Thea Frost - What His Darkness Reveals 04

  Contents

  Title

  What His Darkness Reveals #4

  What His Darkness Reveals #5

  By Thea Frost

  Copyright © 2015, Thea Frost, all rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This book contains sexual situations and explicit language, and is suitable for readers over 18.

  BRYCE

  I sit paralyzed in the bathroom stall of Descent/Ascent. I know what I need to do. I need to stand up. Walk out. Apologize to Jack and leave. Catch a cab to Blake's office and turn myself over to his questioning. Give in. Give up.

  But that feels wrong. It can't be over. My mission. My work. My deepening connection with Jack.

  He can't have killed Wilkinson. But he has. No matter how foul a human being the detective was, he didn't deserve to be murdered.

  I can't ignore the evidence against Jack any longer. Jackie Oleander. Detective Wilkinson. I can only make excuses for him for so long before I have to accept what I'm doing. Denying the obvious.

  Jack is a murderer.

  I have to walk away. I have to accept that I'll never see him again.

  But still I sit here. Frozen. Listening to the bass thrum. Knowing that Jack's waiting for me outside. Waiting to take me deeper into his world.

  His twisted, broken world. A world of lies and murder.

  And god help me, I still want him. I still crave him. His touch. His gaze. The way he fills me. The way he makes me feel alive.

  As soon as I go into Blake's office, I'll have to admit that I'm a failure. I allowed Jack to trick me. To use me. To fuck me over and over again, and I never saw his true nature.

  My career is over. I'm done.

  Something within me rebels. No. I'm not ready. I'm free until I enter Blake's office. Free to determine the truth for myself.

  Before I turn myself in, I want to hear it from Jack himself. I want to make him tell me the truth. I need his confession to truly set myself free. All he has to do is admit he killed Wilkinson, and I'll disappear from his life.

  Forever.

  I exit the stall. Step out of the bathroom, and back into the main lounge. Jack's sitting at our table, fingers steepled, watching me over their apex. I can almost hate him for being so hot. So relaxed. So dangerously sexy.

  He rises to his feet as I approach. No words. He takes my hand and leads me to another hallway. I want to pull him down to a table. Confront him. Shatter his control over me. But it's easier to follow. I'll confront him somewhere private.

  We go down another flight of stairs. We're deep underground now. The music above grows muffled, then silenced. We step out into a new hallway that's lined with doors. Above each is a small light. Some are red. Some are green.

  Jack leads me to a door below a green light. Turns to me.

  "Are you ready?"

  I search his face. There's no sign of guilt there. No sign of the monster I know him to be. Am I so blind? So poor at reading people? Am I ready? No, I never will be. Not for Jack.

  I'll ask him inside. I'll confront him when the door closes. So I nod.

  He opens the door.

  It's a small room. Clean. Spartan. A table, a chair. No distractions. Lit by clear white lights overhead. Stark. No room for subtlety here. No room for anything but being direct. One wall is covered with wire mesh. From it hang implements. Whips. Handcuffs. Strangely shaped black rubber objects. Blindfolds. Dildoes. Masks.

  I look away as if the sight of them stings.

  "The safe word is clover," whispers Jack. "If you use that word, we stop, no matter what."

  "Jack," I whisper. How could I have been so wrong?

  His expression hardens. "Do you know why I first approached you?"

  I want to cry. How could I have fallen for him? "No."

  "You were vulnerable. Innocent. You shone like a beacon in that bar. Young. Naive. Beautiful. Not even realizing you were begging to be fucked."

  Was I all those things? Looking back, I realize I was. Am I still? I have no idea. I don't think so. But then what do I know? I've been so wrong about this man. This man I would do anything for.

  "I had to have you," he whispers. "I had to taste that innocence. I had to drink deep, and be the one who led you into the darkness. You had to be mine."

  "Jack," I whisper again. I want to ask him. Want to demand the truth. But he's radiating a dark charisma, a fierce aura of command that makes it impossible to talk. His eyes are burning, like the pyre on which he wants to sacrifice me. Burn me. Turn me to ashes.

  "I needed to get close to you. Touch you. Taste you. Earn your trust. So that you would take my hand. Let me lead you down here to this room, which has been waiting for you since we met."

  My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. I can't catch my breath. Did I think I knew this man? That I could trust him? He's a killer. Of men. Of hope. I was a fool to trust him. I need to leave. I need to leave and never return. But I'm fascinated. Held in place by his searing eyes.

  I look Jack full in the eyes. Why do I still want him? What's wrong with me? Is this an addiction? I need to break it. To end it. Maybe that's what tonight can be. A way to have my passion for him scoured away by pain. Maybe then I'll be free of him. There's a twisted appeal in giving myself over to him, knowing even as I do that I'll never be his. That he's already lost me. That what he thinks will bring us closer will only cause him to lose me forever.

  "Yes, Jack," I whisper. Help me end this.

  He raises his chin, and his nostrils flare. "Good." He steps up to me. Takes my hands in each of his. Our fingers interlace. He presses me back against the wall and kisses me, hungry but gentle, his tongue sliding over my lower lip, then biting it gently. It's almost tender. I need pain, not this affection.

  Finally he steps back. Another step, then another. With each step his face grows harder, his eyes colder, as if he's distancing himself from his emotions. From me. "Strip."

  I do so. Down to my underwear. My fingers are awkward. This is our goodbye. This is the last time I'll burn in his presence. The last time I'll allow him to fool me. I drop my clothing to the floor. His eyes are on me the whole time.

  He pulls out the chair. Sits back, luxuriously relaxed. "Come here."

  I approach. Almost shy. My lust warring with my sadness. Mingling, burning.

  Jack takes my hand and pulls me to him so that I'm straddling his thigh. "Rub yourself against me. Slowly."

  My stomach is fluttering. I hesitate, and then lower myself so that his muscled thigh is against my pussy. Slowly I rock my hips forward, rubbing my clit and lips against his strong leg. Then back. God, it feels good. His eyes never waver from me. He makes no effort to touch me. Just watches as I rub myself against him.

  I want to close my eyes. I want to turn away, but I know he doesn't want me to. So I rub against him, dry-humping his leg with delicious slowness. Maybe I'm not the innocent he thinks I am. That I thought I was. If I were, I'd have run away screaming by now. Instead I'm here rubbing myself against him like a slut. Needing him. His eyes on my body. My pussy is wet, and it feels so good to act this way. Liberating. To admit I need pleasure. This connection.

  Jack watches me. Eyes hard. Mouth a line. I can see his hard cock through his jeans. I want to reach down and rub him. I don't.

  Instead I grind down harder. Make my strokes against him longer. I clutch his thigh with both hands and guide my pussy up and down his leg, again and again, building my need, aroused beyond measure.

  "Yes," he finally whispers. "That's it. Desire. Lust. Need. We're animals. You're nothing more than an animal. An animal that needs to be fucked."r />
  I groan. I feel so dirty. But I can't stop. I press harder.

  "Say it," he commands.

  "I'm an animal," I whisper, rubbing back and forth.

  "More."

  "I'm an animal. An animal that needs to be fucked."

  He still hasn't moved. "Stand up."

  I almost resist, but his voice gives me no option. I rise up, legs shaky, my pussy immediately missing the sweet friction, that hot burn.

  "Move to the wall."

  I do so.

  He steps up next to me, and with quick efficiency cuffs my hands at waist level so that I'm bent over, ass toward him.

  "Animal lust. It fills all of us. Most never progress beyond it." His voice is contemplative. He takes something from the wall. Rubs it against my pussy. It's smooth and hard. A dildo of some kind. I groan at the touch.

  "Animal lust doesn't care what it fucks. It just wants release. A man. Any man. An object, even."

  With a deft twist, he slides the head of the dildo around my panties and into me. It's cool, large, and stretches me deliciously as he sinks it all the way in. I gasp, my muscles clenching.

  Jack reaches down and grasps a fistful of my hair. "You said you were an animal. That you wanted to be fucked."

  "Yes," I whisper as he rotates the dildo within me, back and forth.

  "Then I'll fuck you like an animal."

  And with that, he begins to plunge the dildo in and out of me, all the while holding my head aloft by a fistful of my hair. Tears burn in my eyes at the pain, but the pleasure pounding into me only grows because of it.

  I'm being fucked. Used. Just like an animal. He's not even bothering to do so himself. I can feel his disdain. His cruelty. His distance from me. I want to cry. This is good. This is what I need. I want him to hurt me. Abuse me, so I can walk away. So that it will hurt less.

  I know I'm lying to myself.

  But it's all I've got.

  "Do you like that?"

  "Yes," I gasp. He's being rough, slamming the dildo into me. It feels right. I deserve it. The pain. The humiliation.

  "But is this enough? Is this all you want?"

  I open my mouth, and for a moment I honestly don't know. Then I shake my head. "No."

  He stops. Drops the dildo. It clatters on the floor. I flinch. He twists my head so I'm looking up at him. His face is so cruel. It could be carved from stone. "Then what? What more do you need?"

  I stare up at him, and it's all too much. Tears flood my eyes, and I look away.

  I can feel Jack hesitate. This isn't the reaction he expected. He kneels by my side, hands gentle, turning my face toward him. "Bryce? Is this too much?"

  Damn him. Damn him for sounding like he cares. For looking so concerned. "No," I say, sniffing loudly. "No. I want this. More. Hurt me."

  "Bryce?" He unlocks my cuffs and helps me stand. I'm shaking. I can't stop crying. I keep wiping the tears away like a fool, but still they come. "Talk to me? Did I trigger something?"

  "Damn you," I whisper.

  Jack goes to pull me to him, but I shove him away. He's so strong, so solidly planted on the ground that I end up pushing myself back, almost staggering. I clutch the wire mesh wall to stop myself from falling.

  "Damn you!" My rage and pain come boiling out, hot like a flash flood of boiling water. "Don't pretend you care!"

  His eyes are wide, his intelligent mind racing. "Don't... Bryce? What's going on?"

  I look wildly at the wall of sex and torture implements. "Here." I grab a whip with seven straps of leather extending from the end. "Use this on me." I bring it hard over my shoulder, whipping my own back, and the pain is electric. "Go on. Show me how much you like to hurt me." I throw it at him.

  Jack's face darkens. He catches the whip, then tosses it aside. "Stop."

  "Stop?" I grab another fetish object and throw it at him. "I can't stop!" I laugh wildly. "Don't you see? That's the problem!"

  "Bryce, stop." Suddenly he's on me, pinning my arms to my sides, lifting me to sit on the table, holding my head in his hands. "We'll leave. Now."

  I start sobbing. "No. I'm not going anywhere with you. Ever again."

  "Bryce." I hear his voice shake. "Whatever I've done, I'm sorry. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

  I look up, and allow the tears to run down my face. "Tell you what's going on? Fine." Jack's gone pale. He's such a good fucking actor. "Wilkinson is dead. You killed him. I'm falling for a murderer. And I'm still here like an idiot, crying and - and -"

  "Dead?" He sounds genuinely shocked. "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't pretend you don't know. It won't work."

  "I don't know. Wait. You think I killed him? Murdered him?"

  He sounds outraged. Furious. My acid retort dies in my mouth. This is beyond acting. I can see it in his eyes. "Yes."

  Jack shakes his head slowly. "You're wrong. Dead wrong. I went by his place, but he wasn't home. I left my driver there to watch and call me when he returned. But he didn't come back alone. He came back with another guy. I had her watch for another hour, and then called her back. I was going to try again tomorrow."

  I put my hands to my head. "Wait. No." How can that be? My head's spinning.

  "You actually thought I went over there and killed him in cold blood?" Jack's voice has gone from outraged to stunned.

  "Jack - I -"

  He laughs. "I brought you here because I thought you trusted me. As I was starting to trust you."

  "I did trust you! Until this -"

  "If you think I could kill that easily, then you don't know the first thing about me." I see the walls slamming up, one after the other. "I was wrong about you. About us."

  Confusion. Panic. "What? Wait!"

  "No. I'm done. I can't believe I was so wrong. I thought there was something special here. I was wrong." Jack strides toward the door and pulls it open. "Goodbye, Bryce. Don't contact me again."

  And with that, he's gone.

  I sit there, shell-shocked.

  What just happened?

  Was I that wrong? That off the mark? Is Jack truly innocent? If so, then who killed Wilkinson? What's going on? I pull on my clothing and rush out of the room, but Jack's already disappeared. I run upstairs, wiping away at my tears, not caring if I smear my makeup, but I can't find him in the INFERNO bar. I go up again, to PURGATORIO, but he's not there either.

  I look everywhere, but in my heart of hearts, I know I've lost him. Jack's gone. In his moment of greatest trust, when he brought me to his most private place, I hurt him in the most devastating way possible.

  I stand in the alleyway, breathing heavily. People eye me warily as they slip by. I don't care. I press my fists into my eyes, fighting for calm. For control.

  Home. I need to go home. Then I need to confront Wilkinson. I need to learn what's going on.

  *

  An hour later I'm outside Wilkinson's office. My skin is still stinging from the scalding hot water. I'm wearing sneakers, track pants and a ribbed black sweater. My hair is done up in a tight French twist. My gun is holstered over my heart, hidden under a black nylon sweater.

  I feel as cold as the void. I've got my emotions under lockdown. I raise my hand and knock firmly on the door.

  Wilkinson opens it. He looks terrible. Haggard. Purple smears beneath his eyes. "There you are. Finally."

  He turns and I follow him into the room. Close the door. His desk is covered in files, a newly installed computer open to a crime database.

  "What happened?"

  Something about my tone catches his attention. He sits heavily, then leans forward to study me. For all that he's a cold asshole, Blake's sharp. A trained agent. He narrows his eyes and then raises an eyebrow. "You're changing fast."

  I step up to his desk and lean over it, fists on the surface. "What. Happened. To Wilkinson?"

  "Murder. No doubt about it." Blake leans back in his chair. "Bloody mess. Somebody slit him from throat to abdomen. The neighbor downstairs made the call. Bl
ood was dripping down from their ceiling."

  I shudder, then repress it. "Suspects?"

  Blake gives me a funny look. "Well, you, obviously."

  "Fuck you," I hiss. "That's not funny."

  "It wasn't meant to be. Where were you from six to about seven o'clock?"

  "Is this an interrogation?"

  "Bryce." Blake leans forward. "You call in claiming he assaulted you. Demand justice. You don't get the response you want, and then a few hours later he's found dead. Of course you're a suspect."

  I cross my arms over my chest. "Do you really think I did it?"

  He shakes his head. "Of course not. But regardless, I'm going to pull you from the field. You've been a huge disappointment. Not only are you a murder suspect, but you're unreliable. I've got no choice."

  I shake my head slowly. "Unbelievable. You know I didn't do this."

  "I know. My money's on Jack Deckard killing Wilkinson. It would take a man of his strength to do the damage that was done."

  "Jack?"

  "He's got motivation. Wilkinson was getting too close to him. He must have discovered something that spooked Jack. Caused him to kill him. I'm positive we'll gather the evidence we need from the crime scene, and then we'll arrest him. This whole charade will be over."

  "No, it won't."

  "No?" Blake raises an eyebrow.

  "No. Don't pull me from my assignment. You won't pin this murder on him. Give me another couple of days. I'll deliver. I just need a little more time."

  Blake purses his lips.

  "Look," I say. "If the evidence comes in, you've got him anyway. If it doesn't, I'm your best hope to determine the truth. I'm almost there. I don't care if it's dangerous. I know you don't either. I don't know what game you're playing, Blake, but I don't care either. Just give me a few more days."

  Silence. Blake taps at the tabletop, then nods. "Fine. I may regret it, but I'll let you continue while we work the crime scene. As soon as we have enough evidence to convict Jack, we're done."

  I smile. "That will never happen. You'll see."

  "You're strangely confident. You know something you're not telling me?"

  "I'll let you know when I'm ready. Goodbye, Blake."