Page 72 of Tricked By Jack
Five fucking days. I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone after what happened between us. Not after she let me taste her pain. I’ve never thought of myself as a man who needs, but the emptiness in my chest tells a different story.
I miss her.
The realization burns like acid through my veins. I shouldn’t care—this arrangement was never about attachment—but my body doesn’t seem to understand the distinction.
The grand hall of this historicbuilding reeks of old money and older blood. Centuries of power preserved in stone and wood. Massive chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their crystal teardrops catching the light like frozen rain.
Gothic arches frame tall windows that look out over the grounds of Governors Island, the distant carnival lights of the Sanctuary bleeding orange through the fog.
A board member—some white-haired fuck whose name I’ve deliberately forgotten—attempts small talk, asking about the projections for the Sanctuary. I answer with one-word responses, not bothering to hide my disinterest.
His wife sits beside him, her neck draped in diamonds that can’t disguise the withered skin beneath. She’s eyeing me like I’m the night’s entertainment. I’ve gotten used to the way people look at me since Ruby died—half fascination, half fear, as if tragedy might be contagious.
The heavy double doors swing open, and my spine straightens before my brain can catch up. Carolina enters first, her blonde hair swept into a sleek updo, her dress a conservative black sheath that still manages to display her curves to their best advantage.
Nick would kill for her. Has killed for her. But it’s the woman behind her that makes my breath catch. Eve.
She’s wearing a short black dress with orange accents that match the tips of her hair, the fabric so delicate it looks like it might dissolve under my touch. The back dips dangerously low, exposing the ridge of her spine all the way down to where it disappears into the swell of her ass.
The front isn’t much more modest—a deep V that draws the eye to the shadowed valley between her breasts, held together by what looks like a single clasp that’s begging to be undone.
Her legs seem endless, and the heels she’s wearing make her calves flex with each step. She’s fucking magnificent.
I move toward her without conscious thought, drawn by some force more reliable than gravity. Her gray eyes widen slightly when she sees me, taking in my tailored black tux and the crisp white shirt beneath it.
“I’ve missed you, wife,” I say, the words rough with honesty I didn’t intend to reveal.
Eve rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away when Ilean in to kiss her. Her lips meet mine in a perfunctory press, her body stiff in my arms. The coldness of her response is so at odds with the heat of our last encounter that I almost pull back to check if it’s really her.
But the scent is unmistakable—flowers layered over something darker, richer, that belongs only to her.
“Hello, Jack.” Her voice could freeze blood. “How nice of you to remember I exist.”
Before I can respond, Nick calls us to the table. I guide Eve with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin. She allows the touch but doesn’t lean into it. The contrast with the Eve who rode me in the cage—wild, uninhibited, claiming—is so stark it feels like whiplash.
Instead of sitting at the head, which is customary, Nick waves our wives over and gestures for them to take those two seats. I take the seat on Eve’s left, and Nick sits next to Carolina and right across from me.
It’s a deliberate arrangement—the Knight women in the center, protected on all sides. No one touches what belongs to us. And with my brother’s head of security behind the women, all sides are covered.
I mouth my thanks to Marco, who just nods back. Stoic as ever.
“Let’s start with drinks and the important stuff while the chefs put the last touches on the food,” Carolina says, officially calling the meeting to order.
I can’t focus on a single word being said as everyone asks questions about the only thing that matters to the board members—money.
My attention is locked on Eve’s face, on the careful blankness of her expression when she looks at me. She’s here physically, but somehow she’s locked herself away, retreated behind walls I thought we’d started to dismantle.
The candles on the table catch in her hair, turning the orange ends to flame. I want to reach across and tangle my fingers in it, to pull until her head tips back and her throat is exposed to me. I want to ask what changed, why she’s looking through me instead of at me.
But the questions will have to wait. For now, I watch her.
Finally, the first course arrives, and with it, plenty of wine. Eve and I are served at the same time, and when I shake my head and refill my water glass, she does the same. I look at her, intending to tell her she can drink wine if she wants, but she’s not looking at me.
Her eyes are on the artful arrangement of food too pretentious to satisfy actual hunger. Though she smiles politely at the board members who look her way, she ignores me completely. Sure, the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but it’s still more than she’s offered me.
Something dark and possessive twists in my gut. I grip my knife harder than necessary, the metal biting into my palm.
“Dr. Mortis, I understand you specialize in trauma psychology,” says one of the women, her voice dripping with rehearsed interest. “You got that from your father, didn’t you?”
