Page 41 of Submitting to Daddy
“Everything.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustration and disbelief crashing over me. “She knows fucking everything.” I spilled every secret I had this afternoon. I poured my heart out to her. My mind is racing. The woman I love is the enemy on paper. A spy who’s been living a double life under my roof, under my fucking nose, under me.How the fuck did I miss it?I pace, every step fueled by anger and helplessness, my chest aching with what I’m about to lose.
“We’ll take care of it.” Enzo pulls me from my thoughts. “Tonight. Before it can go any further.”
“You won’t fucking touch her,” I snarl. My words are so fueled with anger that spittle flies across the counter. “Not a fucking finger. If you lay a hand on her, I swear, I’ll kill you where you stand. Both of you.”
Nikolai shakes his head and scoffs, “You’re in love with a fucking Fed, you idiot. She’s going to destroy everything we’ve built. And our lives. I’m not about to spend my life rotting in prison over a tight little ass you can’t get enough of.”
Seeing red, I storm across the kitchen. My fingers fist the front of Nikolai’s shirt, and I shove him into the refrigerator with enough force to rattle the contents inside. “Do not fucking talk about Madison like that. Not now. Not ever.”
Enzo pulls me from Nik’s throat, throwing me across the kitchen. “Cian, you’re my fucking brother, and I love you. But I’m with Nik on this one. I’m not spending my life in prison because you fell for the wrong girl.”
“I’ll take care of her,” I gruff, picking my keys up off the floor. Without saying another word to them, I head back to the parking garage and slide into the driver’s seat. My fist slams against the steering wheel, angrily blowing the horn as I turn over the engine to head back to her apartment.
I sit in my parked car at the corner of her block for hours, replaying every interaction we’ve had, trying to figure out what I missed. I lean back, eyes burning, and hands clenched into fists. When I slip from my car around one a.m., the lights in her apartment have been off for a little over an hour. After grabbing some supplies from my trunk, I make my way upstairs, stand outside her door, and pace for a few minutes before lifting her spare key to the lock to let myself silently into her apartment.
I’ll do anything to protect my family… and if that means killing the woman I love and carving my heart from my chest, so be it.
The faint sound of footsteps shuffling outside the door to my apartment pulls me from my light sleep. At first, I think I’m still dreaming. My guilt presenting as restless paranoia. Rolling over and snuggling back into my pillow, I hear it again, distinct footsteps just beyond the entrance.
The lock rattles, sticking with that familiar squeaky hitch in the bolt that I’ve become far too used to. I sit up abruptly, my heart jumping into my throat.Someone is trying to get inside. Smooth and controlled, I slide from the bed keeping my movements quiet, like I was trained. Opening the drawer of my nightstand, my fingers close around the cold, matte steel of my Glock.
The cool hardwood floor bites at the soles of my feet as I cross it silently. Pressing my back to the wall—tucking myself intothe shadows of the corner—I flip off the safety with practiced ease as the lock finally gives way a few feet from me. The door slowly opens. A flood of hallway light spills into the single room, stretching long shadows across the floor. Heavy footsteps land on the wood floor, and the door closes as quietly as it opened.
He’s inside.
Cloaked in the shadows, the dark figure moves toward my bed. I can vaguely see the outline of broad shoulders, a masculine gait, and the vague shimmer of the blade in his hand. Whoever he is, he knows what he wants and where he’s headed.
I raise my gun and slip soundlessly from my corner, my muzzle pointed at the back of the intruder. In three silent steps, I’m behind him. My hands are steady as I press the muzzle to the back of his neck. “Put your hands where I can see them,” I command, my voice authoritative and unwavering. “Now!”
He goes still, his posture not faltering. He isn’t surprised or afraid, merely resigned to his situation. “Daddy isn’t into gun play, firecracker,” he gravelly whispers, and my blood turns cold.
“Cillian?” I exhale. He turns fast, disarming me with a sharp twist of my wrist. The gun is suddenly in his hands instead of mine as his knife clatters to the floor. I barely process what’s happening before he slams me against the wall with one hand clamped firmly around my throat. His eyes are wild, and his jaw is clenched so tight that the muscles are ticking. The scent of whiskey on his breath, he angrily growls, “I also don’t like little girls who lie.”
“I… I didn’t…” I choke out the words, pressing my hands against his chest as I try to breathe.
He slams the gun—my gun—into the brick inches from my head. Hard. Cracks splinter through the mortar and clay, tiny shards and dust raining down to the floor. I flinch, even though I know he won’t hit me. He wouldn’t hurt me. Not really.I don’t think…
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Madison,” he snaps, his voice darker than I’ve ever heard him before. “Or should I call youSpecial Agent Madison Roark?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach, and my knees go weak. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he spits. “All the nights we spent together. All the things I told you. Yesterday…Yesterday! When I laid everything bare… At my mam’s fucking grave. And you just stood there, pretending.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” My voice cracks. “I’ve never pretended with you. Not once. I love you.”
He barks out a humorless laugh. “I’m just your fuckingtarget.”
“You aren’t. You never were.” Tears stream hot down my cheeks, blurring him in front of me. “I chose you. Weeks ago. I betrayed the Bureau. I walked away from everything. Foryou.”
“We’ll see.”
He steps back, and I suck in a breath like it’s the first I’ve ever taken. My relief is short-lived. He yanks the belt from his jeans in one fluid motion, the leather hissing through the loops. Before I can move, he’s behind me, wrapping it around my neck and threading it through the buckle. My fingers reach for it as he pulls it tight. Not enough to cut off my air completely. But enough that I struggle for every shallowbreath.
Enough that I know who’s in control.
The muzzle of the gun presses into my ribs. “Walk,” he demands. Frozen with fear, I don’t move. I can’t. “Now!”
