Page 5 of Fame
I don’t say it. I can’t beg him to acknowledge the chemistry between us. I won’t.
A few months ago, I received my diploma. Education was the last excuse my father willingly entertained to justify my resistance to agree to the marriage match he selected. My time here with the Ghost Born men and their partners is truly my final stay ofexecution, the death of my autonomy if not my actual execution. I don’t want to be overly dramatic, do I?
“You think arguing with you is how I want to spend my time right now? I’ve got more to do than babysit you, Amaliya. You eat; I’ll leave. Simple.” His biceps strain the fine fabric of his button down as he crosses his arms over his thickly muscled chest and glares at me.
Shaw’s not burly the way Arlo and Jaxon are, and not as shredded as Konrad or Cameron. But there’s a smooth darkness in him that, paired with the tight, corded muscles hiding beneath the layers of clothing, speaks to my hindbrain. The same as a doe somehow senses the presence of a mountain lion, something inside me trembles when he turns his glare on me. Even when I set my shoulders and swear I won’t let him dominate me, it’s impossible not to cave.
“Happy now?” As rude as it is to talk around a mouthful of food, I do it anyway. Noodles dangle from my lips, flinging sauce everywhere as I jam in as much as I can to prove a point. I don’t even know what that point is right now. I’ll think of one later.
Instead of rising to the bait, Shaw surprises me. The scowl falls away, and a look of almost fondness replaces it. His cola-brown eyes lose the hard glint they normally have and soften when he steps close to the dressing table where I’m sitting to eat. He leans over me, his breath fanning hot against my temple as he reaches past me to the napkin on the tray in front of me.
“Messy girl,” he chides, tenderly brushing the paper towel that serves as a napkin over my lips and chin. His eyes meet mine in the mirror in front of me, and I watch hunger sharpen his features. I know my longing must be as obvious as the spilled red sauce staining my cheeks.
“Th-thanks,” I choke out. Months of being a ‘guest’ here at the Ghost Born compound, and this is the closest I think the two of us have ever been.
Taking a chance, I twist in my seat until our faces are close enough we nearly touch. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my heart races and freezes in place at the same time. Somehow, the napkin drops from Shaw’s hand and there’s nothing between his callused fingers and my skin. Thick fingers cradle my cheek, and his thumb brushes so sweetly over my lower lip as my jaw drops open.
“Fuck, Duchess. What you do to me is nothing but trouble.” His gruff baritone is at odds with the compact build of his body. His thumb pushes through my open lips, pressing deep into my mouth until the whole of it presses against my tongue. I close my lips around it, automatically sucking it the way I’ve fantasized doing with another part of his anatomy.
He pulls his face away from mine and stares at my mouth, watching me suckle at his thumb. The fingers against my cheek tighten, his grip on my face holding me in place. As though there’s anywhere else I could want to be. Time spins out in an endless frozen moment where nothing exists but us. This.
A loud bang in the hallway followed by Cameron’s low grunted cursing and Blakely’s high-pitched giggle breaks the moment. Shaw steps away from me faster than a kid caught stealing candy. Regret is stamped on every line of his tense frame as he backs quickly toward the door.
“That was a mistake,” he asserts. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
With that, he spins and slips through the doorway, as silent and untouchable as these ghosts they call themselves. I don’t cry, no matter how much my eyes sting with unshed tears or how badly I want to break down and sob.
I am Amaliya Anatolyevna Balakin, only daughter of Anatoly Balakin. I am forged of untapped power in my own right, and I weep for no man. I repeat the mantra to myself over and over again as I make my nighttime ablutions and settle into bed for another lonely night in this frilly cage.
Shaw has bought every pretty thing he can think of to disguise the truth of it, but this is my prison, and he is my reluctant jailer. No matter how much I pretend my life is my own, there’s always a man standing above me, moving me about like a piece on a chessboard. Somehow, the image of Shaw and my father faced off above a chessboard, my own face staring out from every pawn on the tiled board, follows me into dreamland. It’s not a peaceful slumber.
The next few nights don’t get any easier. Shaw avoids me every chance he gets. The only way I’ve even known he’s at the compound most evenings is by eavesdropping at the floor vent. And that’s how I find out he’s agreed to go back to work for that Gideon guy even earlier than planned.
“Yes, sir. That’s fine. I’ll be there.” He sounds resigned, which is weird. If this is what he wants, shouldn’t he sound more excited?
I force myself to lie down in bed and ignore the restlessness in my legs that wants to carry me down there to beg him to stay. He doesn’t want me, though. He’s made that abundantly clear. So much that he’s willing to walk into danger, just to get away from his own home because I’m here. My heart hardens as resolves fills my veins.
Safe or not, I’ll convince my father to bring me home before Shaw gets back. I’ve been content to linger at the Ghost Born compound all this time because I wanted to be around Shaw. Not anymore, I instruct myself. Not. Anymore.
CHAPTER 7
FAME
Four Days Later
Everything fuckin’ hurts. I’m not dead. Everything fucking hurts and I’m not dead, and because those two truths are true, I force myself to come fully into consciousness.
Dying is too easy, soldier. Get off your lazy ass and get home.I hear Kon’s voice in my head over the ringing that always seems to herald a concussion.
I take stock of my situation. Legs and arms are all mobile. Mostly. Something’s wrong with my left leg, but if nothing else, the pain lets me know it’s still attached. Fingers are all capable of flexing and seem to obey mental directives. Vision, blurry but present. Every breath turns to puffy white steam clouds when they leave my lips, and I turn my head to see a thick blanket of snow all around me.
To be honest, the cold is probably why I’m not dead. It must have slowed the blood flow enough to keep me from going into shock and bleeding out. Blearily, I register the sound of someone shouting from a distance. My numb fingers scrabble to slap atthe side of my head to find where the comms unit has come dislodged. I push it into my ear and blink away the pain hearing from my handler’s frantic shouts.
“Jones! Jones! Do you copy? Jones, do you copy?” Hutchinson’s worry has his voice several octaves higher than I’m used to, adding to the stabbing pain behind my right eye. But not so much the ridiculous code name of Jones doesn’t make me chuckle, but close.
“Target deducted from the count. But, uh, I’m gonna need a pick up.” Luckily, my task for this mission was only to eliminate one of the five targets. Which I did. With extreme prejudice.
Unfortunately, getting him nearly got me got. Apparently. Still not sure exactly what happened during my exit process. I remember drilling a bullet into his skull from a deer blind, an easy one-k meters away from him, securing my Barrett M82, cleaning the blind, and starting the trek to where I’d stashed the snowmobile.
