Magdalene (57 page)

Mitch turned his head a little to look at
her, that gorgeous woman who loved him, who’d admitted it, who
wanted him to love her more than he loved Mina. Her eyes
widened.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he snarled at her, the
word erupting effortlessly out of his mouth after all the years
he’d heard it, barely able to keep from saying it when
stressed.

Her jaw dropped and she took a half step
backward. He watched her, expecting her to flee, but instead she
held out her hand to him.

His heart thundered in his chest as he
grasped what that meant.

Mina would have run from him, horrified.
Terrified
.

Cassandra let him be who he was, the natural
man, the bad boy, the
animal
.

He put his hand in hers and he allowed her
to pull him to his feet, but then he rushed her, picked her up,
slammed her against the wall opposite the fireplace and glass.

She wrapped her hand in his necktie once,
twice, and jerked him to her.

Crushed her mouth against his.

Mitch ripped open his fly as they kissed.
Violent. Desperate.

He hitched up her skirt, pushed her panties
aside and drove himself into her.

Again and again, pounding her into the wall
with every thrust up into her.

“Good, Mitch,” she gasped against his mouth,
his tie still wrapped around her hand, keeping him close.
“
Yes
. More. Harder. Faster.”

Taking.

Not giving.

He roared yet again when he came, didn’t
care that she hadn’t. He needed the comfort of knowing she wouldn’t
resent him, that she
understood
.

Or did she?

She began to struggle against him and,
suddenly disgusted with her for doing so, he let her go and turned
away.

She caught him, her fingertips digging into
his arm, into his cut, and yanked him around to her. He opened his
mouth to let loose on her, but she dropped to her knees and wrapped
her mouth around him.

His breath left him in a rush as he dug the
fingers of one hand in her hair and pressed her to him. His head
dropped back, losing himself in the feel of her tongue and teeth
and lips caressing and nibbling and licking.

Sucking.

Running her tongue over the head, dipping it
into the cleft at the tip, using her hand to squeeze and
caress.

Giving.

Grief: gone.

Sorrow: gone.

Anger.

Sex.

Fucking.

Taking.

“
Yes
,” he hissed, tightening his hold
in her hair.

Guilt: gone.

He looked down and watched her suck him off,
her lips wrapped around him. Her eyes were open and focused up at
him, intense and dark. One hand squeezed his cock, the other his
testicles, and it shocked him to realize he was about to come a
second time.

Yet another roar exploded from his chest as
he erupted over her nose, her mouth—that beautiful, talented
mouth—over her tongue.

Guilt: gone gone gone.

Mitch still wouldn’t let go of her hair,
even as she set about licking every bit of his cum from his flesh.
A cat, really, licking and cleaning with love, her eyes closed now
as she concentrated.

His heart rate settled and his breathing
smoothed out.

He relaxed his fingers slowly, releasing her
from his hand—his animal’s claw—and looked at it, his mouth falling
open.

What had he
done
?

“Cassandra,” he whispered, completely
horrified.

She pulled away from him and glared up at
him. “Don’t you dare apologize, Mitch Hollander.”

That forced a sad, humorless chuckle out of
him, and his hand dropped away from her as she stood, her face
moist. He grimaced as he used his tie to mop the moisture away from
her skin, the evidence of his rage.

“I knew you had it in you,” she muttered
wryly, taking his hand and turning, tugging him toward the library
door.

He still couldn’t speak, his mind unable to
sort through the humiliation of the process, having had to endure
it a second time, all topped off by violent—
vile
—sex.

Maybe they were right about him after
all.

She pulled him up the stairs.

Stripped him down.

Put him in the shower, pushing him so hard
he had no choice but to brace himself against the wall with both
hands.

Scrubbed him under the hot, almost scalding
water and massaged his neck while he stood bent over, looking at
the tiles of the floor and letting his mind remain empty.

Feeling her hands minister to him with soap
and one of her scrubber things.

She turned off the water.

Dried him off.

Put the toilet lid down and sat him on it to
dress the cuts large and small that ran up and down both arms, all
over his hands.

“How did you cut yourself there?” she
murmured. He hissed when she poured alcohol into the gash in his
side, then dressed it, too.

Grabbed some Tylenol PM out of the cabinet
and ran a glass of water, gave it to him.

Pulled him up and out of the bathroom to the
bed, pushed him down onto it.

He looked at her naked body, still
glistening with water droplets, watching her nipples pucker hard
and her skin grow goosebumps because of the relative chill.

He wanted her again.

He reached out to cup one breast in his
hand, flicking his thumb over her nipple.

“Not yet,” she murmured.

He scowled at her, but she only smiled, that
mischievous look on her face that made her nose wrinkle, the one he
so adored, which meant she had other plans for his pleasure.

She opened his nightstand drawer and took
out the bottle of anointed olive oil used for administering
blessings, such as the one he’d given Sister Reyes. He almost
protested, but he was too tired and besides, what difference did it
make now?

She knelt behind him and he growled deep in
his throat when her suddenly oiled hands swept over the skin of his
back. She didn’t knead his muscles, but caressed him, using the oil
only to allow her fingertips and nails to glide over his skin,
barely scraping, making him shiver with rich sensation.

He felt himself falling asleep under her
loving hands, felt himself falling sideways into the mattress, felt
his cheek hit the pillow.

Felt the glass cuts start to burn. Vaguely
wondered if the one in his side needed stitches.

Still she caressed him, then dragged his
suddenly heavy limbs fully into bed.

Covered him, even as his eyelids drifted
closed.

Kissed him gently, and smoothed his
brow.

Whispered, “I love you, Mitch.”

* * * * *

Twelve

I let him sleep.

He deserved it after all that.

I called Trevor and asked him to come home.
The boy had never been known to pull rank as the CEO’s son, but he
was home in a flash, so I could only surmise that he had today.

“Shit,” he whispered as he stood in the door
of the library, staring at the blown-out window, the shattered
bookcases empty of about a quarter of the Mormon-related books in
the library.

Tossed in the fireplace with the evidence of
an aborted fire having barely touched any of them. Trevor moved to
start another fire, but—

“Leave them alone,” I said wearily. “He’s
not done. He’s confused and tired. He’ll either burn them or put
them back when he’s ready. Right now, I couldn’t guess which and I
don’t want to do something he’ll regret later.”

We walked around, the glass crunching under
his work boots and my tennis shoes.

“I think,” I said, looking at the floor. “I
think we ought to just pull the rug out. There’s too much glass
here. It’d kill a vacuum cleaner and still never get it all
out.”

“I can take it to the mill, I guess. See if
some of the guys’ll help me get the glass out of it.”

I simply nodded and waited for him to go get
gloves from the garage. We cleaned out every bit of glass from the
surfaces, simply sweeping it to the floor.

We didn’t speak as we worked, rolling,
tucking, making sure the glass stayed contained, moving furniture
as we went. The piano was a challenge. The rug was long, and we
struggled to get it out to his brand-new truck without spilling
glass like a crumb trail behind us.

“I’ll be back later,” he sighed as he
climbed into the cab. “I’ll dump this and then go to the
lumberyard, get some plywood and board up the window.”

I nodded and went in to the kitchen to make
noodles, Mitch’s favorite. It took me an hour or so to mix them and
roll them out. They were bubbling in the stock pot and I was just
taking a chicken casserole (sans noodles) out of the oven when—

“Hope you made enough for us, too.”

I almost smiled at the deep voice coming
from the doorway behind me. “Of course. And I hope
you
brought booze.”

“Oh,” Sebastian drawled, “so it’s that bad,
eh?” I heard chair legs scraping the tile floor as Sebastian and
the rest of Mitch’s honorary family settled themselves around the
massive kitchen table.

“Where’s Trev?”

“Well,” I muttered in between taste tests of
my concoction. I turned, wiping my hands, to see him and Eilis,
Hilliard and Justice, Kenard, Giselle, and Ashworth, all sober. “We
are now missing one window.”

Sebastian’s eyebrow rose. “I saw that.”

“He went for plywood.”

“Where’s Mitch?”

“Sleeping. He cut himself up pretty badly
and he hasn’t slept much the past couple of weeks. I cleaned him
up, gave him some drugs, and put him to bed.”

Giselle looked down at her hands, which were
worrying a ragged tissue. Tears streamed from her puffy red eyes
down her flushed cheeks. She was a wreck. Bryce wrapped his arm
around his wife and pulled her close, buried his face in her
hair.

Knox had the look of a madman, ready to
kill—again. Justice wrapped one hand over the fist he had planted
on the table, and caressed his back with the other. She pressed her
mouth to his ear.

Morgan nearly lay in his chair, his head
resting on the seat back, his arms dangling at his sides, his
attention on the ceiling.

They hurt as deeply as Mitch did. He was
their brother and they grieved.

For him solely or also for themselves, I
didn’t know. Probably a poisonous mix. Three people at that table
had gone through this for things they had actually done.

Sebastian pulled out a pack of well-used
cards and began to shuffle, then laid them out for a game of
solitaire. He didn’t seem particularly disturbed, but then,
Sebastian wasn’t known for public displays of emotion.

“Where are all your children?”

“With our mothers,” Sebastian said.

“And you’re not hyperventilating?”

“By tomorrow I will be.”

Nigel, Gordon, and Clarissa clattered
through the front door, found their way to the kitchen. Clarissa
immediately attached herself to me. “I’m sorry about Mitch, Mama,”
she whispered. “But— When are you coming home?”

I pulled her tight to me and whispered back.
“This
is
my home now. Mitch is my husband and I love him.
And you’re leaving in a few months anyway.” I paused. Smoothed her
hair back over her ear. “Clarissa, it’s past time for you to go
live your own life. Look around you, these people Mitch brought
into our lives. You will never be without love or a place to land,
but you need to learn how to fly now.”

She knew that.

She pulled away from me slowly and looked at
me. Her college career was over and she had no reason to drag it
out any longer; she had accomplished a goal she never intended to
and she had no choice but to go with it.

“Okay. Can I help you with dinner?”

“It’s poor people food.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like
it.”

Many somber salutations had been exchanged
while little girl Clarissa said goodbye and adult Clarissa said
hello. Nigel’s mouth was tight. Gordon was sympathetic, but
understandably detached.

“Cassie—” Trevor walked in and stopped short
when he saw our guests. “Shit. Good timing. Can a couple of you
come help me patch up this window?”

“Later,” Sebastian grunted. “Put a tarp over
it, then come eat dinner.”

“Clarissa,” Trevor said and jerked his head
toward the garage, “would you come help me?” She glared at him in
suspicion. “Please?” he added, clearly wanting to make peace with
his new stepsister. After another second, Clarissa nodded abruptly
and followed him.

Eilis helped me get bowls and spoons. I put
the stock pot of noodles on a trivet right in the middle of the
table—family, after all. The chicken casseroles were set on either
side of the stockpot, as I’d made them mostly for Giselle and
Eilis. We had green beans, beverages, fresh-baked bread, and butter
on the table by the time Trevor and Clarissa finished their
task.

All twelve of us sat around the table, and
Morgan said the blessing on the food.

“Amen.”

I looked at Nigel. “Well?”

He nodded. “You were right. Greg Sitkaris is
up to his eyeballs in insurance and securities fraud.”

Sebastian scowled at Nigel. “What the fuck
are you talking about, Tracey?”

“Yes, I know, Taight, you’ve been looking
for the past seven years.” He went on, holding up a hand to
forestall whatever Sebastian was about to say. “You haven’t looked
here.”

“Statutes are almost out anyway,” Knox
mumbled as he played with his utensils.

“No, no. This is recent stuff. It’s just
that he’s very good and very careful.”

“Where were you looking?” he asked,
stymied.

“Vorcester & Minden,” I said.

Sebastian stared at me in shock. “No
shit?”

“Nope.”

Nigel said, “One of Cassie’s analysts found
a pattern in the records, and one of my analysts found another, but
we couldn’t do anything with it. Then,” he continued as he passed a
dish to Gordon, “Cassie’s little church friend had a hunch with
names to back it up. Cassie put two and two together and sent me on
a quest. It was luck. No more, no less.”