Page 38 of Convict’s Game (Skeleton Crew #1)

The tight ache in my chest didn’t budge even in my sleep.

Nor did it the next afternoon, when Mila got up early and didn’t wake me. She spent most of the day on the phone and with her nose buried in her laptop or talking to needy relatives who seemed set on guilt tripping her, and giving me yes or no answers.

A couple of times, I noticed her checking the news, presumably for an update on Esther. From my own cursory check, the story hadn’t broken.

I ordered us food. Borrowed a pad and pen and started designing games for the warehouse. I had all kinds of ideas. Dark and twisted ways for people to connect. But that disconnect between Mila and me was a weight on my chest I couldn’t shift.

Except in the night when she let me fuck her. She wouldn’t meet my eye, but she came so prettily on my tongue and my dick that it gave me something to cling to.

The pattern continued for several days.

Mila could hold a grudge, that was for sure. Luckily, I was a stubborn fuck who could wait her out. It gave me a chance to play a new game with her.

At her laptop, she’d pointedly ignore me. Unless I worked out on the floor and stripped my shirt. If I scrubbed down the kitchen in just my shorts, her gaze would scald my skin.

I’d purposefully catch her staring. Each time I did, I’d win a point. If I got her to sigh, it was five. A hand to her lips, chest, or thighs gave me ten. Then in the night, I’d reward her with her points winning prizes by way of orgasms.

She could be as pissed off as she liked, but that didn’t stop me adoring her.

In between my game, I searched through the box of possessions I’d got back from the Linnet Road address, finding no phone or wallet but enough information so I could order a new driver’s licence, thank fuck I had one of those, and get a form of ID back.

Arran sent photos of younger versions of us, triggering small flares of memory. Mila listened when I told her, as I never stopped sharing, even if she gave little reply.

At last, near the end of the week, she broke the stand-off.

“I promised some of the family that I would see them face to face. They want me to know how much they’re struggling, and I can’t say no anymore. Will you drive me?”

“I will do literally anything for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Including scoring points off me. Can we stop with the games?”

“Never.”

Her sigh of defeat lit me up as if I’d hit the jackpot.

Over-fucking-joyed to have her attention again, I drove her across the England-Scotland border and up to the small town of Selkirk.

We passed through the pretty town buzzing with shops, and I parked up outside her first set of relatives’ place, a big detached house with views across the valley, and with two nice cars outside, a silver Mercedes and a dark-blue BMW.

I whistled. “They’re doing well for themselves.”

Mila shielded her eyes to regard the house, stiffened her shoulders, and went to the door. She didn’t ask me to wait outside, which worked for me as I didn’t want her out of my sight.

We were ushered inside by a fifty-something man with greying hair.

In the kitchen, his wife received us, her mouth pinched.

On the other side of the room, a man about my age played a videogame on a big-screen TV, a girl under his arm.

The mother asked him to put on headphones, but he tossed the controller, gave us a dirty look, and the two vanished upstairs.

They were the Marchant-Smythes, Mila had told me. Philip and Phylis. Freaking weird.

The husband and wife tag-teamed in persuading Mila they were hard up with the money no longer coming in from Marchant Haulage. Mila had only introduced me by my real first name and nothing more, and I peered around the place, not minding my own business.

Nice TV, everything clean. On the relatives’ countertop were packets of food from a high-end supermarket, presumably left out by the son making himself and his girl a snack.

It summoned the image of a home I’d once lived in, black mould growing in the corners of the rooms, the cupboards empty of food and my stomach twisted with hunger.

Like fuck were these people in real financial trouble.

Mila listened and reassured, but she cut them off after fifteen minutes and stood. “Like I said, I’m doing all I can. After the will reading, I’ll have more answers.”

The woman gripped the arms of her chair. “Your grandfather promised security. He died. And now we’re all paying the price. You don’t understand the stress me and Philip are under. Our worries for Presley. He’s our priority, and your grandfather left us high and dry.”

Mila’s mouth popped open.

“Show some respect,” I said for her as she didn’t seem able.

The woman pouted. “Or you could respect our suffering.”

Mila muttered another platitude then turned and left. Outside, she flung herself into the car.

I gunned the engine. “I take it none of them have jobs? Four adults in that huge house. The heating on in every room and their overgrown kid playing a subscription video game. They aren’t suffering. They’re just greedy and used to their slice of the pie being handed to them.”

If she agreed with me, she didn’t say.

I drove us on to the next, an elderly couple who needed carers so had reason to worry about their cashflow, but the last visit was more of the same. A family in a smart house with zero signs of true poverty. Mila’s expression got stonier the more they griped.

We set tracks for home.

“Maybe they were just the loudest people, rather than the neediest,” she murmured, half to herself.

This time, I didn’t give an opinion.

At the outskirts of Deadwater, she spoke. “Can we take a diversion? It isn’t far.”

I followed her directions to a country lane, gated driveways announcing a series of what had to be very large, very private properties.

“The next on the right,” she told me.

I pulled over at a pair of white stone gateposts. For a moment, Mila just stared at them then climbed from the car. At the intercom, she pressed a button.

Nothing happened.

Then she tapped in the code. The light turned red, the gates unmoving. She tried her phone next. No answer.

My heart ached at the slump in her shoulders.

“Your grandparents’ place,” I guessed.

Through the gates, I glimpsed a huge modern mansion down a tree-lined drive. Holy fuck, but these people were rich. If I thought the relatives lived in luxury, this took the biscuit, the cake, and the whole damn bakery.

The spiked fence protecting the property went deep into the woods, so I guessed security was high. Sure enough, cameras watched us from corners. If her grandmother was here, she didn’t want to see anyone.

Without another word, Mila sighed and returned to the car.

When we were back in the apartment, my phone dinged with another photo from Arran, along with an offer. The picture was of me and him, bloodied and shirtless, both grinning. We were in some kind of cellar, like we’d just come out of a fight.

I showed it to Mila. “As of tomorrow, we can spend more than two hours apart.”

Her gaze traced over the photo. “Suits me.”

Sadness hung over her like a grey cloud. I hated that I’d caused it.

“Arran offered to take me to the place we met, a fight club, to jog my memory and fill in some gaps. You can come, I’d like that, or he says Genevieve and Cassie would love to see you in Divide.”

“Option B. Don’t get lost on your trip.”

I watched her, my heart thumping. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

Mila gave a sorrowful shake of her head and returned to the desk where she’d been putting in long hours for people I was increasingly sure weren’t worth it.

“If I thought you were doing it genuinely, then perhaps, and if you were honest about all you’d done. But you aren’t and you haven’t been. I can’t reward control dressed up as care. You said you’d do anything to keep me. An apology would fall into that category, no?”

It would. Except this time, I didn’t want to lie.

As the evening went on, an overwhelming panic rose in me about separating from her. Leaving her and being over an hour away scared the fuck out of me. She’d told me not to get lost, but how would I find her again if she did? If someone grabbed her when I wasn’t there to protect her?

Mila wanted honesty from me, and if I gave it, I only had one chance of gaining forgiveness. That meant any further fuck-ups had to happen now.

I locked myself away in the bedroom and made a quick call. “Manny, you know we track phones, is there a way to track people?”

The chief of security chuckled. “Shade’s your man for that.”

I hung up and dialled the tattooed enforcer, asking the same question.

“You’ve been together for a week. How has it taken this long to ask?” he griped. “I’ll have someone bring you a delivery.”

An hour later, a text alerted me to go fetch said delivery from downstairs. I jogged back up and used the code Mila had given me to bypass her door security, 2566, and had the benefit of her stubbornness in not asking what I was up to, even if curiosity ticked over in her gaze.

Later in the night, in our darkened bedroom, after I’d fucked my lass into a heavy sleep, spending all her points for the day, I slipped into the bathroom with the small case I’d been sent and texted Shade to talk me through the process.

Shade: It’s already set up. Put it against a fleshy part of her skin and pull the trigger.

Shade: Arse is good.

Convict: Thanks, bro.

Shade: She might not like it once you tell her. Not all lasses do.

Convict: Asking for forgiveness is better than asking for permission, no?

Shade: You’re in deep, my friend.

He wasn’t wrong. Back in the bedroom, I discarded the phone and readied the gun.

Then I slowly inched down the blanket to reveal Mila’s perfect backside, her ugly pyjamas lost from when I’d fucked her earlier.

Ignoring my dick’s eager rise, I held my nerve, pressed the device to her skin, and shot the tracker into her with a low click.

She flinched. I buried the device under my pillow and spread her legs, kneeling between them then rubbing my dick up and down her centre. She relaxed with a sigh that I took to be a welcome.

Thank fuck that even with how she felt about me, we still had this.

Slowly, I pushed inside, breathing hard at my victory then grinning when her internal walls clamped down tight. Perhaps I was wrong in what I did, but if it kept her safe, I’d take her hatred over her getting hurt every time.

She was mine. I’d never lose her again.