Anything He Wants: The Betrayal (#5) (2 page)

Swallowing again, I did as he ordered, my eyes moving toward the ceiling. A line of rope hung down from a large roll of cloth above me, likely an old sail, and my heart skipped a beat as Jeremiah wrapped the rope around my wrists. “Hold still,” he said, then fished around until he found a small piece of cloth nearby. He snapped it once to remove debris, the sound making me jump, then tied it around my head to cover my eyes. The world plunged to black, and when he tightened the rope above so it lifted me to my tiptoes, I gave a small gasp.

“So, you want to be punished.”

I whimpered, heart racing, but didn’t negate his question. Despite the heavy boots, he was surprisingly silent on his feet; I cast my head around blindly, trying to find him, then started as I felt his breath on my neck. “What should it be?” he murmured, fingers sliding along my raised arm. “Should I spank you for your disobedience? Whip you? What kind of punishment would teach you not to court death?”

My mouth worked silently but I didn’t respond. Somehow, given his current state, I doubt he’d be gentle with me in this situation. I remembered the flogger he used on me the previous night and, despite the current situation, felt an answering heat unfurl in my belly. Now is not the time for this!

“Perhaps a different form of punishment is required.” His hand left my arm and unsnapped my pants with deft fingers. They dropped to my feet as he grabbed one leg behind the knee, lifting it high and to the side until I was balancing on one foot, holding the rope around my wrists for support. My face flushed, realizing how I had to look exposed like this. All the underwear I had was of the sexy variety, something I secretly appreciated but that make unexpected moments like this awkward.

A finger slid across my panties and I jerked against my bonds in surprise. “You’re wet,” he said, his tone such that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking and longed to see his face. He let go of my leg, then hooked his thumbs around the band of my panties and slid them down to my ankles. My face burned as he undid the buttons of my shirt, pulling it open to reveal my torso. Rough hands skirted the edge of my bra, then slid beneath the thin material as he spoke. “Perhaps nipple clamps, they can be painful. Is that punishment enough for you risking your life?”

Fingers wrapped around my nipples and I tensed, waiting for the pain, but he only fondled them a bit then let go, leaving the bra displaced and my breasts exposed. A perverse disappointment jolted through me and I stifled a sigh.
I don’t like pain,
I thought, but the avowal seemed weak even in my mind.

The rope jerked up again, until only the tips of my toes scraped the ground. Muscles stretched in my arms and my wrists burned, but I clamped my lips together and kept silent. I thought I heard the whisper of footsteps behind me as another hand smoothed over my backside. “Should I take you anally? You seemed to enjoy it yesterday but unprepared it can be very painful. Is that punishment enough for playing fast and loose with your life?”

A hand cracked against one cheek and I flinched, the movement swinging me around. I scrambled for purchase, my panties falling to the ground as Jeremiah disappeared again but I couldn’t stop the slow twirl of the rope. Another spank across the same cheek made me spin faster, butt burning.

“Should I use my belt on you?” he asked, voice tight again. The sound of a buckle being loosened came from nearby. “Would that keep you from any more foolhardy attempts like this? Answer me!”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, earnestly meaning the words and not just because of his threats. I remembered the desperation on his face, the loss of control when I was in danger, and my throat tightened. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What are you sorry for?”

Hurting you. The pain on his face, the rage when he’d confronted his brother, the surge of emotion, was what I regretted most. I knew, however, that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “For disobeying you and putting myself at risk.” At the last minute I barely remembered to add, “Sir.”

Hands grabbed my hips and hauled me forward against a hard body, knee moving in between my knees. Taken by surprise, I instinctively opened my legs and was hauled up until I was straddling hips. I felt a moment of probing against my naked core, then he plunged inside and I gasped.

“I promise you,” he growled, punctuating every other word with a thrust of his hips, “you’ll feel every one of those punishments if you ever do this again.”

I tightened my legs around him as one big hand moved to my back, holding me still as he rammed into me. The sheer power of each deep stab bounced me into the air; there was little pain, but because my body had been preparing for a much harsher punishment, every nerve ending was alive and on fire. His hands dropped to my backside, squeezing and parting the twin globes for deeper access, and I exploded. The orgasm took me by surprise, my body bucking and twisting as he continued his assault.

Our movements had dislodged the cloth over my eyes and, panting, I looked down to see Jeremiah watching me, his face strained by his own desire. The raw hunger in his eyes seemed more than just sexual, and the sight stabbed through my heart. I wanted to kiss him, caress his beautiful face, but the bonds held me aloft, keeping me from giving him any comfort.
Maybe this is my punishment,
I wondered, feeling the loss keenly in my gut. How oddly appropriate. Then he shuddered beneath me and the moment passed, and we both took a moment to come down from that stunning high.

Holding me tight against his body, he reached up and effortlessly untied the knot from around my wrists. My limbs felt boneless as he set me on my feet. I wobbled, bare feet scraping against the wood floor. His grip was gentle, so different than only a moment before when everything had been quick and rough, but as soon as I was steady he let me go and stepped away. “Get your clothes on and I’ll take you back to the house.”

Jeremiah turned away before I could get a good look at his face; disappointment churned in my belly at the subtle snub but I set it aside, dressing myself quickly and following after him. He had moved toward a far wall, and as I approached he pulled aside a thin rug covering a pair of rings in the door and hauled open a trapdoor in the floor. The hinges didn’t make any noise as the hatch swung open. “This will take us to the house.”

I stared wide-eyed down into the darkness. Steep concrete steps led down into the underground passage, and a chilly damp wind blew from somewhere at the other end. “Is it safe?”

“This is how I came in here unseen. It’s safer than going outside, at least until we figure out who’s behind all this.”

Still I balked. “Why do you have a trapdoor to the boathouse?”

Jeremiah’s lips thinned but he answered, “There were incidents in my childhood that necessitated…additional measures. My father was a paranoid man, but in some instances he had good reason to be afraid. The house has a panic room and this exit in case of an emergency, but we’ve never had to use either since he died.” He held out his hand. “Come on, Lucy,” he said, his voice gentler than before, “let’s get you to the house.”

I tentatively took his hand, still unconvinced whether it was a good idea, but nevertheless took that first step down into the dark passageway.

2

I found out very quickly that I didn’t like secret passages.

There was little light along the narrow tunnel. We passed lightbulbs spaced several yards apart but only two worked along the entire corridor. The main light came from a flashlight phone app, reflecting dully off the slick wood floor. I kept a firm grip on the back of Jeremiah’s shirt to keep from slipping on the rotting planks.

The passageway’s proximity to the ocean left everything covered in moisture; I didn’t dare touch the walls glistening in the low light. The tunnel was warmer than above ground but humid, a cloying darkness I was desperate to escape. It seemed to go on forever, the walls pressing ever closer. Right as I was readying myself to push Jeremiah aside and flee the rest of the way we came to a stop and the light shone up at a trap door above. Jeremiah twisted a metal ring and pushed, but the door didn’t budge. He heaved at it twice and it finally ripped free, making a sound like wood splitting. There wasn’t much light streaming in from the new room, either, but definitely more than in the dark tunnel which was a welcomed relief.

“Climb up,” he said, and I noticed a metal ladder against the far wall. The chill from the rungs bit into my hands as I scaled the short distance into the new room. There was a marked difference in the temperature and ambient humidity as I realized we were back in the house. I had only a moment to recognize the kitchen pantry, shelves lined with cans and packaged goods, before the door was wrenched open. Blinded by the sudden light, I gave a surprised squeak and raised my hands in surrender as three guns were pointed in my face.

“Stand down,” came Jeremiah’s order from below. After a moment’s hesitation the guns were lowered, and I sat back on the floor, my feet still inside the hole. The guards stepped back as Jeremiah pulled himself from the dank opening. I scooted sideways to make room, not trusting my jelly-legs after that scare, but Jeremiah lifted me effortlessly to my feet and escorted me from the tiny room.

The living room and kitchen were full of people, mainly guards, so Lucas stuck out among the group. He was flanked by two men, and as I came into view he gave me a quick once-over. I thought I saw relief flash across his face briefly before the smirking mask settled back in place.

Jeremiah fixed his brother with a glare, striding toward the smaller man. “If you don’t tell me what you—”

“Archangel.”

Jeremiah paused. “What’s Archangel?”

“Archangel isn’t a what, but a who.” Lucas shifted uncomfortably, a petulant look on his face. “Can’t we lose the cuffs?” he asked, rattling the thin chain. “My poor shoulders can’t take much—”

“Lucas,” Jeremiah growled, cutting off his brother and ignoring the request, “who is Archangel?”

“An assassin, and a very good one at that. Pricey as well.” He rolled his eyes. “Contrary to what you may think, I wasn’t the one to hire his services; I even tried to warn you as soon as I heard about the hit.”

“When?” Jeremiah asked sharply.

“The night of the charity gala in France. I tried to call your cell but there was no answer.” Lucas snaked a look at me, a twinge of regret in his eyes. “I should have left a message but instead I decided to contact you directly. By the time I reached your room, however, it was too late.”

Jeremiah spoke first, his voice suspicious. “The caller was a blocked number.”

“A hazard of the profession.” Lucas’s lips rose into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I got the impression the grin was an automatic response, an oft-used professional mask, because something flickered in his eyes and the smile disappeared. “I decided to contact you directly but I was only a minute behind the medical team dispatched to your room. I saw you raging about and knew something had happened.”

That bit of information got Jeremiah’s attention. “You were there?”

Lucas nodded once somberly. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I approached you then and didn’t want to cause a scene—in the state you were in, you would have throttled me—so I stayed back.” Lucas snuck a look toward me. “I apologize for not being faster.”

“I’m alive.” As far as forgiveness went, the words were a paltry expression of gratitude, but I saw another brief flash of relief across his face. My mind was having trouble equating this man with his chosen career; I couldn’t see Lucas as an arms dealer. I guess even bad guys can have a heart.

“What about Archangel?”

Jeremiah’s question recaptured Lucas’s attention. “He’s new in the professional circuit but rapidly working his way up. I know of at least twenty confirmed hits but am certain there are dozens more. The man is a master of disguise and uses any tools necessary for the job. He’s good enough to leave no evidence, even so far as to hack surveillance cameras.” He jerked his chin toward me. “She’s the only one who’s seen his face and lives to tell the tale.”

I went cold. “So he really is after me now, too?” I whispered. The room suddenly spun and I clung to a nearby countertop for support.

A frown flickered across Lucas’s face and he took a step toward me, but Jeremiah was already there, an arm hugging around my shoulders and pulling me close for support. I appreciated the much-needed gesture and gave Jeremiah a smile, even as Lucas was held back again, the guards on either side grabbing his arms.

“Who hired him?” Jeremiah asked, his eyes on me and not his brother.

“It doesn’t matter, only that the assassin’s coming after you.”

The nonanswer drew Jeremiah’s full attention. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

The deadly note in the billionaire’s voice shivered through me, but Lucas merely shrugged it off as if he heard similar threats every day. Maybe he did in his line of work, I thought as Lucas replied, “We can worry about that after the fact.”

“We can worry about it now. What are you hiding, Loki?”

Consternation flickered across Lucas’s face at the use of his other name. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said, the jovial mask slipping for a moment.

“Why not?” Jeremiah shot back. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“That name was given to me, I didn’t create it myself.” Indecision warred on his face, as if he wanted to say more, explain what he meant, and Ethan chose that moment to come into the room. If the bald bodyguard noticed or cared about the increased tension in the room, he gave no indication. “We have a visitor.”

Jeremiah’s lips thinned at the interruption. “Who is it?” he asked.

Ethan glanced over at Lucas. “Anya Petrovski.”

I was watching Lucas when Ethan spoke so saw the spasm of anger across his face. He saw me looking and tried to cover it up, but his eyes still burned with emotion.
Just like his brother,
I thought. It’s all in the eyes.

“There’s no need to involve her,” Lucas said, his voice smooth and dismissive. If I hadn’t grown so accustomed to reading Jeremiah’s stoic expression, I might have been taken in by the words. “She’s probably here to plead my case to you, which is entirely unnecessary.”