Entice Me (Stark Trilogy #3.11)(27)

The road is shaded by parallel rows of massive oaks, their branches arcing over the street toward their counterparts to form a leafy canopy. Morning light fights its way between the leaves, creating golden beams in which dust sparkles and dances as if to a celebratory melody, adding to the illusion that we are moving through a fairy tale world.

All in all, it’s a picture perfect moment.

Except it’s not. Not really. Or at least not to me.

Because as far as I’m concerned, this is no children’s story.

This is Dallas. This is the neighborhood where I grew up. And that means that this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a nightmare.

The trees branches aren’t stunning—they’re grasping. Reaching out to snare me. To hold me tight. To trap me.

The canopy doesn’t mark a royal corridor leading to a castle. It leads to a cell. And it’s not The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies that fills the air. It is a Requiem for the Dead.

The world outside the car is lined with traps, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be sucked in. Destroyed by the darkness that hides behind the false facades of these stately houses. Surrounded not by a bright children’s tale but by a horror movie, lured in by the promise of beauty and then trapped forever and slowly destroyed, ripped to pieces by the monsters in the dark.

Breathe, I tell myself. You can do this. You just have to remember to breathe.

“Nikki. Nikki.”

Damien’s voice startles me back to reality, and I jerk upright, as if perfect posture can ward off the ghosts of my memories.

His tone is soft, profoundly gentle, but when I glance toward him, I see that his eyes have dipped to my lap.

For a moment, I’m confused, then I realize that I’ve inched up my skirt, and my fingertip is slowly tracing the violent scar that mars my inner thigh. A souvenir of the deep, ugly wound that I inflicted upon myself a decade ago when I was desperate to find a way to release all the pent-up anger and fear and pain that swirled inside me like a phalanx of demons.

I yank my hand away, then turn to look out the window, feeling oddly, stupidly ashamed.

He says nothing, but the car moves to the curb and then rolls to a stop. A moment later, Damien’s fingers twine with mine. I hold tight, drawing strength, and when I shift to look at him more directly, I see worry etched into the hard angles of that perfect face and reflected in those exceptional eyes.

Worry, yes. But it is the rest of what I see that takes my breath away. Understanding. Support. Respect.

Most of all, I see a love so fierce it has the power to melt me, and I revel in its power to soothe.

He is the biggest miracle of my life, and there are moments when I still can’t believe that he is mine.

Damien Stark. My husband, my lover, my best friend. A man who commands an empire with a firm, controlling hand. Who takes orders from no one, and yet today is playing chauffeur so that he can stand beside me while I confront my past.

For a moment, I simply soak him in. His strength, apparent in both his commanding manner and the long, lean lines of his athletic body. His support, reflected in those dual-colored eyes that see me so intimately. That have, over the years, learned all my secrets.

Damien knows every scar on my body, as well as the story behind each. He knows the depth of my pain, and he knows how far I have come. How far his love has helped me come.

Most of all, he knows what it has cost me to return to Texas. To drive these streets. To look out at this neighborhood so full of pain and dark memories.

With a small shiver, I pull my hand free so that I can hug myself.

“Oh, baby.” The concern in his voice is so thick I can almost grab hold of it. “Nikki, you don’t have to do this.”

“I do.” My words sound ragged, my throat too clogged with unshed tears to speak normally.

“Sweetheart—”

I wait, expecting him to continue, but he’s gone silent. I see the tension on his face, as if he’s uncertain what to say or how to say it—but Damien Stark is never unsure. Not about business. Not about himself. Not about me.

And yet right now he’s hesitating. Treating me as if I’m something fragile and breakable.

An unexpected shock of anger cuts through me. Not at him, but at myself. Because, dammit, he’s right. In this moment, I’m as fragile as I’ve ever been, and that’s not a pleasant realization. I’ve fought so hard to be strong, and with Damien at my side, I’ve succeeded.

But here I am, all my hard work shot to hell simply because I’ve returned to my home town.

“You think coming here is a mistake.” I snap the words at him, but it’s not Damien I’m irritated with, it’s me.

“No.” He doesn’t hesitate, and I take some comfort in the speed and certainty of his response. “But I do wonder if now is the right time. Maybe tomorrow would be better. After your meetings.”

We’d come to Texas not so that I could torture myself by driving through my old neighborhood and visiting my estranged mother, but because I’d been invited to submit a proposal to one of the top web development companies in the country. It’s looking to roll out a series of apps, both for internal use among its employees and externally for its clients. Only five companies were invited to pitch, and mine is by far the smallest and the the newest. I suspect, of course, that part of the reason I got the invitation is because I’m married to Damien Stark, and because my company has already licensed software to Stark International.