Page 19 of In the Shadows

Her head whips around, and despite the obvious pain in her eyes, she looks nothing but angry at my words. “I am not a brat,” she snaps. “You don’t know the first thing about me or my life. I literally take everything you all throw at me and just accept it, because what other choice do I have? If I were a brat, like you and the rest of this goddamn city seem to think I am, I would be making your lives impossible, which I’m not.”

She has a point. But I’m not going to admit that. I kind of like seeing her riled up. The problem with Camilla De Marco, well, one of many, I suppose, is that she’s effortlessly gorgeous. She’s been here for five days, and each of those five days she’s been dressed in one of Bishop or Kovu’s shirts. She was covered in so many bruises that up until yesterday, I wasn’t sure there was one part of her body that wasn’t black or blue, and apart from a few skincare items Crew had brought in for her, she hasn’t had any of the things women normally use to stay beautiful. And yet, she’s stunning. So fucking beautiful, it makes me want to break all my own rules.

“That’s only because you’re hurt. I’m sure the minute you’re back on your feet, you’ll be wreaking havoc.”

She sighs, some of the anger turning to something else, something I like seeing a whole lot less. Misery. “I asked to be taken to Charles. I tried to get out of your hair. It’s not my fault Bishop found me in the alley, it’s not my fault Crew ordered I stay here, and it’s not my fault you’re stuck on babysitting duty. I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience. I’m sure my father would tell you I’ve been this way my whole life.” A broken sob cracks through, and her hand falls to her stomach with pain in her eyes. “He even died because of me.”

Hot tears fall against her cheeks, and I hate to admit to myself how much I fucking hate them. Normally, I like seeing women cry. Call it a kink, call it what you will, but this is different. Camilla isn’t crying because I’ve caned her to the point of oblivion or because I’ve held her on the edge of orgasm for three hours but refuse to allow her to tumble over the edge. No, she’s crying because she’s in emotional distress, and before I realize I’m doing it, I’m out of my chair and rounding the bed to where she’s sitting up against a mountain of pillows.

She watches my every move, her eyes tracking me, and with each step I take closer to her, her breath shortens until they’re coming in sharp pants. She’s so fucking beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Hurt. At my mercy. She’s my greatest temptation, like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. But I have to resist. I have no other choice but to resist. Because Camilla could very well be our downfall. A Trojan horse sent to take out our empire. And yet I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame, my body moving of its own accord to be burned, and before I realize I’m doing it, I reach out and touch her for the first time. My fingers brush against her damp cheek, wiping away the tears just in time for them to be replaced with more, but that just gives me another excuse to touch her. I can’t help myself, I can’t help but touch her.

Her breath stutters the moment my fingers run along her bruised cheek. She’s looking better today. The bruises have started to heal, and rather than being black and blue, they’re turning shades of yellow and green, it’s progress. My touch doesn’t cause her pain, though. No, quite the opposite, because each brush of my fingers across her soft cheek is like a live wire coming to life between us.

Camilla’s lips fall open into the most delectable “o,” and I have to swallow down the groan clawing up my throat. Why does she have to be so fucking addictive? Couldn’t she be like all the other women we’ve chosen over the last few years? Disposable. Temporary. Unremarkable. But as much as I hate to admit it, Camilla is none of those things.

“Your father didn’t die because of you, Princess.” The nickname has none of the usual snark I use when it falls from my lips. “He died because he chose to make a dumb deal with the wrong person. He died because he was stupid enough to give away his only succession plan. And he died because he didn’t think to get you the hell out of this city well before your eighteenth birthday. He made a lot of mistakes, but none more than selling something so precious for something so insignificant.”

She stares at me for long seconds, tears glistening in her eyes. I didn’t notice it before, probably because I’ve never allowed myself to get this close, but there are flecks of vibrant blue within the gray, and it’s fucking beautiful. She stares at me for so long that I begin to wonder what I said that made her look at me like this, and I begin replaying each word in my mind over and over. “You think I’m precious?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the words almost inaudible in the otherwise quiet room.

Did I really say that?

I do another quick catalog of the words I said, and when I stumble upon the ones she’s fixated on, I pause. Why did I say that? It’s not true. Not in the way she thinks I meant it, at least. She thinks I care. She thinks that I think her father is an idiot for trading her because I see the value in her. But that’s just not the truth.

“No, Princess,” I bite out and step back, breaking the contact. I try to ignore the ache that fills my chest with each step I take away from her. I only turn back when I reach the door and find her staring after me with surprise. “You’re nothing but another whore, just like all the ones that came before you, and all the ones that will come long after you’re gone.”

I don’t wait to hear her response before throwing the door open and slamming it shut behind me.

What is it about Camilla De Marco that makes all the men in this house lose their minds?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CREW

Bishop stares down at his hands on the table, but I don’t take my eyes off him. He may think he’s the only one capable of reading the other people in a room, but he learned it from me, even if he doesn’t realize it. She may have only been in our possession for a few days, but he’s attached, and that’s no small feat.

He doesn’t get attached easily. His mother passed when he was young, and although it was of her own doing, and although he doesn’t remember anything about her, he doesn’t like to get close to people. It even took him a long time to connect with Kovu, and I brought him up like my own son.

“I want to keep her.” The admission hangs between us for long moments. It’s as I expected, but it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow. Women are a complication we don’t need, especially after the last one we brought into the fold, but Bishop never looked at her the way he does Camilla, and that’s a worry in itself.

“I see.” I rub my chin, the shadow of the day rough beneath my fingers. “And what do you propose we do about Davenport? We can’t keep her locked up in the compound for the rest of her life, it’s not fair on her, and it won’t make her happy.” Why do I bother with the last part? Why do I care what’s fair and what makes her happy? Her comfort shouldn’t mean anything to me.

Bishop pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a frustrated sigh. “He’ll kill her if he gets his hands on her. It might not be right away, but eventually. And the life she’ll live while she’s allowed the privilege of continuing to breathe, it won’t really be a life at all. She doesn’t deserve that.” He shakes his head. “No one deserves that.”

I ponder his words. He’s right, of course. If we hand Camilla over to Davenport, he will kill her. It may not be today, or tomorrow, or next week, but it will come. A man like Charles Davenport isn’t marrying because he wants a wife to share his life with, he’s doing it for the heirs and to solidify his claim on his territory.

Before I can respond, the door swings open, and I’m faced with Charles. He’s not an unattractive man in the traditional sense, but his personality and proclivities make him ugly as sin. He stands a few inches shorter than me at six feet, with a sharp jawline and pointed nose. His dark hair is going gray at the sides, not dissimilar to my own, and his cold, dark eyes fall on me the second the door swings open.

It’s me he wants to appeal to tonight, and I’m ready to go head-to-head with him. He should know you don’t face off with the devil and win, but some people just don’t learn. After all, we didn’t choose the names these men call us. They were thrust upon us, and who are we to argue with our likeness to the princes of hell?

“Crew,” he greets. At first, hearing people refer to me like that would grind my gears, but I’ve leaned into it now, as have the others, to the point Bishop doesn’t even blink when he turns his attention to him and says, “Bishop. I trust you’ve both been well.”

“Fine,” I reply for the both of us. I have no interest in idle chitchat with this man, and the quicker we can get to the point of this meeting, the quicker we can return home to our… I catch myself before I can think the final word. Our woman? No. She isn’t ours. Or at least she’s not mine. And she’s certainly not Kaos’s. But Bishop and Kovu? That’s another story altogether. “What can we do for you, Davenport?”

He pauses for a moment, as if he expected this to go differently, but quickly catches himself and takes a seat at the other end of the table.

I spare the two guards he’s brought in a glance before returning my attention to Charles. They’re large, but if push came to shove, Bishop and I could outmaneuver them every day of the week. They’re just muscle, neither of them has a hope in hell of rubbing two brain cells together to best us, and that’s all I need to know to write them off as a threat. I can’t see this situation dissolving to that degree, but I didn’t get where I am without planning for every eventuality.

“I want to discuss the De Marco territory.”

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