Page 26 of Delta (Alpha #12)

R ush is…off. He's been off since we got to Lyon. I don't know what to make of it. The cocky, smirking, teasing, "love" this and "mate" that brash bad boy is gone. He's withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Dark and angry. Whatever happened in that bathroom was not good.

A venomous little serpent of suspicion wriggles in my belly—what if he's not who he says he is? What if there's something he's not telling me? What if…what if…what if?

I wonder a thousand things, ask a thousand what-ifs, worry about a thousand hypothetical scenarios as we walk the streets of Lyon.

I'd thought we would take a taxi, but Rush insisted on walking.

I only slept for an hour and a half at most, so I'm still physically exhausted.

Plus, I'm now deliciously sore down between my legs—the man is hung like a horse.

There is such a thing as too big of a dick, and his is just barely this side of that line.

Any thicker and it'd probably hurt in a not good way.

As it is, he pounded me into next week, so yeah, I'm walking a little funny.

No regrets, but I'm gonna need a day or so to recover before I ride that train to Poundtown again.

For some reason, I hear Corinna's voice in my head: Brynnie-baby, are you in a dick-haze? Because in your situation, you can't afford to let yourself get lost in the cock, no matter how good the fucking is. You gotta be thinking clearly.

You don't know how good the fucking is, I tell Corinna's voice in my head.

It's world-class. Top work, as Rush would put it.

And his cunnilingus game? Stellar. A-plus.

Ten stars out of five. The sex is so fucking amazing I had to bring my A-game.

And not to toot my own horn, but I like to think my A-game is pretty damn good.

That BJ I gave him in the bathroom? Might be my best effort to date.

So yeah, I might just be a little cock-lost. You would be, too.

I mean, for fuck's sake, look at you, Rin. You and Apollo got it on like Donkey Kong all over the world, and the man fucking KIDNAPPED you and held you hostage in his own personal fucking castle like some demented, horny version of Beauty and the Beast. So bitch, you can miss me with the dick-haze warning. My eyes are open. This is just good sex—okay, GREAT sex, the best, the most amazing sex I’ve ever had—with a sinfully, wickedly hot man who just happens to be helping me escape sex traffickers.

It's a situation of opportunity. You would, and did, do the same.

Of course, you fell in love with your captor, you Stockholm Syndrome-having slag.

I'm not falling in love with Rush. I mean sure, I'd kill to have a week alone with him in a hotel with nothing but room service and a lot of good, hard fucking.

That's not love, though. That's lust. I'm a lusty gal, and I'll take all the world-class sex I can get.

I end my mental diatribe with an internal sigh as I take in my changing surroundings.

This area of Lyon is upscale. The buildings are all those fancy French ones that you see all over Paris. Fancy hotels. Fancy coffee shops, fancy restaurants.

I point at one of the buildings in question. "Is there a word for that style of building?" I ask Rush.

"Haussmann, I think." His response is absent-minded, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Well that was a dead-end conversational gambit. He's not holding my hand like he did the whole time we've been together. Not looking at me. Responding in as few words as possible. His hands are fisted in his leather jacket pockets, jaw clenched and hard.

We're stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for traffic to clear. I grab his arm, turn him to face me. "Rush."

He jerks his arm free. "What?"

"What did I do?" I ask.

He frowns. "Do?"

"I clearly pissed you off, somehow. You've barely said two words to me since we left the hotel." I hate how needy I sound, how desperate for his approval.

He sighs, scrubbing his face. "It's not you, Bryn. I promise. You've done nothing wrong. I just…" He trails off, shaking his head. "It's not you."

"Feels like it's me."

“It's not." He starts across the intersection without a glance either way, boldly ignoring the blaring horns and screeching tires.

I follow after him at a trot until I catch up. I want to cut through his taciturn armor, find something pithy, witty, or helpful to say. But I can't think of anything, and one look at the storm cloud that is Rush's expression deters me from trying.

So we walk in silence.

We turn this way, walk a few blocks, turn that way, walk a few blocks. He doesn't watch for tails. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was walking to his own gallows.

After thirty minutes of trudging through Lyon's wealthiest arrondissement, Rush stops in front of a gate.

It's huge, a ten-foot arch of wrought iron.

An eight-foot-high wall of aged white-gray stone blocks stretches in both directions for a full city block.

On the other side of the gate, the driveway is red cobblestones older than the US government.

Shrubs line the driveway, carved into perfect rectangles.

The driveway curves, obscuring any view of the house.

For a long moment, Rush just stands at the gate, hands in his jacket pockets, staring at the intercom and keypad box as if he's waiting for it to strike him like a cobra.

"Rush?" I ask. "Are we…going in? Or…?"

He swallows hard. Nods once. "Yeah. We're going in." His voice is a hoarse whisper.

"You're worrying me a little," I murmur.

He turns his head to stare at me, his eyes a darker gray-brown than I've seen them yet. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and he clicks his jaw closed, shaking his head.

That serpent of suspicion is writhing in my guts, now. Something is wrong—very, very wrong.

For a moment, I'm tempted to just run. But…where would I go? Who would I turn to? How would I get home? How would I escape the traffickers who seem able to find me no matter where I go or how I get there?

No. For better or worse, I've tied my fate to Rush. Maybe I'm a fool, but I see good in him, no matter what he may say. I feel a little like Luke Skywalker, thinking that: I see good in you, the innocent farm boy said to the powerful villain.

Rush jabs the buttons of the keypad with a thumb, each stab staccato, angry. There's a buzz, and the gate ghosts open on silent hinges. I hesitate, and then follow his lithe, furious predator's gait down the winding cobblestone path. I turn back to see the gates swing closed, clanging ominously.

Rush notices my absence, follows my gaze to the closed gates. "No turning back now, Beautiful Bryn."

I don't like how he said that. "Rush? What are you not saying? Something is wrong. I know there is. Just tell me what it is. Please."

He just shakes his head. "It's too late." He holds out his hand to me. "Come on, now, love. Let's get this over with.”

“Too late? Rush, I really don't like the sound of that."

His gaze is dark, baleful, tragic. "Now you notice, do you? I told you, sweetheart. I’ve a black, rotten soul. I hope you understand that I've no liking for what I'm doing. It's just that I’ve no choice. Now come on. No point in delaying the inevitable."

When I don't move, he crosses the space between us in a few short, furious strides, grabs my wrist in a biting, painful grip, and drags me into a fast walk.

"Rush—stop!"

"No stopping it now, I'm afraid."

He hauls me at a trot around a curve, and the hedgerow opens up into an expansive, verdant, manicured lawn.

The ochre cobblestones give way to raked white gravel in a circle around a marble fountain.

The house facing me is a stunning display of French palatial architecture, with gables and peaks and turrets, stained glass and gargoyles, tiny balconettes and soaring rooflines.

Roaring stone gargoyles flank flagstone steps leading up to a wide front porch covered by a two-story portico.

Men wearing black suits, mirrored sunglasses, and earpieces stand guard on either side of the staggeringly enormous main doors, which had to have come from a medieval castle, being black with age, wrapped with black iron straps and fist-sized studded bolts. The men wield Steyr-Aug assault rifles.

Um. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

This is bad.

I halt at the bottom of the steps, yanking against Rush's implacable hold. "I…I don't like this."

"You're gonna like what's next even less, I'm afraid." He jerks hard, tripping me up the stairs.

"Rush…" I whisper, fighting tears of fear and confusion. "What's going on?"

He ignores my question, hauling me to the doors.

The guards ignore him as he shoves open the fifteen-foot-tall doors, which may well be a thousand years old.

Beyond, the floor is a black-and-white checkerboard.

A heavy round table is centered beneath a candle chandelier that looks every bit as authentically ancient as the doors…

and the suits of armor that flank the curved staircase…

and the vases on pedestals covered by thick glass cloches.

There's not a sound…until the heavy doors slam closed with a shuddering echo that shivers down my spine with an awful finality.

"Rush? Where are we?"

“The belly of the beast," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, scratchy and ragged and freighted with darkness. “The mouth of hell. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

That sounds really fucking bad.

Footsteps echo, growing closer. A trim, thin man with white hair slicked back approaches us—he's wearing a tuxedo, an earpiece wire trailing down behind his left ear. “Welcome, Rush and… guest ." His voice is crisp, arch, and faintly French-accented. "Monsieur Pugli will be with you in a moment."

"Pugli?" I repeat. "I've heard that name."

Rush doesn't move. Doesn't speak. I don't think he's even breathing. There's more life in the suits of armor on the wall.