside, water pouring from his clothes and hair as he shrugs out of his coat.

  He tosses it on the backseat. “Your turn,” he says. “You’ll feel better without that wet leather weighing you down.”

  “I’d rather not move.”

  “You can rest when you get it off.” He reaches over and maneuvers my purse over my head.

  Regret fills me. “I’m sure it’s ruined. A Chanel purse is not meant to be drenched in water.”

  “I’ll buy you another one,” he says, as if a five-thousand-dollar expense is nothing to him.

  “How rich are you, exactly?”

  He tugs the zipper down on the front of my jacket. “Not as rich as Niccolo, and that’s a problem.”

  “Because money is power,” I whisper, shivering, and this time it’s not from the cold.

  He gives me a keen look. “That sounds like experience talking.”

  Images flash in my mind. A white mansion. A huge mahogany bed. A man’s hands. “Probably. Maybe.”

  “Whatever the case . . .” he says, reaching up and brushing hair from my lips. His fingers linger there just a moment too long. “You’re right. Money is power, and Niccolo’s supply of both is limitless.”

  “How do you know him, Kayden?”

  “How isn’t what’s important,” he says, his tone hardening, and I can almost feel a wall come down between us. “Just be glad I know enough to keep us off his radar.” He reaches for my jacket. “We need to get you out of this and get moving.”

  I grab his arm. “You really don’t know how to take no for an answer, do you?”

  “And here you said you know nothing about me.”

  “Not enough.”

  “You do know,” he says, covering my hand where I hold him, holding me to him, and I have this sense of a shift in control, from mine to his. “I could say the same of you.”

  “But I’m the one at a disadvantage,” I remind him.

  “Are you now?”

  “How can you ask that? Of course I am.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree on that one.”

  I purse my lips but don’t push him, sitting up enough to shrug out of my jacket while Kayden reaches down and drags the heavy weight off my back. “You were right.” I breathe out, relaxing into the seat as he tosses my jacket onto the backseat with his. “I do feel better without it.”

  I’ve barely spoken the words when Kayden leans over me, his arm stretched across my chest, his spicy, almost sweet, scent teasing my nostrils. “You shouldn’t have left like you did,” he says, his low, angry tone throwing me into defensive mode.

  “Because you’re my hero and I should just blindly trust you?”

  “I gave you a gun to earn your trust because I know you won’t need to use it on me.”

  “Yes. You did. But that was after I saw Adriel and thought he was one of my attackers.”

  “You mean you thought I was one of your attackers.”

  “No. I don’t know, Kayden. You should have told me about him.”

  “You should have asked before you ran.”

  “And risked not having the chance to run? If you were me, would you have made that decision?”

  His teeth clench, his expression hardening. “You have the gun now. That’s me trusting you whether you choose to trust me or not. Don’t pay me back by getting us both killed.” He grabs my seat belt and pulls it across me, buckling me in and then settling back in his seat.

  I sit there, stunned, and the stormy night is not the only thing creating the dark wall between us. There is anger. Lots of anger on both our parts, as he adds, “And just so we’re clear. I’m not your hero. I’m just the man trying to save both our fucking lives.”

  My anger evaporates instantly, and I say, “But you’re no monster.”

  His head cuts sharply in my direction, willing me to look at him, and when I do, he demands, “And you know that how?”

  “Because monsters always claim to be heroes.”

  I expect him to ask how I know this as well, and I have no answer. There is just what I feel deep in my soul, a sense of having trusted the wrong person, who I refuse to believe was Niccolo. I would not trust a gangster. But Kayden doesn’t ask me. He doesn’t say anything. For several seconds he simply sits there, his body rigid, his jaw set hard. And when he does move, he faces forward and shifts the car into drive. I don’t turn away immediately, studying his profile, not sure if his lack of response is agreement or disagreement with my statement, only knowing that before this is over, I will find out.

  Turning away f
rom him, I sink farther into the leather seat, my gaze catching on the Rolls-Royce emblem on the glove box. I wait for the car or the brand to ring a bell beyond the obvious, and I’m relieved when it doesn’t happen. I don’t want Kayden to be lying to me. It’s the thought I replay in my mind as silence stretches between us, the rain pattering on the rooftop, the tension in the air between Kayden and me slowly softening to a hum instead of a scream. Kayden must feel it as well, because he leans down and turns on the radio, punching several buttons before an Imagine Dragons song starts to play.

  I roll to my side and look at him. “You do know this song is called—”

  “ ‘Monster,’ ” he finishes, giving me a sideways look, his lips hinting at a smile. “I thought it was appropriate, don’t you?”

  Relieved we are over our argument, I feel a smile cut through my pain and find my lips. “Very,” I agree. “I guess Adriel likes American music?”

  “Yes. He went to college in the States. And he’s a big enough Imagine Dragons fan to drag me to one of their concerts here in Rome.”

  My eyes go wide. “Wait. You went to a concert?”

  “I owed him a favor. And why is that so hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know. You just pressed a gun to your chest. It’s hard to think about you doing something so . . .” I lift a hand. “Normal.”

  “Normal’s overrated.”

  “I’d take normal right about now,” I argue offhandedly, and get back to my main goal: finding out who Kayden Wilkens really is. “Do you ever go back to the States?”

  “Occasionally,” he says, detouring my mission by offering nothing more.

  “How old were you when you moved here?” I ask, digging in another direction.

  “Ten.”

  “So this really is home to you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s where I live. Yes.”

  It’s a curious reply, with a hidden meaning I try to decipher. “Where you live? So it’s not home?”

  “Semantics.”

  “That’s an answer which I assume translates to you not wanting to talk about this.”

  “Why do you?”

  “Because if I can’t know me, I want to know you.”

  “You mean, you still think you know me and don’t remember.”

  “Do I?”

  “No matter how many times you ask me that, the answer’s going to be the same.”

  “Fine,” I say, but I’m not ready to give up. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five,” I reply, surprising myself. “And I really . . . don’t know how I know that.”

  “A name and an age. It’s progress. Maybe if you write in that journal you grabbed at the hospital you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

  “I’m sure it’s ruined.”

  “And easily replaced.”

  “Unlike my memories,” I say. “And I’m not calling you a liar, Kayden. I can’t help how you make me feel.”

  We stop at a light and he turns to me, and even in the darkness the blast of his full attention is like fire heating ice, and I’m the ice. “How do I make you feel, Ella?”

  A million emotions rush through me, but I cannot name one of them, so I whisper, “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to know how you make me feel?” he asks, his voice a low seduction that promises hot nights, and hotter kisses. I want those kisses. I want more. He might not be a monster, but he’s still keeping secrets.

  “Not yet,” I say, turning away from him to face the roof of the car, when I’d meant to simply say, “No.”

  He laughs, that low, ridiculously sexy laugh of his, and I am again taken aback by how right and wrong he can feel at the very same moment in time. We fall into silence, the sound of the radio mixed with the raindrops on the roof filling the air. I start to drift off when “Take Me to Church” by Hozier begins to play. My gut knots, my chest tightening with some dark emotion that I think might be fear. Which is ridiculous. I’m sitting in the car with Kayden. The song is just a song, but the words sweep through me like a blade, trying to make me bleed.

  There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin . . .

  I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the urge to shove away a memory I don’t want to see, but I can’t hide. I wasn’t a coward when Kayden held that gun on me, and I won’t be one now. Cautiously, I let myself slip inside the past, and it’s like I’m looking down on myself from above, not fully committed to being in the moment. First, there is just me. I don’t see the place I am at. I’m wearing a curve-hugging black dress with sheer, long sleeves. My lips are glossy. My makeup is perfect. My hair is red, vibrant, and this is me. The real me Kayden said he hopes to know. That he swore he would know.

  My vision expands, and I can see that I am standing in the middle of a bedroom with expensive artwork on the walls, fancy hardwood floors beneath my strappy high-heeled shoes. To the right of me is a large brown leather chair, and beside it a wooden sculpture of a tiger, and I don’t like it. Not at all, but I do not know why, nor do I care to remember. I cut my gaze away from it, shutting out whatever memory it represents.

  I refocus on where I stand, a massive mahogany bed behind me. Two gorgeously etched wooden doors are in front of me, and I’m waiting for them to open. And they do, as if my attention has invited them to do so, and he enters, stealing my breath, skyrocketing my heart rate. I try to see his face, but my mind is still protecting me. I don’t have to know who he is to feel his power or the way he owns the room. No. The way he owns everything, and everyone, around him.

  He walks toward me, slow, confident, stopping a mere sway from touching me. He is tall and towers above me, watching me, and I can feel the heat of his stare, but I cannot see his eyes or even what he is wearing. And I don’t want to, I realize. That’s the problem. I’m hiding when I have to face this, and I force myself to go deeper into the memory. No longer am I watching myself from above. I’m right there in that room, living the experience all over again.

  “Undress,” he orders.

  I blanch. “What? I thought we were going out.”

  He steps closer, towering over me, his suit tailored, expensive perfection, like his body beneath it. “You heard me. I told you to undress.”

  “I—”

  He twists rough fingers into my hair and drags my mouth to his, his breath a warm tease on my lips. “You like our games. Do as I say. Let me fuck you a new way.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, and while I do like our games, there is something different about him tonight, an edge that frightens me. Or maybe it’s my inhibitions, my weaknesses, winning.

  But he doesn’t let me go with my agreement, the twist of his fingers in my hair tightening, his mouth closing down on mine, the swipe of his tongue rough with demand I should revel in, but do not.

  He releases me and sets me away from him, crossing his arms over his chest to watch me. I undress, but he does not, which is never the case, and my unease expands, burning in my chest. Once I’m naked, feeling at his mercy, his gaze rakes over every part of my body, and I expect him to come to me, or to order me to him. Instead, he turns and walks to a drawer, opening it and returning with a long piece of rope.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  This man has been my hero, and I should trust him, but I don’t want to do it. I want to grab my clothes and run. His gaze sharpens and I feel trapped, unsure of what to do. He arches a brow and I offer him my hands. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes as he binds me.

  “Lie on the bed with your hands over your head,” he orders.

  I do it, telling myself he’s always made me hot. He’s always been good to me. He will fuck me in some amazing way, and my nervous reaction is silly. He walks to the headboard and grabs my bound hands, and somehow, I’m not sure where, he ties them over my head. And then he just leaves. He walks out of the room and leaves me tied to the bed. And for the first time since I met him, I feel alone.

  I return to the present
with a flutter of my lashes and a splintering pain in my skull, and that song is still playing, reminding me of him, whoever he is. I want it to stop. Please make it stop . . . But still it goes on . . .

  My church offers no absolutes . . .

  I’m pulled back into the past, expecting, and dreading, seeing that man again, but I do not return to him or his bedroom. This time I’m at the church where Kayden found me tonight. And Kayden is there too, pressing me against the wooden door, his big body framing mine, his hands cupping my face as he kisses me. And I can taste his desire, his passion. His claim to me . . . the possession. And clearly now, when it had not been in the moment, I know that he wants—even needs—to own me. This discovery should scare me, but the scent of him, warm spice and vanilla, is so damn familiar, both soothing and arousing. I cling to him, kissing him back, hungry for more of him. And with him, I am not alone like I’d been in that room, tied to that bed. He is the answer I need. Kayden.

  I open my eyes, and I feel like a hammer is pounding in my head. The song is over. The rain continues. And I don’t want to think about why my mind showed me him and then showed me Kayden. I just want to go to sleep.

  I wake with a gasp and shoot forward, grabbing the dash, panting. The car isn’t moving. There is no rain and there appears to be a wall in front of the car.

  “Easy, Ella.”

  Looking right, I find a strange man with brown hair and eyes kneeling at the open passenger door. “Who are you and where is Kayden?” I ask.

  “I’m here,” Kayden says, replacing the stranger by my side. “That was Nathan. He’s a friend and a doctor. You were grabbing your head and rocking back and forth. I pulled over and you passed out.”

  “I passed out?”

  “Yeah, sweetheart, you did. You scared the shit out of me. Nathan just gave you something for the pain.”

  The man appears above Kayden’s shoulder. “And something to help you sleep. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “What’s wrong with me? I feel like someone is hammering in my head. I can’t remember who I am and now I passed out?”

  “I saw your medical records,” the man says. “You have a very bad concussion, and from what I understand you weren’t kind to yourself tonight. You need to rest.”