Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(53)

He nods, and, encouraged, I continue. “Farren, all I know is that I feel something for you, something I’ve never felt before.” I take a much-needed breath. “I’m not saying it needs to be defined, not yet. But I also don’t want to continue on without at least declaring something.”

Farren’s response isn’t some sudden declaration of love, but it’s a pretty strong reaction when he pulls me to him roughly. His lips crash down to mine, and he kisses me, firmly at first, but then more gently. “Essalin Brant, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against my lips.

I run my fingers through his silky hair and down to the nape of his neck. Clutching the back of his shirt, I say, “Never. It will never come to that.”

His lips return to mine, and soon I am so turned on that I begin shaking. Farren, knowing my needs and wants almost better than I do, lifts my skirt and makes short work of my panties. He allows me to tug his shirt over his head, but he has me keep my own shirt and jacket on. When he backs me up to a large boulder and leans me back against it, I understand why. Though the boulder is smooth, the clothes left on my top half will keep my back from getting torn up.

And torn up is what would happen, as there’s urgency to Farren’s actions when he hoists my legs up around him. Within seconds he’s undoing his pants, lowering them, and freeing his erection.

I sense he needs to be inside me—feeling me—as much as I need to feel him. Still, he meets my gaze, his eyes questioning if this is all right.

I nod and say, “Yes, yes.”

Very slowly, and never looking away, he lowers my body onto his, burying himself deep inside me.

I gasp. He groans. But he doesn’t move, not at first. He just holds my gaze. And when he says my name, with us joined as we are, I know in the deepest recesses of my being that Farren feels as strongly about me as I do for him.

And today, right now, for where we’re at and what we still face, that’s enough for me.





Dawson’s estate is close to the border, so close that if you threw a stone from the edge of his vast property, you’d be almost guaranteed it’d land in Mexico. Not that you’d know where one country ended and the other began. It all just looks like desert to me.

However, as we close in on the elaborate entrance to Dawson’s property, it becomes clear this particular oasis is vastly different from the barren desert land surrounding it. Dawson’s estate is a gem in desolation. There are huge gates at the entrance, and a wrought iron fence encloses the meticulously landscaped greenery. Shrubs, flowers, and grass as lush as it would be back in Pennsylvania this time of year grow in abundance.

Farren pulls up to the entrance gates and stops at a control box on a pole. He enters a code, and the gates open slowly. I know he’s been here before, so his knowing the code is no real surprise.

Still, it’s a bit unsettling.

Off in the distance—about a mile away, like Farren mentioned—a huge house looms. Even from this far away, I have a bad feeling about the place. Just to be sure neither one of us is stepping one foot in Dawson’s residence, I say to Farren, “We’re not driving all the way up to the house, right?”

“No,” he assures me with a comforting pat to my knee.

“Well, at least this part is pretty,” I remark as I gesture to all the exotic flowers and greenery growing along the sides of the driveway.

“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” Farren replies dryly.

“What happens here?” I carefully ask. “You said this is where girls are brought before being sent over the border.”

“Yes, this is where they’re brought.” Farren blows out a long breath. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about this. Sure enough, he says, “As for your first question, I think it’s best if we don’t talk about the things that happen here.”

I know then that Farren has had to take part in at least some of the bad things that have occurred on these grounds. Suddenly, the flowers don’t seem so pretty anymore; the greenery, not so bright. It’s all a farce. The young women who are brought here probably think this is a sanctuary after the things they’ve experienced up to that point—like how Haven was kept in “cold, damp” places.

They have no idea the worst is yet to come.

Farren slows to a stop. We’re not quite to the house, but we’re close enough that I can see it’s as opulent as the grounds. Turrets, a limestone exterior with intricate detail work, the house is magnificent. But for as stately as the huge home appears, there’s still that cold, sinister vibe lingering in the air.

“Maybe we should leave,” I murmur.

Just then a black stretch limo appears. It travels slowly to where we’re stopped.

“Too late now,” Farren murmurs.

The limo parks a few yards away from us.

Farren places his hand on my knee again. “Essa, remember what I told you.”

I bite my lip and glance his way. His green eyes bore into me, demanding and making it not such a stretch to say, “I’m supposed to be yours, all yours. I obey everything you say.”

He nods slowly. “That’s right. I own you.”

“You own me,” I echo.

The limo door opens, and the man I assume is Dawson steps out. He appears to be in his early sixties. He runs his hand through gray hair that is thinning. His face is heavily lined from the desert sun. His physique—he’s clad in a dark brown suit despite the hot weather—is trim, compact, and tight. He’s not a particularly tall man, but he holds himself confidently. When he catches me observing him from behind the windshield, he scowls, making his sharp features harden.