Falling Under (37 page)

“Can I call my friend to tell her I’m—going away?”

“After we’re
en route
.”

“What will you do if refuse to cooperate?” I asked.

Harris lifted a corner of his mouth in a smirk that chilled my blood. “That would be…unwise.”

I held my ground. “What would you do?”

“I could open the door, overpower you, sedate you, and bring you along regardless.”

“What if I called the police?”

Harris sighed. “Miss St. Claire. That is entirely unnecessary. This is not a bad thing that is happening to you. I am not a Mafia enforcer. I’m not going to break your legs. I’m here to bring you to meet my employer, who has so graciously provided for you this past year. He only wishes to arrange…repayment.”

“I don’t have the money to pay him back. I never will.”

“He isn’t interested in money.”

“He. You said
he
. So he wants…me?”

Harris licked his lips, as if he’d erred. “You will comply willingly. Nothing will be forced on you.”

“But I don’t want to go with you.”

“No?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you must be curious.”

“Not enough to go with you. You scare me.”

“Good. That’s part of my job. But I promise you, I will not harm you, and I will not allow any harm to come to you. You are safe with me. But time is short. If you’re going to refuse, I’ll be forced to go back to my employer and report your recalcitrance. The next step would likely involve forcible methods of confinement. Just come with me. It will be easier for us all.”

I sighed. “Fine.” I closed the door, unlatched the chain, and let Harris in.

He eyed my apartment with open amusement. “I must say, I would have expected you to find yourself a nicer place with the money you’ve received.”

“Nothing lasts forever. I had no guarantee the checks would keep coming. I can afford this place on my own. Sort of.”

“Wise of you.”

Trying to delay things, I asked. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Harris blinked at me. “No. Thank you. We don’t have much time. Get dressed, please.”

I went into my bedroom, rifled through my closet until I found the blue dress I’d worn to a fundraiser gala with my last boyfriend. Harris knew I had a blue dress, and that in itself was terrifying. It wasn’t an expensive dress, but it fit me like a glove, showed off my curves and accentuated my skin and hair. I glanced at Harris, who had my two suitcases—Mom and Dad’s old luggage—on my bed and was packing all of my jeans, yoga pants, skirts, blazers, dresses, and blouses with military efficiency.
 

I lifted the dress. “Will this do?”

Harris looked up, examined the dress, then nodded once. “Yes.”

I dug the one set of lingerie I owned out of a bottom drawer. It wasn’t expensive, but again, it was perfect for me. Deep crimson lace, the perfect shade to offset my tanned skin and blonde hair. I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and dropped the towel. I examined myself in the mirror.

I was medium height, a touch over five-seven, with naturally tanned skin and thick blonde hair. I was curvy enough, on the heavier side of average for my height and build. I saw myself as being pretty on most days, and sexy if I tried hard enough on a good day. Nothing special, but not ugly.
 

I put on the lingerie, then set about doing my hair. I did it in loose, spiraling curls, pinning my bangs to one side. I slipped my dress on, zipped it up the back, and then applied my makeup. I didn’t wear much, just some foundation, blush, eye shadow, and lip stain. Nothing heavy or overdone. I put on a pair of teardrop diamond earrings and a matching necklace, a high school graduation gift from Daddy. Finally, after about thirty minutes, I was ready. I looked at myself in the mirror again.
 

Not bad, Kyrie. Not too bad.
I nodded at my reflection, summoned my nerves, and stepped out.

Harris had my suitcases packed, and was closing the drawers of my dresser. He looked me over. “You’re very beautiful, Miss St. Claire.”

I ducked my head, oddly pleased by his compliment. “Thank you, Harris.”

He nodded. “Now, if you’re ready?”

“Everything is packed?”

“All your clothes and underthings, jewelry, and the phone charger. I assume everything else you need is in your purse.” He lifted the suitcases and moved toward the front door.
 

I followed him, then paused as he opened the door. “What about my apartment?”

He set the suitcases in the hallway, waiting for me to exit so he could close the door behind me. “Everything is taken care of.”

“What—what about Cal? And Mom? And—”

“I repeat, Miss St. Claire: Everything is taken care of. All you need to do is follow me.” He watched me, his pale green eyes calm, patient.
 

I let out a shaky breath. “All right, then. Let’s go.” I shouldered my purse, shut off the lights, and locked the door.
 

I followed Harris outside into the late evening sunlight. There was a low, sleek black Mercedes-Benz parked away from the other cars, angled to take up two spots. He set the cases by the trunk, withdrew a key fob from his pocket, and the hatch opened, and then he placed the cases inside. He had this done before I had a chance to even put a hand on the door.
 

Harris opened the back right passenger door, held it for me as I slid in, and then closed it gently. Within seconds, he was in the front seat, and the engine roared to life.
 

He drove us to a small airport, passing through a security checkpoint, and then he parked on the tarmac beside a huge private jet. I swallowed hard as I stared out the tinted window at the airplane. Was this really happening? Ohgodohgodohgod. I was nothing short of terrified.

“If you wish to make a phone call, now is the time, Miss St. Claire,” Harris said.

I dug my phone from my purse and called Layla.
 

“What’s up, Key? Wanna meet for drinks?”
 

I let out a breath. “I—can’t.”

“Why not? What’s up?”

I blinked hard. “I’m going away.”

“Wh-what? What do you mean? Where? Why? For how long?”

“I don’t know, Layla. I don’t know. The checks? All that money? I’m about to meet the man who sent them.”

“Who is it?” Layla demanded.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. A man showed up at my door an hour ago and said he was here to collect me. I’ve been
collected
, Layla.”

“Does he know you’re calling me? Are you, like, in danger?”

I forced myself to breathe calmly. “I don’t—I don’t think so. I don’t really have a choice, but I’m not in danger. Like, I don’t think anyone is going to kill me. I am scared, though. What’s going to happen to me?” I whispered the last part.

“Kyrie…Jesus. This would only happen to you.” I heard her breathe, sounding as shaky as I did. “Where are you?”

“Oakland County International Airport. About to board a fucking massive Gulfstream or something like that. A big private jet. Right now I’m sitting in a Mercedes-Benz.”

“Ohmigod, Kyrie! So whoever this guy is, he’s loaded.”

“Yeah.”

“And you owe him—what, a hundred and twenty grand?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you going to pay him back?” Layla asked

I blink hard, fighting tears of fright. “This guy, Harris, he said my benefactor isn’t interested in money.”

Layla sucked in a sharp breath. “He’s interested in
you
, then. Something tells me you’ll have to put out a hell of a lot to pay back that much money, honey.”

“Layla!”
 

“Just sayin’, babe. It’s true.”

“I’m not a whore. I’m not going to use sex to pay him back.” My voice shook.

“You may not have a choice.”
 

“I know. That’s why I’m so scared. I mean, I’m no prude. You know that. But…what if he’s, like, eighty? Or some kind of…sultan? You know? Those girls who end up in slavery in Saudi Arabia?”

“I’m scared for
you.”
 

A knock on the window startled me. Harris opened the car door. “It’s time, Miss St. Claire.”

“I have to go, Layla.”

“Be—be careful, okay? Call me as much as you can, so I know you’re alive.”

“I will.”

“So…I’ll talk to you later, Key.” She tried to sound casual about not saying “goodbye.” I loved her fiercely for that.

“Later, babe.” I used the fake accent that always made her laugh.
 

She laughed, and then hung up on me. I sniffed, smiling, feeling somewhat reassured by talking to Layla.
 

Harris closed the door behind me, and then gestured to the movable stairway leading up to the door of the jet. “Ready?”

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

“Understandable. There’s champagne and other refreshments on the plane. Shall we?” He touched the small of my back with three fingers, a gentle nudge.
 

I ascended the steps on jelly-weak knees, and entered the jet. It was…stunning. Like in a movie. Cream leather seats, flat-screen TVs, thick carpeting, a silver bucket of ice sitting on a special tray near one set of seats, with a bottle of what I assumed was hideously expensive champagne. A flight attendant in a navy blue suit was waiting, ready to wait on me.
 

I glanced at Harris in shock.
 

“You’re entering a whole new world, Miss St. Claire,” he said. “One with many privileges. Sit, relax, and try to calm yourself. You will not be harmed, you will not be entering into any kind of slavery. You are merely…changing situations.”

I nodded, unable to speak. I sat, buckled, and held on to the arms of the seat as the jet taxied and took off. When we were airborne, the flight attendant poured me a flute of champagne, which I sipped slowly and carefully. I need to take the edge off my nerves, but I needed my wits about me for whatever came next.
 

The flight was a little over three hours, and then we landed with a small, gentle bump and I had no idea where we were.

I exited the plane and followed Harris to a waiting car, this one a stretch limousine. He held the door for me, closed it, and then slid into the driver’s seat. He said nothing, only waited as someone else loaded my suitcases into the trunk.
 

I’d half expected to see someone sitting in the shadows of the limousine, but there was no one. Only long expanses of black leather, lights and a radio, and more champagne. I folded my hands on my lap and waited as Harris drove us through what looked to be New York. Over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan. We wove through thick traffic, heading uptown.
 

After more than forty minutes of driving, high-rises piercing the night sky all around, Harris pulled the limousine into an underground garage.

My heart was hammering as Harris led me, sans suitcases, to the elevator. The elevator rose quickly, leaving my stomach in my heels. Harris was silent beside me, hands folded behind his back. The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and we stepped out. We were in the foyer outside what I guessed was the penthouse. Thick dark slate-blue carpeting, navy blue walls, a floor-to-ceiling window showing a breathtaking view of New York City. Wide mahogany French doors, a flowering tree in one corner.

Harris stopped by the doors and turned to face me. “This is it. As far as I go.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and withdrew a length of white cloth. “If you agree, I will put this blindfold on you. By allowing me to put it on, you are agreeing to willingly follow every instruction given to you without hesitation. If you do not agree, I will take you home, and repayment of the funds will be expected forthwith.” He blinked at me, waiting. “Do you so agree?” His voice was formal.
 

I took a deep breath. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Harris lifted a shoulder. “There is always a choice.”

I searched myself. Could I do this, knowing what would likely be expected of me?
 

I lifted my chin, summoned my courage. “I agree.”

Harris nodded once, and then moved behind me. I felt him place the blindfold over my eyes, the white cloth folded several times so I couldn’t see a thing. He tied it gently but firmly behind my head, and then I felt his hand on my back, the same three fingers he’d used to nudge me onto the jet. I heard a handle turn, the faint hush of a door sliding across thick carpet.

A push, and I made my feet carry me forward. Two steps, three, four, five.
 

“Until the next time, Miss St. Claire,” I heard Harris say behind me, and then the
click
of the door closing.
 

It was a decidedly final sound.
 

I stood, shaking, trembling, blindfolded, waiting.
 

A footstep, off to my left. “Hello?” I asked, my voice tremulous, breathy.

“Kyrie. Welcome.” The voice was deep, smooth, lyrical, hypnotic, rumbling in my bones and thrumming in my ear.
 

A finger touched my cheekbone, warm, slightly rough. The fingertip scraped ever so gently across my cheek, up over my ear, brushing a loose tendril of hair away.

“Please, don’t be afraid.” He was close. I could feel the heat emanating from him. I could smell him—spicy, masculine cologne, soap. His voice, god, his voice. It made me shiver. Confident, almost kind, warm. “I have waited a long time for this moment, Kyrie.”

“Who—who are you? Why am I here?”

A pause.

“You don’t need my name just yet. As for why you’re here?” His voice lowered, became hushed, a growling murmur that made my stomach clench. “You’re here because I own you, Kyrie.”

Watch for
Alpha
, coming in April.

Jasinda Wilder

Visit me at my website:
www.jasindawilder.com
 

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