Sparrow(15)

One day, my brain processed. But not tonight, *.

“You know that. And I know that,” he continued, “so if you want to lie to yourself, by all means, be my f*cking guest. But we both know you’re already mine. Mind…” He reached up and stroked my temple softly.

A shiver ran down my spine.

“Body...” His hand traveled down to my chest, groping my right breast suddenly and circling my erect nipple with his thumb.

I dropped my head back, letting him touch me.

“Soul…” He continued down to my stomach, underneath my shirt, his fingers brushing every inch of my flesh.

Oh, hell.

“Heart…” His hand glided back up to my left breast where he paused for a second, snorting a sarcastic laugh. “Well, the heart you can keep yourself.”

Then, without a warning, he flipped us both in one fast movement. He was now on top, with me writhing underneath him, stomach to stomach. His weight pressed on my pelvis, and before I could muster the courage and brain cells to give him another mouthful, he ground his bulge against me, nothing separating us other than the stupid fabric of his underwear.

Heat swelled inside me. I sucked in a breath, biting my lip furiously to suppress a moan.

“Should I stop?” he asked, his arms boxing me in as he continued grinding.

“Y-yes,” my weak voice stuttered. I did want him to stop…didn’t I?

He paused, but his smile grew bigger and more shark-like. He dipped his head, his mouth finding mine as he rolled off of me. He spoke into my mouth, his lips hovering over mine, but not kissing me. “Someday, I’m going to get us kicked out of this place, when you scream my name so loud in this bedroom that everyone can hear.”

I frowned at him. “I doubt anyone would kick you out of the building, considering your reputation.”

Troy threw his head back and laughed a wholehearted, joyful laugh. He loved my last statement. Loved being feared.

“That much is true.” His hand moved to my throat, his finger tracing an invisible line. “You know, Sparrow? Maybe we could play together after all. There’s some fun hiding underneath your layers of goodness.”

I had a feeling there was nothing fun hiding underneath his layers of darkness, but I didn’t say a thing.





SPARROW


Five Days Later




ONE DAY SWALLOWED the next one, time sticking together like pages in a new, unopened book. And me? I was running out of options to entertain myself between the thick, suffocating walls of Troy Brennan’s penthouse.

When he’d imprisoned me for ten days before our wedding, he only visited his tastefully furnished, clinical-looking apartment once, and that was to tell me I was going to be his wife. Back then, I’d wondered if he wanted to scare me or give me time to come to terms with the new arrangement. Now, I knew for certain that his absence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his job.

These days, he came home every night long after I pretended to be asleep, reeking of stout beer, other women’s perfume and the sour-sweet scent of a man’s sweat. He left for work early, so when I woke up, his side of the mattress was always cold and empty.

He didn’t try to touch me again. Hell, he didn’t even try to strike up a conversation the few times I saw his face. And for the most part, I was content with this arrangement.

I left the penthouse for my morning runs and for my evening culinary classes. I visited Pops twice, cooking and cleaning for him out of habit, with Connor shadowing my every move, following my every step like an eager Pit Bull puppy. I wouldn’t let him inside my father’s apartment, so he sat outside the door, in the kitchen chair I dragged into the hallway, patiently waiting, chewing tobacco tucked in his jaw and, undoubtedly hating every second of me being out of his sight.

Any attempt by me to leave the penthouse late at night (and there were attempts to do so, especially the first couple of days) was blocked by my sturdy, bulky bodyguard, who looked like the human equivalent of an industrial fridge. Connor would wordlessly fold his arms over his gorilla-like torso, marching in my direction as I stumbled back into the apartment, my head hanging low.

For the first time since I was fifteen, I had a curfew. I hated Brennan for imposing restrictions on me, interfering with my life even without taking part in it.

But at least I had other company.

Troy had a housekeeper named Maria, a small, cranky, sixty-something woman with white hair and brown skin, who came in every other day, working for both Troy and for his mother, Andrea, as the family help since Brennan was a kid.

Maria didn’t speak good English, so we communicated in the most universal way humanly possible—with food.

I spent hours practicing and cooking for no one in particular. I prepared delicious dishes only to admire them silently, tuck them into disposable Tupperware and hand them to the closest homeless shelter. But first, Maria would help herself to a serving or two and offer great input about the spices, tastes and flavors (mostly in Spanish.) Her suggestions and compliments made me happy, her presence a drop of solace in the sea of desperation I was drowning in.

Almost a week into our fake marriage, I got back to Brennan’s penthouse after my morning run and walked straight to the first floor bathroom. His apartment was a modern two-story affair, with the master suite and study upstairs. I always used the bathroom near the guest room on the first floor, because it felt less his. It wasn’t personalized with his products, towels, razor and singularly manly scent. With him.