Demand (7 page)

“When you said that right
now
I want more—”

“Right now we both want more.” His lips and his voice tighten. “Until we don't.”

“Until we don't,” I repeat. The reference to both of our withdrawals implies a much bigger problem than I know of.

“Yes,” he confirms, drawing a deep breath to pull out of me and sit up, giving me his profile. “Until we don't.”

I grab my shirt lying next to me, pressing it between my legs. “As in
when
we don't.” Suddenly needing the shelter of being covered, I reach for the soft brown blanket on the back of the couch, and wrap it around myself. “I guess it's time you tell me everything.”

“I'd have to know everything to tell you, and I still don't.” He stands and grabs his black jeans, shoving his legs inside them.

“But you knew about the necklace.”

Forgoing his zipper, he sits on the stone coffee table in front of me, resting his hands on his legs. “I knew about the necklace.”

His cell phone rings, and he grimaces. “Holy fuck, I can't even get an hour.” He stands and retrieves his phone from his pocket, answering the call in Italian. He listens a few beats and then replies, before giving me his back and ending the call, tension radiating off of him.

He finally faces me. “Matteo is making Enzo disappear, disconnecting him from The Underground. That means his mother can't know he's dead—and I'm not sure if I'm doing her a favor or a disservice.” He scrubs his jaw. “I need a shower to wash some of the death off of me.” He doesn't wait for a reply or invite me to follow, he simply turns and walks toward the hallway.

I sit there a moment, not sure if I should go after him, repeating his words in my mind:
wash some of the death off of me
. And I think it's more about guilt that he wants to wash away. He blames himself for every death that touches his life, including Enzo's. My mind flashes back to my father lying in a pool of his blood and again, I wonder what I have wondered over and over in my life: could I have done something different and saved his life? Maybe if I hadn't hidden in the pantry with my mother when intruders came into our home. Maybe if I had stood and fought by my father's side. Maybe if I had come out of that closet just three minutes earlier. Guilt sucks. Questioning yourself sucks.

No one needs to deal with that alone. And Kayden's been alone a long time. I think . . . I think that I have, too.

I stand up, allowing my shirt to drop to the ground, and I hold the blanket around me as I hurry toward the hallway, cutting left toward Kayden's bedroom,
our
bedroom, cold stone beneath my bare feet. And I know what I had not admitted until now. Kayden had been right. I didn't want to go back to the intimate place we share until after we had talked. Now I can't wait to get there, where he is and probably thinks I will not follow. I reach the giant wooden door, finding it cracked open, and since Kayden does nothing by accident, I'm aware of the invitation it represents.

I enter the room, the fireplace warming the space, crackling with warming flames just beyond the bed I pray I'll still share with Kayden when this night is over. The bathroom door is open, and I hear the sound of water running. I drop the blanket and stand in the doorway of the white glistening room, an oval tub before me, and directly beside it, the deep, stone-encased shower making it impossible for me to see Kayden inside.

Walking to it, I enter, shocked to find a dripping-wet Kayden now out of the spray and sitting on the floor in the corner, his head resting against the wall, eyes shut. I sense that he knows I'm here, but he doesn't move, so I close the distance between us and sit down beside him, facing him, my hand on his knee. He lifts his head to look at me, immediately letting me inside the cage holding him captive. “If you could have remembered your father without knowing the brutal way he died, would you have chosen that path?”

“You're worried about Enzo's mother.”

“Yes. I'm worried about his mother.”

I consider his question, shutting my eyes as I remember the moment I grabbed my father's gun and shot and killed one of his attackers. And then the next. I look at Kayden. “I want to know who sent the men who killed my father. I want to know justice was served on his behalf. I need to know justice was served. I won't let it go.”

“What are you telling me?”

“That if you love someone, you look for them, you fight for them, you have to have answers. But the more you know, the more you want to know.”

“Meaning I need to give her closure.”

“Yes. You do. Does she know about The Underground?”

“No. She can't. In other words, she can't have the truth.”

“Can you at least give her a goodbye, not a disappearance? Make it seem like a car accident or some other accident? If not now, then later, to give her closure?”

“Gallo will dig around.”

“Matteo is good at painting a perfect picture.”

His cell phone starts ringing again, and he looks upward. “Jesus, I just need a fucking hour.” He starts to get up.

I grab his arm. “Let it ring.”

“I can't do that tonight.” He stands and helps me up. “No one else can know I'm struggling with this. They can't know I need five minutes, let alone an hour.”

“Of course not. But it's got to be at least four in the morning. Seriously, can't you let it go?” His phone stops ringing and almost immediately starts again.

“They're moving the body while the police chief has Gallo on a leash. I have to take it.”

I suck in air at the announcement, and he exits the shower. The reality of what he's just spoken a little too brutal, and suddenly I need to wash the death off of me, too. I turn and grab the sweet-smelling shampoo Marabella bought me, wet my hair with the quickly chilling water, and suds up my hair and body. Images start flickering without definition in my head and while I try to invite and embrace memories, I'm not sure now is the time. I try to shove them away, pouring conditioner into my palm and running it through my hair. More images flicker.

“No,” I whisper. “Not now.”

I rinse my hair and find myself standing there as I lose the battle and images begin flowing freely. I relive the moment I grabbed my father's gun, the kitchen door flew open, and I shot and killed the man in black who entered. I am tormented. I am heartbroken. I am angry. The next moment, I'm in the foyer of the castle, wrapping a torn shirt around Enzo's wound, blood gushing everywhere, while I scream orders at Kayden's men to help me. I'm terrified for him. I am terrified of failing to save him. Finally, I'm leaning over David, blood gushing from his chest as he whispers, “Don't give him the necklace.” And I feel angry. So very angry, and I don't understand why I'm not trying to save him.

“They're connected,” I whisper. These three events are connected. One dot, two dots, three dots.
Tha
t
'
s
why I'm remembering them together.
The
y
'
re connected—but how? It makes no sense.

“Ella. Sweetheart.”

I blink again and see Kayden, and I'm sitting in the corner of the shower, with no memory of how I got there, and he's kneeling in front of me.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Let's get you out of here.”

“David's dead,” I say. “Did you know that?” I don't give him a chance to answer. “But before he died, he lay there in his own blood and told me not to give ‘
him
' the necklace.” My eyes meet Kayden's. “Was he talking about you?”

K
ayden's hands come down on my arms and he stands, taking me with him. “Let's get you out of the shower.” He reaches over and turns off the water.

“That's not a
no
, Kayden. Was David talking about you?”

“I had no idea David was dead,” he says, wrapping his arm around me and urging me out of the shower.

“That's still not an answer,” I say, grabbing a towel and knotting it at my chest. “
Was
he talking about you?”

“That's a complicated question, which I will answer. But here's how this is going to happen. We're going to get some clothes on and I'm going to make a pot of coffee. Then we'll sit at the kitchen table and have a past-due talk.”

“Just tell me now and get it over with.”

“Like I said, you asked a complicated question that has a complicated answer. And while we're both naked, and emotions are high—”

“I'm calm and rational.”

“You are
always
remarkably calm and rational. Two of the many things I love about you, Ella. But you're wet, cold, and exhausted, not to mention affected by losing Enzo. Although this is the wrong time for this conversation, we need to have it—but my way. And that means that I'm going to get dressed and get that coffee going. You take time to dry your hair, and I'll be waiting when you're ready.” He steps around me and heads for the closet.

He's right. We need to have this conversation in the kitchen. I grab another towel and partially dry my hair. It's then that Kayden reenters the bathroom, wearing gray sweats, running shoes, and a white T-shirt stretched over his broad, muscled chest. His light brown hair lies in damp tendrils framing his handsome face.

He doesn't immediately touch me, and despite every reason I have to doubt him right now, I
want
him to. “I need you to be the man I think you are.”

“I have been completely honest with you about who and what I am. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready. Don't feel rushed.”

“No problem there,” I say, a knot forming in my belly. “I suddenly seem to have gone from demanding answers to not being sure I'm ready for them.”

“I understand,” he says, caressing my cheek with two fingers, my skin tingling beneath his touch. “If I didn't,” he adds, letting his touch fall away, “we would have had this conversation the first time you told me about the necklace.” He starts to step around me, but stops, and his hands go to the sides of my breasts as he kisses me firmly on the mouth. And then he is gone, leaving me aching for his touch and praying for answers I can live with.

I do not turn to watch his departure, but instead find myself replaying something he said.
“I didn't know David was dead.” Does that mean he knew David?
That's a bad thought I dismiss. He'd been upset over David, almost jealous.

Whatever the case, I'm suddenly over the dread that made me linger in the bathroom. I go to the closet and pull on black sweats and a black tank top, then shove my feet into slippers. Still cold, I pull on a matching black jacket and then return to the sink to use the hair dryer. As the wet strands become a sleek and shiny dark brown, I wonder if Kayden knows the me that had red hair. If he does and didn't tell me, that will be a hard pill to swallow—especially since
I
still can't remember my past.

That's enough to launch me toward the bedroom, and I suddenly stop, staring at the massive king-sized bed I share with Kayden. My mind is searching for the secrets of my past and I have a flickering image of me naked and tied to a bed, and another image of David and me fighting in our hotel room, and I'm not sure why I'm thinking of these two things right now. How do they connect to this room, and this moment? They feel nothing like any experience I have ever had with Kayden. But then, maybe that's the point: he is different. My instincts about him say he's different. But if my instincts are good, how the heck did I have those prior experiences?

Shaking off the questions, I leave the bedroom, entering the hallway with an odd sense of being watched. Ridiculous, since Kayden doesn't allow cameras in our tower, but I leave the bedroom door open and peer at the high ceiling as I start to walk, deciding I'm just spooked due to Enzo's death. How can I not be? Still, I rub the prickling sensation on the back of my neck, and it feels like forever before I turn into the living room. Crossing behind the couch toward the kitchen, I find myself remembering those naked, intimate moments with Kayden only a short time ago. The passion. The trust I'd felt for him. And then his words: “We both want more. Until we don't.” The words send a surge of adrenaline and nerves through my body.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee teases my nostrils as I reach the kitchen, where I immediately find Kayden standing behind the island. But it's not him that makes my heart lurch, as usual. It's my gun that's lying on the counter between us. And when I should perhaps step backward I find myself charging forward to claim the other side of the counter. “What is that for?”

“You thought you needed it earlier,” he says. “I want you to have it now.”

My fingers curl on the tiled counter. “Do I need it?”