Page 66 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Forty-Five

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T he gavel comes down with a crack that rings through the courtroom, and I can’t help smiling as Desmond Bane’s face twists with rage. Twelve years, with the possibility of parole after eight. The judge’s words still echo in my ears when Ruby squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” she whispers, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Six months have passed since the FBI caught Bane and his goons before they could reach our house in Connecticut. Six months of actually living instead of just surviving. Six months of figuring out who the hell I am when I’m not being controlled by my father or drugged out of my mind.

I glance over at Liam, who hasn’t moved a muscle since the verdict came down.

His face is a mask, but I know that look by now—he’s still running the numbers, still wondering if letting the legal system deal with Bane had really been the right call.

Still thinking about how close he came to handling it his way.

When the courtroom starts to empty, he turns to me. “You okay?”

“Me? I’m better than okay. Are you?”

His response is a half-shrug.

I take his hand. “It’s over, Liam. Really over.”

“It is,” he says, his voice firm, but I hear what’s hidden underneath. The part of him that will never completely believe that Bane can’t hurt me from behind bars. The part that will always be watching, calculating, ready to do whatever it takes to keep me safe.

I’ve learned to live with that part of him, just like he’s learned to deal with my stubborn independence. It’s our deal—he tries not to control everything, and I try to understand that his overprotectiveness comes from something real and raw and beyond his control.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, grabbing my bag and standing up. The vultures are waiting outside—I can feel them already, cameras and microphones poised to tear us apart for a story that’ll last less than five minutes on the evening news.

Liam’s hand finds the small of my back, solid and warm. “Ready for the firing squad?”

I nod, squaring my shoulders and fixing my face in what my father always called my “public smile.” I spent my whole life learning how to fake it for the cameras but, it’s only been since he died that I’ve learned that a public smile doesn’t always have to be fake.

The questions hit us like bullets the instant we push through the doors.

“Ms. Reed! How do you feel about the verdict?”

“Mr. Grimm! Any comment on Bane’s threats during the trial?”

“Sasha! What’s next for Lydia Cosmetics?”

I stop on the steps, letting them capture their moment as Liam stands like a sentinel beside me. His midnight blue suit was my pick this morning—it makes his eyes look like something that could drown you.

“Justice has been served,” I say, keeping it simple. “Now we move forward. Together.”

They eat it up, shouting more questions as security clears a path to the waiting car. Once the door slams behind us, I let out a breath that feels like I’ve been holding it for years.

“Nice,” Liam says, and I can hear the pride under the word.

I smile at him. He knows I don’t need coaching on how to handle reporters. It’s one of the few useful skills my father accidentally taught me. How to lie with a smile. How to look confident even when my insides are liquid. How to keep your shit together when the world is watching.

The difference now is that I get to take the mask off when the cameras stop rolling. I get to be just Sasha—whoever the hell that is—with the people who matter.

As the car pulls away from the courthouse, I feel the adrenaline crash hitting me hard, leaving something else behind. Something hot and electric that makes my skin feel two sizes too small. I look over at Liam and find his eyes already on me, dark with something that makes my pulse skip.

“What?” I ask, though I know damn well what that look means by now.

“You were fucking incredible in there,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that always makes me shiver. “So damn strong. So in control.”

“I had good reason to be,” I tell him, sliding closer, my eyes checking that the privacy screen is up out of habit.

His hand finds my thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough through my skirt to remind me of how strong this man is. “You drive me crazy when you’re like that,” he murmurs. “All powerful and untouchable.”

I lean in closer, my lips almost brushing his ear. “Bet you’d like to touch me now though.”

His grip tightens, and I can feel the restraint in him—the control that’s always there, even when it looks like it’s slipping. “Tell the driver to take us to the Celestial,” he says, voice rough. “We need to properly celebrate before we head home.”

The hotel’s just a few blocks away—our own little hideout in the city where nobody gives a damn about the way his hand curls possessively around my elbow in the elevator, or how my body can’t seem to keep a respectable distance from his.

The second our suite door closes, Liam’s got me pinned against it, his mouth on mine with a hunger that leaves me dizzy. There’s an edge to him today, something darker than usual that I know has everything to do with seeing Bane, with watching the man who tried to steal what’s his.

“Do you know how fucking hard it was not to kill him when I had the chance?”

I tilt my head back, giving him better access for the kisses he’s trailing down my neck. “You did the right thing.”

His teeth scrape my collarbone, sending bolts of electricity straight to my core. “Did I?” His hands are already attacking my blouse buttons. “When that piece of shit looked at you in court, I wanted to tear his goddamn throat out.”

It should scare me, this violence that lives under his skin. Instead, it lights me up like a match to gasoline. This dangerous, lethal man chose me. Chose to put my needs above his darkest instincts. It’s heady and delicious and fucking sexy as hell.

“You’re mine,” he says, shoving my blouse off my shoulders. “And nobody’s ever taking you from me.”

“Never,” I agree, my fingers fumbling with his belt. “I’m yours. Only yours.”

We don’t even make it to the bedroom. He lifts me onto the console table, knocking over some fancy vase that crashes to the floor. My skirt’s up around my waist, and I hear the delicate rip of expensive silk as he tears my underwear away.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he admits, dangling the ruined scrap from his fingers. “From the second you put on that prim little court outfit.”

I laugh as his mouth crushes mine again. That’s what I love about us—how we can switch from intensity to playfulness and back again in a heartbeat.

“Anything else you’ve been wanting to do?” I ask, my voice innocent as I, wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a length of silk I recognize as one of his ties. “Turn around.”

The word sends heat flooding through me. I slide off the table and turn to face it as he pulls my wrists behind my back, binding them together with the tie. The position forces me to arch, pushing my chest forward.

“Christ, look at you,” he mutters, his hands skimming down my sides to grip my hips. “So fucking perfect.”

I hear his zipper, then feel the heat of him pressed against me from behind. One hand slides around to tease between my legs.

“Always so wet for me,” he says, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Always so ready.”

“Please,” I whisper, already desperate for him.

He enters me in one hard thrust that knocks the breath out of me. The position—hands tied, bent over the table—leaves me completely at his mercy, and we both know it. There’s trust in this, in the way I give up control to him. In the way he takes it.

“Look at you,” he says, setting a rhythm that borders on punishing. “Like you were made for this. For me.”

His words and the relentless pounding push me toward the edge fast. I’m almost there when suddenly he stops.

“Not yet,” he says, voice strained with his own control. “Not until I say so.”

He pulls out, and I whimper in protest. Then his hands are on me, turning me, lifting me. He carries me to the bedroom and lays me on the bed, my hands still tied behind my back.

“I want to see your face when you come. When you fall apart for me.”

This time when he enters me, it’s with maddening slowness—a deliberate tease that has me arching against the restraints, my eyes locked on his. “Liam, please …”

“Please what, Princess?” His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make me crazy but not enough to push me over.

“Please let me come,” I beg, beyond caring how desperate I sound.

He flashes a predatory smile. “Since you asked so nicely.”

His rhythm picks up, his thumb matching his thrusts, and this time when I approach the edge, he doesn’t stop me. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, tearing his name from my throat. He follows right after, his body tensing over mine, my name a rough prayer on his lips.

After, he carefully unties my wrists, pressing gentle kisses to the faint marks left by the tight knot of silk. It’s this contrast that gets me every time—the fierce, possessive lover and the tender, careful man. The darkness and the light, perfectly balanced in one complicated package.

I curl into him as he wraps his arms around me, both of us sweaty and spent.

“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair. “More than I ever thought possible.”

“I love you too,” I tell him, tracing patterns on his chest. “All of you.”

We lie like that for a while, wrapped up in each other and the aftermath of something that felt too big for words. Eventually, we drag ourselves into the shower and get dressed for the drive back to Connecticut.