Page 48 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

The room is pitch black when I wake up. I blink and then blink again, trying to make out shapes in the dark.

Usually, after I've been asleep, my eyes are adjusted enough to see the dresser on the far wall, the darker rectangle that is the entrance to the en suite.

Then I remember. I'm in my old bedroom. But I don't recall it being this dark when I went to sleep.

Trying to penetrate the stygian darkness, I turn my head and that's when I feel the constriction. I'm wearing a sleep mask. That's right.

I put it on in an effort to finally get to sleep. I don't take sleeping pills. Ever.

I lift my hand to take the mask off, but instead of free movement, I feel a tug against my other wrist.

There are cuffs on my wrists. The wide leather kind with a silk padded lining like the ones Mick uses on me when we get kinky between the sheets.

Panic should be my first reaction, right? But it's not. Arousal hits me right between my legs, making my thighs clench.

Ignoring the sensation, I try to sit up. That's when I realize my ankles are cuffed together too.

That's not what Mick usually does. He likes my legs free, so he can position me the way he wants me.

"Mick?" My voice only tremors slightly with the realization that this situation may not be down to my husband's doing.

My brain races with ways to get out of this.

A familiar hand presses against the side of my neck. "Don't freak out, mo chuisle , it's me."

One of his arms slides behind my back and then his other one underneath my knees, and he lifts me from the bed.

I reach up with my bound hands and rip the sleep mask from my face. My eyes are adjusted to the dark, but I still don’t see much.

The outline of Mick’s shoulders and head is visible because he’s so close. Everything else is indecipherable because the room is darker than normal.

There's something over the window covering where cracks of light would usually slip through. The only light, as little as it is, comes from the soft glow of the nightlight through the cracked door to the en suite.

"What did you put over the window?" That's not what I really need to know right now but it's a start.

He takes a step away from the bed with all the confidence of a man wearing night vision goggles in a completely dark environment. Only there are no telltale lumps on his face.

The surety of movement is 100% my husband.

He shifts me against his chest and warmth tingles through me from where my arm brushes against his cotton covered pecs. "I closed the safety shutters."

Every room has them for security, but the walls won’t withstand repeated firing, hence the multiple safe rooms in the mansion.

Because the mob isn’t just a business like my father wants to pretend. It’s an army and my family has many enemies with armies of their own.

"I slept through that?" The shutters aren’t loud, but they aren’t silent either.

"You slept through me putting restraints on you," he says in a flat tone. "I thought you would wake up."

"You sound disappointed." Which is a lie because there’s no emotion in his voice at all.

"Why would I be?" His head comes down toward me and I'm sure he's going to kiss me, but he just inhales. "It made the first part of my plan easier to execute."

"Sometimes you sound more like a robot than a man." That’s not something I would have said to Mick before.

I always pretended I didn't notice when he withdrew into an emotionless shell. That was my job, right? To be a good little mob princess and pretend everything was fine.

Even when it wasn't.

But I'm done pretending. My brain to mouth filter with him is as broken as our marriage.

"Why close the safety shutters? Are we under attack? Where's Fitz?" I demand frantically.

I don't know why Mick would feel the need to bind my wrists and ankles to take me to the safe room though.

"No."

Before the relief even has a chance to register, he adds, "I closed the shutters so you couldn’t go to the window and draw attention by banging on it."

Fear slithers down my spine. Why would I need to try to get help?

Mick said in Brogan's office there would be no divorce. Does he plan to kill me?

I curl my fingers into fists and bring my bound hands up in an arc, hitting the side of his face as hard as I can, throwing myself backward as he grunts from the impact.

Landing hard, pain radiates through my body on the side of impact.

Mick curses. "Feckin' hell, Kara. You are going to hurt yourself."

"Better than letting you hurt me!" I try to put distance between us, but it's nearly impossible when I have to move like an inch-worm.

Mick swoops down and picks me up again, clamping my arms against my body. "You're going to have bruises tomorrow. Don't do that again."

"Bruises are better than dead."

The sound that comes out of his throat is pure animalistic aggression.

And my stupid body doesn't go into fight or flight mode. It goes into let's-get-ready-for-sex mode. My vaginal walls contract and the juncture of my thighs gets slick with arousal.

"You are not dying!" His voice doesn't sound robotic now. It's rough with fury. "And you are not getting a divorce."

"That's not your decision to make." I try to struggle.

His hold only clamps tighter. "Calm down. You know I won't hurt you, but you are feckin' going to hurt yourself if you keep this up."

"You already have."

He sighs. "Not like that. It is inevitable that a man like me would cause emotional pain for a woman with such a tender heart."

"What are you talking about?" A man like him? A mobster?

Maybe he's right. But then again, maybe he's not. Róise's mafioso doesn't hurt her like Mick hurts me.

But he loves her.

Even though their engagement started out the same way as Mick's and mine, there is no question that Miceli loves my cousin. Or that she loves him.

I'm happy for her, but their relationship has put marriage into perspective for me.

Mick doesn’t love me and love on only one side only leads to pain.

"I have kept my monster locked inside, so you would not be afraid of me."

It takes me a second to parse what he's saying. But when I do, it doesn’t make sense. What monster?

He sets me down on the bed again and turns on the light.

He's wearing snug fitting cargo pants, a black tactical t-shirt and boots.

He's armed. Overtly. A shoulder holster with a semiautomatic and another holster at the small of his back. I'm sure he's wearing his usual knives too.

I swallow, pressing my thighs together.

The fact he's prepared for battle should not send touch-me-now signals to my traitorous body.

Mick settles beside me and traces the lace edging on the neckline of my nightgown. "I like this."

My nipples go tight and hard from that single touch. It's all I can do not to scream my frustration.

How can such a small connection have such a big effect on me? But it's always been this way.

Divorce isn't going to change that.

"I got it to wear on our anniversary," I say punitively.

It's not sheer, or overtly sensual, but the slip style stretchy nightgown that barely reaches midthigh adheres to my plus size curves. The spaghetti straps and sweetheart neckline reveal a lot of skin.

It's my kind of sexy.

It's also comfortable.

I wore it tonight as a reminder of why I'm back in my old bedroom. Mick missed our anniversary because mob business came first.

Again.

Just like it did this morning with Dierdre.

My husband's thumb slides over my turgid peak and I give an involuntary shudder of delight. That only makes me mad.

"What do you think you're doing? We're not having sex, Mick." The pulse of want in my core says, wanna bet ? But I ignore it. "We're getting a divorce."

"Wrong on both counts." Mick's hand slides down my side and along my hip to curve possessively over my backside.

"Stop it," I say as much to him as my own body bent on betraying my conviction to stay aloof. "You're not going to force me."

Ours may not be the love of the century, but one thing I know with absolute certainty: Mick will never harm me physically.

Not in any way, but especially not that way.

Regardless of my aberrant thoughts of a moment ago.

"To have sex? No." His handsome features don't register any emotion, but there's no mistaking the repugnance in his voice at the thought.

"You need to take the cuffs—"

"To leave with me?" He asks, interrupting my demand. "Yes."

Wait. What? Is he saying what I think he is? He is going to force me to leave with him? "You're taking me back to our apartment?"

Binding my wrists and ankles feels pretty elaborate just to get me to another wing of the mansion.

"No."

Well, that was helpful. Not. "Then where?"

"Somewhere we can talk things out."

Talk things out? "Since when do you want to talk things out?"

"Since you asked your father for permission to divorce me," he says like it should be obvious.

It's not. Not even a little. "But you don't care if we get divorced. It won't stop you inheriting control of the Shaughnessy mob when Brogan retires."

"Wrong." He doesn’t say again but I hear it in the silence between us.

"I don't know where you think you're taking me, but we're past hashing things out to fix our marriage." It hurts to say the words.

But his reaction to my altercation with Dierdre today showed me just how little I matter to Mick.

"I don't agree."

"And because you don't agree, you're going to kidnap me?" I ask sarcastically.

"Aye." No humor there. Just pure Neanderthal mob underboss intent.

With a longing look at my breasts, he stands up, leaving me sitting against the pillows on the bed, my extremities still bound.

Mick looks around the room. "Where is your duffel?"

"In the closet." It won't help him make a quick and easy abduction. "I unpacked earlier."

His jaw goes taut and he heads into the closet.

Knowing I have maybe a minute, or two, while he packs my stuff, I quickly bend forward and try to find a release on the ankle cuffs.

If I can get them undone, I can run.