Page 19

As soon as I set foot in the living room, I can smell the food.

My brain—which has been programmed to refuse meals during my recent captivity for fear of being drugged—rebels at the idea of eating.

My stomach, on the other hand, takes this opportunity to growl in a way that isn’t befitting a proper Southern lady.

Oh well.

Propriety could shove it.

No one had ever mistaken me for a lady before, so the monster that seems trapped in my stomach, currently demanding sustenance, is fitting.

When I don’t immediately see Deacon in the living room, I’m grateful and take a minute to compose myself.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and remind myself for the thousandth time that I’m no longer trapped in that room.

The conditioning is hard to break, though.

I know there’s bound to be an adjustment period.

There definitely was the last time.

I also know that I’m going to have some long-term mental damage from what happened.

Hell, I was still having nightmares off and on, even up to the point that Dante’s men snatched me out of my own bed.

Thanks to intense therapy and several helpful little pills, I usually went long periods without dreaming about what had happened to me before, but every time I thought I’d finally outrun my demons, they’d find a way to sneak up on me again.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I’m worried that having lived through the ninth circle of Hell … for the second time, where the Devil reigned supreme, I might be royally fucked up beyond repair.

No.

I give my head a small but firm shake, face scrunching in irritation.

No.

I won’t let this break me.

I survived for a reason.

I have to believe that.

Fate wouldn’t let me escape twice just so I could be miserable for the rest of my life.

I, Siren Sinclair, won’t let that motherfucker break me.

The last time was different.

I was young, insecure, and had no one.

This time, I’m older, wiser, and have friends that actually give a shit about what happens to me.

Even if some of them do so grudgingly.

I release a little snort because I know Deacon is just as uncomfortable with me being here as I am.

It was clear from the moment I set foot inside, his furnishings and decor showed that this isn’t just a house to him.

I remember the picture of the smiling woman who had just been casually sitting on an end table.

I didn’t need his confirmation to know that it was his mother.

He looked just like her, except for the eyes.

Remembering how strategically that and dozens of other pictures, nick-nacks, and books were placed, I can tell that this is home .

And he clearly doesn’t get many visitors here; that much is obvious, too.

The man just … hovers; It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, having someone else in his space.

I can only hope that I’m able to get out of here sooner rather than later.

Before he either pesters me to death or I murder him.

Taking one last big inhale, I open my eyes, only to find Deacon standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, watching me.

He really needs to cut that shit out.

How long has he been standing there? He leans against the door jam, head cocked slightly to the side, kind of like a dog when you blow a whistle, and they can’t seem to figure out where the noise is coming from.

I can’t stop the second snort from escaping, even after putting my hand over my mouth.

The fact that I can find humor in any situation after what I’ve just lived through is astonishing.

I guess I could put some stock into that whole “mind over matter”

thing.

Deacon’s eyes narrow slightly at my sudden channeling of the bovine variety.

Biting my bottom lip, I have to try really hard not to laugh in his face.

I’m sure between that and my random sound effects from a minute ago, I look like a total basket case, which, to be fair, I am.

If he hasn’t figured that out already, he will soon enough.

“What’s so funny?”

he asks, suspicion lacing his tone.

I think about it for a second.

“Do you own a dog?”

Suspicion turns to confusion, and now he really is looking at me like I’m a basket case.

“Uhhh … no. Why?”

He says the last word as if he’s almost afraid to ask.

I can’t really blame him.

“No reason.

Just wondering.

Seems like you’d do well with a dog.

Have a lot in common,”

I say, trying desperately to hide the snicker in my voice.

I bite my lower lip between my teeth again as he studies me, expression back to one of suspicion.

“Your Spaghetti-O’s are ready.

Hope you don’t mind eating out of the can.

I can’t get bowls down from the cabinet with my paws,”

he says, sarcasm coming through loud and clear.

Ok, I probably deserved that.

Even though he didn’t get the full extent of my joke, he obviously got enough to be annoyed with me.

What else is new?

“Can’t wait,”

I reply in a deadpan voice before gesturing towards the kitchen.

“Lead the way. ”

Rolling his eyes, he turns on his heel, disappearing into the kitchen again.

I follow behind slowly, my brain and stomach still waging battle over whether I’ll eat and, more importantly, if I'll even be able to keep it down or end up throwing it all back up.

I mean, I’ve always taken great pride in the fact that I don’t have a gag reflex.

In fact, at one time, I considered putting it on my resume.

I may have to, actually.

Who knows if I’ll still have a job after all this? I was one of the symphony’s biggest draws, but I have no doubt that they’ve most likely sacked me by now.

You can’t just not show up to work for weeks and expect to still hold a spot with such a prestigious company.

As I step into the kitchen, the scents from before become exponentially stronger … and they’re definitely not from Spaghetti-O’s.

Intrigued, I walk over to the stove to see a pot of chili simmering on one of the large burners and a cast iron skillet of cornbread sitting on the counter next to it.

Eyes narrowing, I slowly turn back to Deacon, who’s standing next to a small kitchen table that’s been set with … two disposable bowls and plastic cutlery.

I wanna smile, but considering my default is bitchy chic, I can’t help the smartass comment that exits my mouth.

“Were you out of clean dishes, or did your last fling just break them all when you didn’t offer to make her breakfast the morning after?”

He opens his mouth, probably to tell me to get fucked, but closes it again without speaking.

Shutting his eyes, he takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose before exhaling heavily, as if I’m tight-roping the line of his last nerve.

When he finally opens them, I’m struck again by just how blue his eyes are, especially this close up.

I think I’d prefer them not to be spitting fire at me but I was born and raised in the South.

I know how to handle my heat.

In a low tone, he surprises me by saying, “I’ve never brought another woman here before.”

The more I think about it, the quicker my surprise dissipates.

It makes sense.

Deacon is a hit-it-and-quit-it kinda guy, and this is obviously his sanctuary.

I have a feeling that not many people, even outside of women, have been in this house.

Given his very illegal extracurricular activities, it’s no wonder he prefers to stay off the grid.

Also explains the heightened level of security.

Doesn’t he get lonely out here in the swamps all alone? I briefly entertain the thought of asking him precisely that but then discard the idea, mostly because I wouldn’t wanna answer that question myself, should anyone ask.

Not that anyone besides Amelia has ever cared enough to ask.

I’m not really the type of girl that stays on anyone’s mind for very long.

Deacon’s the hit-it-and-quit-it type, and I’m just the type of girl he’d quit.

Correction, has quit.

Not that I’m bitter about it.

I mean, how can I be when I’m technically the one that snuck out first? Hurt them before they can hurt you, right? I ignore the little voice in my head that’s asking me how the weather is in Delululand.

Pipe down bitch; nobody asked for your input.

When I finally reply, there’s no heat behind my words.

Maybe it’s because of what he said or maybe it’s the way he said it.

Almost as though the words were part of a confession being pulled from him.

Regardless, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and now that I’ve showered and changed, the hunger pangs have returned with a vengeance.

Glancing back to the stove, I wonder briefly why Deacon cooked instead of actually making me eat something from a can, Spaghetti-O’s or otherwise.

I highly doubt it was to impress me.

I mean, he’s already gotten into my pants so what would be the point? Even though I feel like I made him work for it, to him, I was probably a sure thing.

I guess he was right.

And now that he’s gotten what he wants from me, is there any point in pretending to be a gentleman? I don’t spend too long on that train of thought, though, or I’ll end up having to deep dive into why he came to rescue me in the first place.

I know he put himself in serious danger getting me out of that house.

It’s anyone’s guess as to his true motives.

Maybe some misguided sense of obligation? Maybe Merrick asked him to? Who knows.

I’ll have to think more about this later.

Right now, that chili is calling my name.

I stand there awkwardly.

“So … should I serve myself or …?”

I watch his right eyebrow quirk a second before he says, “Of course not, madame.

Let me get that for you.”

He jumps to attention in such an exaggerated fashion that he wouldn’t be out of place on an episode of the Three Stooges.

Yet, even though he’s clearly being a smartass, he picks up both bowls from the table, taking them to the stove nonetheless.

Scooping heaping spoonfuls into each bowl, he cuts a large wedge of cornbread for each of us, sitting it on top of the chili.

As he makes his way back to the table, he walks so slowly that I have to suppress another snort.

I’ve really gotta stop doing that.

Clearly afraid he’s going to drop the food, he takes his time sitting the bowls down before taking a seat himself.

Sitting at a table, just the two of us, is weird.

He doesn’t seem to think so, though, because before I can even ask him if he says grace, he’s picked up his spoon and is shoveling a bite into his mouth.

I notice something strange as I sit and glance from his heaping bowl to mine.

Both bowls have the exact same amount of food in them.

I would’ve expected to have a portion about half the size of his, which is what I’m usually served whenever I eat a meal with someone other than Amelia.

It’s been that way since I was a child.

When they were there, my parents instructed the staff to give me a fraction of the food that they ate.

Even by normal standards, the portions I was given were small for a growing child.

I knew, even at that young age, that it was because they thought I was too fat.

I knew because they told me so, not in a direct way but in every other way that mattered.

Buying my clothes two sizes too big so they’d fit loosely, telling the cook that I didn’t need dessert, comments about how I’d never win any beauty pageants if I couldn’t make it through the swimsuit round.

Hell, they even gave me Weight Watchers snack cakes for Christmas one year.

The memories used to make me angry, but now I just feel numb.

Even though I’ve gone my entire life feeling significantly less than perfect, I thank my lucky stars that I never developed some type of eating disorder.

I knew firsthand what drove people to that extreme, but I guess I always balanced right on the edge of that line without tipping over.

I’ve always hated looking at myself in the mirror, though.

Unless absolutely necessary for hair or makeup purposes before a concert, I’d avoid it if I could.

I didn’t need the constant reminder of why I was never good enough for anyone to wanna keep me.

Well, unless you counted an abusive and oppressive psychopath with a fated mate complex.

It takes Deacon five bites of chili before he notices I haven’t even picked up my spoon.

Swallowing a mouthful, he looks from me to the food before asking, “Why aren’t you eating?”

“You gave me too much food,”

I say.

I expect the words to come out in my usual haughty tone, but instead, they sound small, even to my ears .

He looks at me for several seconds, eyes roaming over my face as though he’s trying to catalog every twitch and tick, making mental notes so that he can attribute them to some specific emotion later.

“I gave us both the same amount,”

he replies, his nonchalant tone is a direct contrast to the way he’s watching my face.

“I can’t eat all this,”

I say.

I watch his jaw flex as he appears to be weighing his words carefully, though I’m unsure why.

That annoying little voice in my head pipes up again, spewing all kinds of insecure thoughts.

Why is he staring so much? Does he think I need this much food because of my size? Is he gonna watch me eat the entire time? These are all thoughts I’ve heard before, so I squash the voice before it has me squirming in my seat uncomfortably.

I prefer to do my self loathing in private, thank you very much.

When he finally speaks again, his words give me pause.

“Can’t … or won’t?”

Pulling a face like someone’s stuck something particularly smelly under my nose, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He slowly shakes his head, finally taking his eyes off my face to focus back on his own bowl.

“Nothing.

You don’t have to finish it.

Just eat until you get full.”

He eats another bite or two, then stands.

“Where are you going?”

I ask before I can stop myself.

Why do I care where he’s going? I should be happy that he’s leaving me to eat in peace.

“I’ve got some work to do in my office.

There’s a spare room down the hall, but I mostly use it for storage, so you’ll have to take my bed.

It’s the room next door to the bathroom you used earlier.

I’ll sleep on the couch.

I’ve already called Merrick to let him and Amelia know that you’re here but if you wanna call her, use one of the burner phones in there.”

He indicates the drawer next to the fridge.

And with that, he tosses the remnants of his dinner in the trashcan near the back door before disappearing through a doorway I assumed was the laundry room.

I listen carefully for the opening and closing of another door, but I don’t hear anything.

Weird.

I stand up from my chair, tiptoeing across the kitchen to stick my head around the corner.

It is indeed a laundry room, but on the other side is a wall that looks innocuous enough until I take stock of the security panel off to the left.

I don’t even wanna know what’s in that “office.”

Taking the reprieve for what it is, I sit back down at the table, pick up my spoon, and take a bite of the still-warm chili.

My stomach immediately rebels.

Not because it’s bad.

It’s good, actually.

It’s not Michelin Star good, but it’s much more than I expected from someone who probably survives on gas station chips and Little Debbie snacks.

After the initial wave of nausea, where I’m sure my stomach is wondering if this is some kind of trick, my hunger returns in full force.

Practically shoveling the food into my mouth, I finish about half the bowl before I force myself to stop.

Could I eat more? Sure.

Do I need it? No.

I also didn’t wanna make myself throw up after only the few sparse meals I was made to ingest during my captivity.

As much as it pains me to waste food, I make myself get up and throw the remaining chili in the same trashcan Deacon used before.

Eager to hear my best friend’s voice after all these weeks, I pull out the drawer beside the fridge and grab one of the many cell phones.

It takes me about five minutes of staring off into space before I can remember Amelia’s number.

I don’t think I’ve memorized a phone number since the early 2000’s.

They’re all just stored in my cell phone contacts.

One of the curses of technology, I guess.

Praying that I’ve dialed the right person, I tap my foot while I listen to the ringing on the other end.

“Hello?”

The voice is soft and a little muffled, and it’s only now that I realize how late it is, and I berate myself for not waiting until morning to call.

I’ve forgotten that Amelia is married with a baby on the way.

She’s probably exhausted and was trying to sleep.

Even so, just the sound of her voice has a lump forming in the back of my throat.

My mind immediately jumps back to another night, not unlike this one, and a phone call, also not unlike this one.

Nearly three years have passed, but I’m still in the same place I was before.

Battered and bruised, calling my best friend in the middle of the night after narrowly escaping death.

I guess I should just be thankful that she doesn’t need to come save me this time.

“Hey, bitch.”

I say, my voice barely more than a whisper as I try not to burst into tears.

I don’t know why I’m so emotional.

It’s not like me to be sappy, but try telling that to my stupid chest.

The one that feels like it’s going to burst from the pressure of holding back the sobs that want so desperately to climb their way up my throat.

There’s a loud rustling sound, and a groggy male voice comes through the speaker.

“Wh … what happened?! What’s wrong? Is it the baby?? Oh, fuck! What should I do?! Okay, okay, okay, it’s fine.

Everything’s fine.”

I can’t help but smile.

Based on the level of freak-out in Merrick’s voice, I don’t think everything is fine.

I hear Amelia shush him twice before her voice comes through the line again.

“Siren?? Is that you? Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

The concern and relief in her voice are palpable, and for probably the millionth time during our long friendship, I’m thankful that I have at least one person who’s stood by me, even though I know I drive her absolutely insane.

“Calm down, woman, before you send yourself into preterm labor and give your husband a heart attack.

The hospital isn’t running a two-for-one special tonight.

Yes, it’s me. I’m …”

I trail off just before saying the word fine.

I’m not fine.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be fine again, but I don’t have it in me to explain why right now.

Instead, I say, “...

alive.

I’m alive.

I’m with Deacon, but I guess you knew that already.”

“You sound so tired.

Do you wanna tell me what happened? Where did you go? Did someone take you? Deacon told us he’d found you but didn’t give much more detail than that.”

“It’s … a long story.

I’ll explain when I see you.

For now, I guess I traded a gilded cage for one made of rickety wood surrounded by swamp.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, but I just needed to hear your voice and let you know that I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

When she speaks again, I can hear the tears in her voice.

They nearly trigger my own, and I have to suck my bottom lip into my mouth to keep it from quivering.

“I’ve missed you so much.

I don’t know what happened, but I do know that Deacon will keep you safe.

He spent a lot of time looking for you when you were missing.

You can trust him.”

Did he? Taken aback, I don’t answer right away.

Again, I’m hit with an endless barrage of questions, each one more confusing than the last.

I know Deacon and Merrick are best friends, but can I really trust him? I’ve trusted men before, and look where it got me.

I’m not sure I have it in me to hand that kind of power over to another man.

Not when there’s the possibility of him taking it only to twist and mutilate it before throwing it in my face.

Sighing heavily, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.

Get some sleep, babe.

I’ll call again tomorrow at a more decent hour.”

She seems reluctant to go but eventually relents.

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up the phone and pocket it.

I don’t think Deacon would completely cut me off from the outside world, but I’m not gonna chance it.

Going over to the stove, I put the lid sitting next to it on the pot of chili before rummaging through the cabinets to find a tupperware container for the cornbread.

Most of the cabinets are empty, lending further credence to the idea that Deacon doesn’t usually cook, not even for himself.

There are a few odd things in both the cabinets and the fridge, but not much.

Hopefully, I’ll either be able to go home soon, or he has some kind of plan to go shopping.

I stick the pot and plastic container in the fridge before giving the wall on the opposite side of the laundry room one last glance.

It remains stationary, and no sound emits from behind it.

My curiosity is piqued, but with the way he abruptly left the kitchen, I don’t think he’d welcome me knocking to see what’s on the other side.

Turning off the kitchen light on my way out, I make my way down the hall to the door Deacon indicated was his bedroom.

I’m almost afraid to see what’s behind this door, too, but in this case, my curiosity overrides my hesitation.

I open the door slowly to find a bedroom that’s significantly larger than I expected, given the house’s exterior appearance.

Hardwood floors run the length of the room, which houses a large four-poster bed against one wall, while a flat-screen TV and entertainment center sit opposite.

The furniture is definitely masculine, but, just like the living room, there are small touches here and there that prove this isn’t just a place where Deacon comes to get a few hours of sleep.

As I step further into the room, I quickly close and lock the door behind me.

Old habits are hard to break, I guess.

Moving around, I slowly take stock of the finer details.

When I reach the entertainment center, I don’t know why, but I expect it to be full of something ridiculous, like porn DVD’s.

Instead, what I find has a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

There are several gaming consoles, along with a shit ton of video games, of course.

There are DVD’s, however, the majority of them are rom-coms.

Cocking my head to the side, I study the titles.

Many of my favorites are here, but I don’t think that was done by design.

I’m more inclined to believe that he actually likes these films, which is surprising.

Maybe he isn’t quite as one-dimensional as he leads people to believe.

Storing that away with the rest of the information I’ve gathered today that I don’t fully understand, I’m suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion that has me dragging my feet toward the bed without even going to inspect the doors across the room that I suspect belong to a closet.

I’ll check it out tomorrow.

Making my way to the bed, I pause when I pass a free-standing full-length mirror, similar to the one in the bathroom I used earlier.

Normally, I’d avert my gaze and walk on by; however, this time, I stop.

I turn to face the mirror head-on, staring at my own reflection.

A flash of Deacon’s face over the kitchen table and how he looked at me flits through my mind.

He’d seemed almost … angry when I made the comment about having too much food.

For a brief moment, I wonder if he thought I was giving him some bullshit excuse because I didn’t wanna eat his cooking.

Sounds plausible enough, but that explanation falls flat, even in my own mind.

Suspicion shone from his eyes as if he could see straight through my feeble excuse.

If eyes are the windows to the soul, Deacon’s living in a glass house.

I’m not sure how he’s built a career as a fence, where bluffing is a trick of the trade, with eyes like that.

As I look at myself in the mirror, I study my reflection critically, the same as I’ve done on countless other occasions.

Glancing back at the closed door, I impulsively bend at the waist, dragging the loose fitting sweats down my legs before gripping the hem of the oversized t-shirt, stripping it off.

Staring at myself, I slowly smooth my hands down my stomach and sides before doing the same to my hips.

My belly isn’t flat, nor are the areas at my sides.

My hips are wide and my thighs press together, no distinct V in sight.

I’m hit with another blow to my self-confidence when I realize that I’m probably about 20 pounds lighter than I was before I was taken.

Turning this way and that, I inspect every inch of skin I can see.

My ass is pert but definitely too big.

Pinching the extra bit of flesh surrounding the area where my nonexistent abs are, I promise myself that if I make it out of this house without either killing Deacon or myself, I’m gonna finally sign up for a gym membership.

It’s a promise I’ve made myself before but never kept.

Maybe this second near-death experience will be enough to finally force me to make some changes in my life.

The first of which will be my appearance.

Despite my distrust of the entire male population at the moment, I don’t wanna die alone.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to know what that actually feels like, and nobody is gonna love me the way I am now.

I can’t even blame them.

How can I expect someone to truly love me when I can’t even love myself?

With that thought, I drop my hands to my sides and turn away from the mirror, not even bothering to put my clothes back on.

I never could sleep comfortably unless I were naked.

Chalk it up to years of everything you wore feeling too tight.

Practically staggering to the large bed, I pull back the thick comforter and crawl in.

As I lay my head on the pillow, I’m enveloped by a distinctly masculine scent, and breathing it in, I feel all the tension that’s been building within me for weeks, finally starting to release.

It smells like the sun and the sea but is also earthy, like moss.

It smells like Deacon.

A burst of heat shoots through me, but it isn’t just the heat that accompanies arousal, though that’s definitely present.

How it’s possible to feel anything even remotely sexual after the ordeal I’ve been through, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s the familiarity of Deacon.

Of his scent, the protective instincts I didn’t know were there, or the way his blue eyes look at me like I’m not severely flawed.

That warm feeling courses through me, and I realize that it’s not just sexual attraction but comfort, a comfortability that puts my fight-or-flight instincts at ease.

Not an easy feat with someone like me.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I sink deeper into the blankets, turning on my side to press my nose into the pillow.

As my eyelids grow heavy, the scent of Deacon surrounds me, and I finally drift off into a dreamless oblivion.