The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (8 page)

Now both men are staring at me expectantly. “Mr. Hayes invited me over for drinks a few days ago. I had planned to see if I could acquire any information about Jonathan, but I was unaware the blocker has his own residence near Mr. Hayes. So he wasn’t there when I had visited.”

The Chief glances between me and the detective, his curiosity piqued. He’s wondering if my visit included other activities other than drinking and why the detective is regarding me with such an intense gaze. Then he starts to wonder if the detective and I have become physical. The idea seems to make him uncomfortable, and he quickly clears his throat and adjusts his weight on the chair.

“I see,” he says finally. “Well, I don’t know if I like the idea of you going out on your own, Moira. And no it’s not because I believe you’ll try to escape—though, to be honest, that thought has crossed my mind. I just don’t want you in any danger. We wouldn’t want another Bradford situation.”

“I promise to be careful from now on.”

“Good, now get out of here and solve the damn case.”

The Chief shoos us out of his office, though he’s secretly amused. When we exit, Keenan informs me he first has to grab something from his office before we leave, so I decide to take the opportunity to speak with Constable Jamieson. I feel bad for not speaking with him and his fiancée again after I had spoken with Josephine at Mr. Harrison’s private event, especially since they had been polite.

Rick smiles when he sees me approach, informing me that he doesn’t harbour any resentment toward me. “You made quite the impression on Christine. She’s been talking about you ever since.”

“Really?” I say, slightly surprised. “Well, I liked her as well. She seems sweet and caring. The two of you make quite the match.”

He fidgets with the papers before him, suddenly nervous. “I hope you don’t mind I told her you were Mr. Edwards’s blocker.”

I sit on the edge of his desk, my lips curving up in mirth. “Not at all, but I was wondering why. I mean most people just assume I’m his concubine, not his blocker.” I lean forward and give him a secretive wink. “It’s more believable, you see.”

He shrugs, his cheeks reddening. “It just didn’t seem right to say that.”

I sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

Rick stops fidgeting, and his face widens into an inviting grin. “She wants you two to come over for tea sometime. Do you think you can convince the detective?”

“That sounds lovely. But as for the detective, I don’t possess that amount of persuasion over him. So, unfortunately, you’re on your own. But the good news is, he seems to like you two, which means he most likely won’t avoid you like he does with the Chief’s wife.”

Rick laughs. “I’m not surprised. She practically shoves every young, single woman on him every chance she gets.”

“Someone needs to inform her that Keenan is more than capable of doing that on his own. Besides, I may not have known him long, but it seems to me the detective isn’t exactly eager to settle down, get married, and have children.”

Rick’s face twists into a thoughtful expression before he shrugs. “Some people just aren’t in need of companionship like others.” He then looks up at me and smiles. “Or maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman yet.”

I
n the evening
, I arrive in the dining room to find the detective’s usual seat unoccupied. Mrs. Whitmore finishes laying out the meal, her gaze carefully focused on her task. Hungry, I sit at my end of the table and wait for Keenan. The moment the housekeeper leaves I begin to eat, deciding Keenan wouldn’t care about the usual dining room etiquette. But when my hunger slowly abates and my plate is nearly finished, he has yet to appear. The man doesn’t practice healthy eating habits, and I wonder how he’s managed to survive this long. An image of Keenan hunched over his desk as an abandoned cigarette slowly withers by his side flashes in my mind. Does he lock himself in his study constantly because he’s passionate about his work? Or has the man occupied his mind with work because he’s lost all passion in life?

I rise from my seat and leave the dining room in search of him. I immediately head toward his study and knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer. I know better than to think silence equates absence, so I knock more insistently and smile when his flustered voice travels through the door. His annoyance increases when I enter the room, mostly because he had just told me to go away. As I suspected, Keenan is hunched over his desk, examining a collection of papers with a frightening intensity. A cigarette lies in the ashtray beside him, a steady cloud of smoke rising with lazy deliberateness, but what I didn’t expect to see is the glass of liquor on his other side or his slightly inebriated state.

He doesn’t even bother to glance up from the document in his hand, and his voice is curt. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

I respond in kind, my words revealing my peevish state. “Well, no wonder. You’ve already started drinking.”

He glances up suddenly, slightly surprised. It’s almost as if he didn’t expect his intruder to be me, but I find that idea baffling. Mrs. Whitmore must have knocked on his door earlier. His shock quickly dissipates, replaced by a swarm of emotions that struggle to dominate over one another. He rises from his seat and approaches me, shocking me even more. His eyes are bloodshot, and his tension slithers toward me threateningly.

“Alright, Moira, shall we go eat?”

My suspicion immediately rises. “I thought you weren’t hungry?”

“I am now,” he says, attempting to usher me out of his study.

I should follow him and ignore the gnawing suspicion inside me, but my desire for knowledge has never been denied. To leave now would be impossible, especially since the detective is hiding something. The fact he doesn’t wish me to know what is written on those papers should warn me it’s something I don’t want to see, but I’ve never been one to turn away from knowledge, even if it’ll hurt me. So instead of exiting with him, I maneuver around him and snatch one of the sheets. My eyes narrow as I realize it’s a concubine’s list of transactions.

“Moira–”

“Why are you looking over Rachel’s transactions? Or is this Mia’s?” When he doesn’t answer, I narrow my eyes and my voice tightens with distrust. “Why so much guilt, Detective?”

He exhales slowly, his stoicism deflating with the movement, and it’s the first time his eyes meet mine reluctantly. “It’s yours.”

“What’s mine?”

“The list of transactions,” he explains, gesturing to the paper in my hand. “It’s yours. Not Mia’s or Rachel’s.”

Ah, that would definitely explain the guilt drifting my way. For a while, I’m incapable of feeling anything other than bewilderment as several questions crop up, demanding to be answered.

“I see.” My voice is cold and emotionless, and my expression hardens into one I’ve seen plenty of times on his face. “And when did you decide to pull out the liquor? Was it before or after the entry of the threesome I had to participate in at the age of fifteen?”

He swallows, running his hand through his hair. “Actually, I needed a drink after the first page.”

I clench my teeth and glare at him. “Oh, were my sexual endeavours that riveting to you?”

“God, no,” he breathes, searching my face.

And then I feel it—the viscous grime of pity. It clings to my skin, seeking purchase. But I’m just as frantic to leave this room without its taint on my body, so I instinctively take a step back away from its source. He observes me, and for the first time, his gaze isn’t demanding. No, I’ll take anything other than pity. I’d even welcome disgust at this point.

“Moira–”

I inhale deeply and try to keep my voice at a reasonable volume. “Why were you looking at my list, Keenan? If it’s not a perverted interest of yours, then what is it?”

“I was researching–”

“Research,” I echo, deadpan.

“Yes,” he says, his hands lifting as if to touch me. “I assure you it was my only reason for examining your list.”

I quickly step farther out of his reach and narrow my eyes. “You still haven’t told me why.”

His expression shifts from confusion to deliberation. In an instant, his gaze has sobered and his eyes pierce through me, demanding answers as usual. What they ask, I cannot say for sure. But I do know it has something to do with my past. I knew all along his inquisitive nature wouldn’t be satiated until he has explored every dark corner in my mind. He will reopen every wound in his search for answers, and then I have no doubt he will abandon me. I will be discarded, bloodied, and useless. He will feel no remorse, only revulsion. I’m broken—nothing but a worthless concubine and murderer.

“I read over the report on Scott Harrison’s death, Moira.” His gaze softens and pleads with me for honesty. “When the constables first interrogated you, you told them you had blacked out when you killed Scott.”

“What’s your point?”

He takes a step forward. “Why don’t you tell me about that night?”

I scoff and unknowingly retreat away from his approach. “What do you wish to know?” My bitterness is unmistakable, yet he doesn’t flinch. “The man aggravated me to the point where I finally lost it and killed him. There, are you satisfied now? I’m a
murderer
.” I cross my arms over my chest protectively. “You already knew that.”

“What did he say that upset you?”

“Does it even matter?” I pause to catch my breath and lower my voice. “The man beat me and would leave me starving in the dark. It’s not like he didn’t deserve it.”

Keenan takes another step forward, his gaze piercing me with their intensity. “How did you kill him?”

“God, if I knew I was going to walk into an interrogation, I would have left you alone–”

“Answer the question, Moira.”

My indignation escalates so I’m now shouting at him. “You had no right to look through my list! I’m not part of one of your cases, Keenan! The past is the past. Leave. It. Alone
.
”

His brows draw tight, and his jaw locks in determination. “You’re right. I had no right to pry into your past, and I should have asked your permission first. But this is important.” He steps closer, unwavering in his need to find answers. “How did you kill Scott?”

“Fine!” I snap, approaching him with malevolence. “Do you want to know how I killed him? I snuck up on him and stabbed him with a knife I found in the kitchen. That’s it. Is your curiosity satisfied now?”

“That’s not what happened.”

I stare at him, amazed he has the audacity to accuse me of lying. “I just
told
you–”

“I know what you told me, but you didn’t sneak up on him.” His frown deepens as he regards me with only a foot separating us. “You couldn’t have. He would have heard you. In fact, his body was found lying on the floor in front of his desk, which suggests he was aware of your presence and that you two had spoken. And the only wound found on his body was the deep gash across his throat.”

He’s not lying. Still, all I remember is suddenly becoming conscious of my surroundings to find Scott dead on the floor and a knife in my hand. After staring at the blood soaking the floor, I simply assumed I had finally lost my mind and stabbed him. Then I ran. But it doesn’t matter
how
I had killed him. All that matters is that I did.

Keenan’s gaze flickers between my different coloured eyes, and his voice is quiet when he speaks again. “How can you not remember how you killed him?”

I lift my head so I can meet his gaze and give him the explanation I’ve been telling myself ever since that day in Scott’s office. “I blacked out.”

“I don’t think that’s what actually happened, Moira.”

“What are you talking about? Are you accusing me of lying?”

He shakes his head, his voice calm. “No. I was actually thinking your case sounds very much like the Phoenix case–”

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head wildly. “Stop it. Just stop! I killed Scott. That’s it. I wasn’t persuaded by the Phoenix or by one of his pawns. I chose to kill him.” I gather all the papers that constitute my list of transactions and hold them tightly to my chest. “It’s my past, Keenan. It’s not yours to meddle with.”

Before he can formulate an apology, I storm out of his study and rush upstairs to the confines of my room. I shove the list into one of my drawers and slam it shut. My stomach turns violently, strung along by my animosity and befuddlement. I hate him for prying into my list without my permission, and I despise him for forcing me to talk about Scott Harrison. But most of all, I resent him for attempting to spark a seedling of hope within me. Even though Scott’s ghost still haunts me to this day, I came to terms with my sin a long time ago.

It would be so easy to absolve myself of my greatest crime—to know I am innocent in at least that. But nothing in life is ever easy.

W
hen Mr. Hayes
first approached me with the intent of seducing me, I had only briefly considered his offer. I have met my fair share of men like Icarus, the type who relish in lavishing themselves with wealth and have a bottomless appetite for all sorts of vices. Men like him rarely have wives, and if they do, it’s only because their family forced them to marry. They’re frequent clients of the pleasure house, and their sexual tastes are typically beyond the norm. Their reputations are widely known since most leave a trail of disgraced women behind them. Life for men like Icarus is not about responsibility and propriety. It’s about one thing alone: the attainment of pleasure.

A large part of me resented such men because my own life was all about pain. The other half of me
envied
them. They were free, while I was a slave. I would have done anything to exchange my suffering for a moment of delight. So as I lie here hot with need, I understand why someone would discard their obligations to society. When Icarus’s finger slides into me, thoughts of the Phoenix vanish. Here in his bed, there are no murderers, detectives, or masters. I’m not a slave. I’m not even Moira. I’m simply a ball of fire, awaiting release. There’s no pain, only pleasure. And I never want it to stop.

He calls out my name when I take him inside my mouth. The syllables are weighed down by affection and need. It’s a possessive sound that attempts to lure me back to the world. But I don’t want to be Moira yet, so I don’t satisfy his need. Instead, I climb on top of him and slowly take him inside me, inch by inch. He’s so close…

“Don’t you dare come yet,” I warn.

Icarus growls something incoherent, gripping my hips painfully tight. I’ve made him wait so long, but I’m so close as well. And then it comes, the glorious waves of intense pleasure. I faintly hear him swear profusely over my loud moans. For that blissful moment, I am entirely void of pain, anxiety, and sorrow.

“Fuck, Moira,” he exhales breathlessly. I’m suddenly pulled off him, and while I’m on my hands and knees, he drives himself inside me. “My turn.”

It doesn’t take long before I feel him convulse, and we fall on our backs in utter exhaustion. Through my haze, a part of me is sad it’s over. That’s the thing with pleasure. Once you’ve had a taste, you’re always wishing for more. Icarus exhales heavily beside me and rolls over onto his side. He runs his finger down the length of my abdomen, catching tiny drops of sweat in the process.

“Greedy Moira,” he whispers with delight. “You sure know how to wear a man out.”

“Did I break you?”

“Not at all.” I hear a smile in his voice as he adds, “Did I break
you
?”

I move my legs wearily and sigh. “No, but I’m definitely sore.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my virility.”

I laugh, but the longer I lie here the quicker my thoughts rush forward to antagonize me. Men like Icarus don’t partake in monogamous relationships. They move along in search of other pleasures. He will tire of me soon, and then I’ll be alone again. It’s one thing to appreciate solitude and an entirely different matter to be completely alone. But I suppose I can’t blame him. I chose to fall into a sexual relationship with Icarus specifically because he’s
not
a man like Keenan. He doesn’t demand I reveal all of my secrets or pry into my past. Icarus knows I have killed, yet the idea doesn’t seem to bother him. Because, in the end, all he wants is my company, while Keenan spends most of his time in his study and spins theories about me being the Phoenix’s first victim. Is that why he looked at my list? Because the only way he can accept my past is if I’m innocent?

The sound of Icarus’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Are you always thinking?”

I start in surprise and blink up at him. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” He brushes his fingertips against my forehead. “You went completely quiet and your forehead crumples. Don’t you ever just let your mind fall silent?”

I snort. “I don’t think that’s physically possible.”

“Of course it is.”

“Then why do I feel a constant thread of emotions emanating from you?”

He chuckles heartily. “That’s because I have a beautiful woman naked in my bed.”

“Do you ever turn that charm off?”

His expression sobers, and his gaze elicits a chill down my spine. “Yes, but believe me, Moira, you wouldn’t like that side of me.”

With that one look, I’m inclined to believe it. I just hope he doesn’t snap and kill people—something I can’t say for myself. His serious expression is immediately washed away with a sardonic grin, and he leans in to kiss me. It’s a slow, lingering meeting of the lips, and my previous thoughts flutter away in the distance. We’re interrupted by a knock on his door, and his housekeeper informs him a gentleman is at his door. Icarus pulls away from me with a reluctant sigh.

“I apologize, love. I’ll only be a moment.” He dresses, and then winks at me. “I’m not finished with you yet, so don’t go anywhere.”

I inwardly cringe at the casual delivery of his term of endearment, but my body heats up in anticipation. Before he leaves, he flashes me another grin. I watch the door close behind him and then flop onto my back to stare up at the ceiling, my head where my feet should be. He has a comfortable bed with soft sheets, and his scent still lingers in the air, even though he has left the room. In his absence, my guilt settles in. I’m not sure where the emotion stems from, but it nags at me nonetheless. But as soon as he’s near, it vanishes. It’s as if his presence alone snuffs out all of my remorse, leaving room for pleasure only.

The door creaks open, and a grin spreads across my face. “Back so soon?” I turn to roll onto my stomach. “That didn’t ta–”

I abruptly fall silent as my eyes fall on the man who has entered the room. It’s not Mr. Hayes, but rather his blocker.

“What are
you
doing here?” I demand, rising up into a crouch.

Jonathan’s glacial eyes unabashedly rake over my body, but I’m not in the least embarrassed; he has already seen me naked plenty of times since he was one of my clients at the pleasure house. Slowly, his gaze moves away from me to absorb the scene around him, focusing keenly on the tangled sheets and the clothes on the floor. A lazy smile graces his stony expression, and those cold blue eyes fall back on my face. I can practically feel the icy landscape of his mind beneath my bare feet, and my skin prickles from the cold.

“I see he’s finally managed to get you into his bed,” he says conversationally, feigning interest in a painting on the wall.

I don’t fall for his ruse and, instead, keep my gaze trained on his movements. He has invaded my safe zone, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Pleasure doesn’t last. The bad always has a way of creeping in, especially in my life. He steps closer, and I instinctively inch toward the other side of the bed. He has come here with a purpose in mind, and I can sense he intends to provoke me.

“I’ve had to taste his desire for you ever since the first day he met you,” he continues, his voice altering from congenial to hostile. “It’s revolting, especially since I’ve already had you and I’ve found nothing extraordinary about you or those experiences. Nevertheless, you’re simply a toy, and he’ll eventually tire of you. Truly, how long can a whore possibly hold a man’s attention?”

“Sounds as if you might be jealous,” I say casually.

A sharp crack of laughter rings through the air. “Jealous?” He chuckles again, but this time it’s softer with a hint of malevolence. “It’s remarkable how ignorant you still are, Moira.”

“Get out, Jonathan.”

His grin widens, and he waves a reprimanding finger at me. “That’s no way for a concubine to speak to a client.”

“I’m not a concubine anymore and you’re not my client,” I snap.

He lowers his gaze to my breasts. “Ah, that may be true, but you’re still a whore
.
”

With that one look, his intention is made clear. I scramble off the bed, but he’s quicker. He grabs my arm and pulls me toward his body. My back crashes into his chest, and his arm wraps around my neck. His forearm presses firmly against my throat, but not enough to completely cut off my airway. I futilely yank at his sleeve in an attempt to escape, but my strength is unequal to his. So, instead, I fall into his mind and immediately shiver from the cold, icy caverns surrounding me. Unlike Daniel or what I sometimes glimpse in Mr. Hayes, Jonathan doesn’t feel an ounce of possessiveness toward me. He doesn’t even feel the need to dominate me like Mr. Anderson had. Rather, he simply wants to use me for the satisfaction of hurting me and potentially arousing jealousy in Mr. Hayes. Yes, I see now his behaviour toward me is relative to my relationship with Icarus.

God, I hate him.

“Do you like it when he fucks you?” he whispers into my ear. “I heard your moans all the way downstairs.” He grazes his other hand over my breasts. “I bet I could make you scream louder.”

“Fuck you,” I choke out.

“Ah, Moira.” He presses his face into my neck and inhales my scent, his hand sliding down my stomach. “I prefer this feisty side of you over the submissive one you had played at the pleasure house. It’s much more enticing.”

Now he is aroused in earnest, and his intention becomes even more evident as his hand slides farther down. I panic and scratch at anything my fingernails dig into. I don’t just want to persuade him to release me. I want to inflict physical pain. He pulls his face out of reach, and his grip around my neck loosens. The moment I’m released, I smash my head back into his face and instantly regret it as pain explodes throughout my skull. But when I stumble away from him and inspect my work, I grin defiantly. One side of his face has a long scratch running down his cheek and his nose is bleeding. His delight escapes him in a charmed smile as he grabs one of the bed sheets to staunch the flow.

“You sure know how to play.”

My mouth opens, prepared to offer a retort, but someone else speaks before I can.

“What the hell is going on?” demands Icarus, appearing behind me. His gaze rapidly flickers over my body, searching for any sign of abuse, and then falls coldly on Jonathan. That veil of charm has vanished, replaced by someone I don’t recognize. “If you touched her–”

Jonathan interrupts him with a sharp bark of laughter. “Don’t worry. I didn’t harm your precious whore.” His gaze cuts toward me. “I was merely reintroducing myself to your guest here. We are old acquaintances, after all.”

“Leave,” says Icarus in a quiet voice.

“Of course,
master
.”

The blocker gives me one last grin before exiting the room, and the stench of his satisfaction lingers even when he’s gone. He got exactly what he wanted—to infuriate Mr. Hayes and I. Icarus approaches me and pulls me close. He’s furious with Jonathan, yet he hides the extent of his temper behind his concern for me. I suppose I should be flattered, but I can’t summon anything other than my wrath.

Icarus lifts my head so I’m forced to meet his gaze. “Are you alright?”

I nod and try to subdue my irritation. “I thought you said he has his own place.”

“He does.” He grabs my arm gently and ushers me to sit on the bed. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stop by from time to time. He works for me, remember?”

“I hate him.”

“I can see that.” He then sobers and looks at me remorsefully. “I do apologize for his behaviour, Moira. And don’t worry. He’ll be reprimanded later for scaring you. Though from the looks of it, it seems you fought back.”

I lift a brow. “He deserved it.”

“I have no doubt he did.”

He pulls me close and rubs my back soothingly. I haven’t forgotten I’m still naked while he’s completely dressed. It’s only awkward because it seems weird for him to be clothed in the privacy of his bedroom. I moan as those strong hands of his coax the tension out of my shoulders. He seems to know exactly where to move and for how long, his thumbs moving in gentle circles. Surprisingly, my hostility has vanished and my safe zone is restored. I’m once again wadding in a pool of pleasure, my incident with Jonathan almost forgotten.

“Was he the one who wished to speak with you?” I ask, amazed I’m capable of conversing through my haze of content.

“No, it was another Elite member—the new Memory House Instigator, to be precise.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize the Elite found someone to replace Mr. Anderson already.” I remember that Mr. Hayes was not only responsible for involving me in the case, but also for recruiting Josephine as the new Pleasure House Instigator. My curiosity pierces through the cloud of pleasure. “He’s not an empath, is he?”

Icarus chuckles softly, his hands moving lower. “No.”

“Are you responsible for his promotion?”

A husky moan escapes me as his hand slides up along my leg. “Do you
really
wish to continue discussing politics?”

“Not really,” I admit, unbuttoning his shirt.

Yet the moment just before I give into releasing my anxiety completely, I’m aware I have once again failed to acquire any further information about Jonathan. The last time, the blocker had been absent from Mr. Hayes’s property. But today I was alone with him and there was a moment where I was even in his mind. It was the perfect opportunity for me to search the cavernous landscape for anything that could tie him to the murders. Granted, it wouldn’t have been easy and the blocker would have resisted. Jonathan is a lot stronger than Daniel, so using persuasion would have its challenges. Information like that isn’t freely given. It’s taken. Daniel had eventually relinquished his control, enjoying the sensation of having me inside his mind. Jonathan, on the other hand, would not be so accommodating.

When Icarus drives me back to Keenan’s townhouse, Mrs. Whitmore opens the door and greets me with a curt nod. It’s the second time I’ve come back from spending time with Mr. Hayes alone, and she doesn’t approve of my behaviour.

I quickly disregard the feelings of judgement and disgust trickling from her, and, instead, focus on the closed door to my left, wondering if Keenan is inside. “Is the detective still awake?”

Her gaze flickers to the study, and she shakes her head. “No, Mr. Edwards is out at the moment.”