Without Mercy, page 30
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
A big room on the main floor of the condo was hers, he said. An art studio. When she opened it, she lost her words. Her supplies, her canvasses, her works of art were stacked inside. “How?” she asked looking around in awe.
“You weren’t going back to your condo, ever, so I brought what you needed here.”
“You were very sure of yourself,” she teased.
Anto growled. “You’re lucky you came back when you did. Otherwise, I was going to have to go and get you, and I doubt very much that you would’ve liked how I would’ve handled that.”
He introduced her to Katerina. She was to be Mari’s personal assistance. She would run her errands, get her anything she needed. At first Mari was jealous of the girl, didn’t want her near Anto, but soon realized there was nothing between them but respect, and maybe a little fear on Katerina’s part.
The day came too quickly when play time was over. It was the day after her new art supplies arrived. A Sunday. They’d made love that morning, Anto waking her up to his caresses, his beard chafing the sensitive folds of her pussy. After, he told her he loved her, just the second time since they’d reconciled. “I fell in love with you the day in the cabin when you punched me. I was becoming fond of you already, but when you punched me, it was an amazing thing to me. I thought you a rabbit, and yet, you dared to draw blood from me.” Mari laughed when he told her and tried to think about when she knew she was in love with him. On their run maybe, when they were in the river, when he wouldn’t let anything happen between them. That’s when she knew he was honourable.
“It doesn’t come easy to me,” he added as they talked about those special moments of happiness. “Sentiments, pretty words. In my heart I will always love you, Marisol. You are the only person that I’ve loved, the only person I have ever said those words to.”
Mari cried when he told her. Ached for him for not having a family that nurtured him in his childhood, found solace for the first time in her own life, trusted that this man, stumbling over his words, was devoted to her always. Would do anything for her.
Anto told her about Jackman, about his duplicity. She already knew there was something, but before now, hadn’t quite sorted out the logistics. She had a foreboding sense of danger as he discussed their situation and how tenuous it was. His condo was a fortress, he told her. Only three people had access. He, Mari, and Katerina. Cleaning staff came in twice a week, but no others had ever stepped foot inside. Mari felt relieved that she was the only woman who had shared his bed, their bed now.
He repeated what he told her at Rusya’s. About following his lead, expectations around being a good wife. He asked her to marry him that morning. Not sappy or sugary, not down on one knee in front of her, with a ring in his hand. Instead it was over breakfast, as they ate overcooked scrambled eggs and slightly burned toast. He wondered if they should hire a chef or fire the cleaning staff and hire a live-in housekeeper and cook.
Mari wasn’t sure she liked the idea of losing their privacy and Anto grinned. “She’ll stay in one of the suites downstairs, can share it with Katerina and we’ll set a schedule that she’ll follow. I don’t want to have to give up fucking in the pool either.”
Mari blushed at his bluntness and then wondered if she would ever get past it but didn’t think she wanted to. It turned her on that he was so primal, that he understood his urges and was not shamed by them. But he saw her face redden and he softened, reaching over the empty breakfast plates to cradle her cheeks in his hands. “I want you as my wife, Marisol. If you’ll consent.”
Mari was overwhelmed and her throat closed. “Of course,” she choked out before the sobs overcame her. He pulled her into his arms and held her, kissed her tears away, then his tongue strayed into her ear, licking its folds, nibbling at the lobe, making her giggle. He didn’t stop, she knew he wouldn’t and they christened yet another piece of furniture in the house.
They lay on the couch in the living room after. Naked bodies entwined and painted white by the rays of the sun. “Your father and I have talked together many times these past few weeks.”
This jarred Mari and she shifted on her side so Anto could see her scowl. “About what?”
“Your sexy panties, Marisol. What else would we have to talk about?”
She slapped his chest with the open palm of her hand and felt satisfaction when he let out an oomph. “Be serious, Anto, or … “
“Or what, Marisol?”
But she didn’t say, though she thought of a hundred ways she could torture him. Anto sighed as he untangled himself from her and sat up. Immediately she missed the warmth of body. “You’re his daughter, he loves you. I’ve promised him that I won’t stand between you and your family. I told him that you could come to Sunday dinners.”
“You did what?” Marisol sat up and rounded on him. “I hate family dinners! They’re so awkward and loud.”
Anto grinned as he tucked his arm around her and drew her mouth to his hardening cock. “It will get worse. Your father insists that I join you.”
She stiffened as panic threaded through her, but she couldn’t reply. Her mouth was full.
The End
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Excerpt from Hard Lessons
(Running with the Devil Book 5)
by Jasmin Quinn
To be released Fall 2018
✽ ✽ ✽
Mira stood in the courtroom addressing the judge. “Prosecution agrees to the second-degree murder charge, your honour, and a sentence of 15 years for the defendant.”
Judge Peter Langland nodded his head. “Let the record show that the defendant, Robert Leslie Creed, shall be remanded into custody for the charge of murder in the second degree for 15 years without possibility of parole for 10 years, notwithstanding time already served.”
A murmur rose in the courtroom as Mira turned her back to the judge, to Creed’s lawyer, and to Robert Creed himself. She kept her head lowered, letting her shoulder-length hair fall forward, veiling her face, and shuffled her papers together, stuffing them into her leather portfolio. She didn’t dare look up. No one in this courtroom was happy, least of all her. She’d agreed to the plea bargain because the alternative was a long drawn out trial that would have been compromised from the start. She’d learned early on in her law career that the Creeds were not a family to be trifled with and if the case went to trial on first degree charges, there would be delays, witnesses might disappear or suddenly lose their memories, juries would be tampered with. Robert Creed would be out on bail until the trial because it didn’t matter what bail was set at, the Creeds had the money. And the charges were sticky, the evidence murky. Mira believed she could get a first-degree conviction if all the stars aligned, but that seldom happened when the Creeds were involved.
It was small consolation to the victim’s family that Creed pleaded to the lesser charge of second-degree murder. The sonofabitch took Amber Thiessen because she was pretty, and he kept her for months, torturing her, using her, abusing her until she died. Then he dumped her body in a refuse bin behind a local downtown pub and moved on. He treated her like garbage in life and in death and it made Mira physically ill when she thought about it. But the first-degree murder charges would have been challenging – Robert’s side of the story was that he and Amber were in love; that her family was abusive, and Amber was afraid of them. That’s why they were in hiding, that there was no kidnapping. Yes, they were into BDSM, but it was entirely consensual. Robert panicked when Amber died of asphyxiation during sex play, and he disposed of her body out of fear of reprisal; but he was inconsolable with grief. His story.
Second-degree murder was the compromise and it sickened her. Amber’s family sat in the courtroom, furious that they weren’t going to trial; outraged at what Creed was saying about them. Angry, devastated and inconsolable. Robert’s older brother, Jack Creed, was there too, every time there was a hearing, a motion, a request for continuance, sitting impassively at back of the courtroom, staring at her, his eyes burning a hole through her. Sometimes he was alone, sometimes he was with others. The first morning, the day of the arraignment, he was with Rusya Savisin, the dark lord of Vancouver, BC.
The day Rusya walked into the courtroom and sat beside Jack Creed was the day she knew she’d lost. Jack Creed was one of the most dangerous men she knew, but if the rumours were true, he had nothing on Savisin. For Savisin to be here, next to Creed was unprecedented. Mob bosses did not meet in courtrooms. No one else seemed to notice Savisin. Why would they? They were here for Robert Creed. Very few knew or cared about the Russian mob’s presence in Vancouver. Maybe one or two of the press would realize the rare phenomena of having him here. But as she scanned the room, the reporters were chatting to one another, relaxed postures, clueless.
That morning was the worst for her. She couldn’t let go of the heavy presence that hung in the courtroom sucking the air out. It blanketed her, made her feel small and vulnerable, made her suddenly afraid of the dark. When the arraignment was over, she almost ran out of the courtroom, past the press who were scrambling to catch her, past Jack Creed and Rusya Savisin. She needed fresh air, she needed distance from her thoughts, she needed to pull herself together.
Thankfully, that was the only time Savisin showed. For the rest of the court appearances, she still had Jack Creed to contend with, a man she first met when she was articling at a large Las Vegas firm, the same firm currently representing Robert Creed. Back then, she caught Jack’s eye and soon found herself included in meetings and client dinners she had no business being at given her youth and her status at the firm. Even if she wanted to, which she didn’t in those days, she couldn’t say no. Her bosses, the firm’s partners expected their employees to be team players.
Jack charmed her, seduced her, and she was young and naïve, thrilled by the attention, believing herself in love with him, believing he loved her. Until the morning she woke up to the announcement in the papers, of his marriage to another woman. No goodbyes, no explanation. He was simply gone from her life. At first, she thought it a mistake, a misunderstanding, but her attempts to talk to him were rebuffed by his men. They made it clear to her that the love affair was over. That she could leave him alone of her own free will or they would make her leave him alone. She got the message.
And now he was here, everyday, his hostility evident in his unyielding posture, the hard set to his jaw, stony eyes that bored right through Mira. But even his darkness didn’t dissuade her from fighting hard for the first-degree murder charge; if anything, it made her more determined. She knew that Robert’s defence team would advise him to plead to a lesser charge. The Creed’s needed to get off the front-page as soon as possible – sensational murder trials were hard on criminal business empires. The defence tried to get Mira to drop to manslaughter, but she held fast, and her boss supported her. It was still a small meaningless victory. Robert was a sadist and a killer, and his connections meant that the next 10 years would be a breeze for him. He would be not quite 40 years old when he was free to terrorize this city again.
Mira said a last few words to Creed’s defence attorney as she packed up. She desperately wanted to slip out a side door and go home. Drink a bottle of red wine, maybe two, and spend an hour in the shower washing the stink of the day off her. But it was only 2pm. She needed to say goodbye to Amber’s parents, hear their grief and anger; then she would address the press outside the courthouse before returning to her office to put the finishing touches on the case. As she sorted the last of her papers into her briefcase, she became aware of the silence. Everyone was gone. She let a small breath escape her lips as she glanced up. But she wasn’t alone as her eyes caught the startling black eyes of Jack Creed who was standing at the back of the courtroom, leaning causally against the wall, hands tucked into his pants pockets.
As his gaze caught hers she inhaled sharply. He was tall and solid, darkly handsome with hard features, eyes hooded and indiscernible; money, strength, confidence, heat all emanated from him. He was a Creed, she thought with a slight shiver – he took what he wanted. He was savage. She didn’t want to let him know he was getting to her, but she also didn’t want to let him think she was a vindictive person who would throw her victory in the face of a family member, so she tried to keep her expression neutral as she acknowledged him with a nod of her head. Then he did something unexpected. He smiled at her, a searing, consuming, knowing smirk, his dark eyes reaching past her defenses and devouring her. She shrank from him, felt herself flush as her heart thudded in her chest. She dropped her eyes to her case, fumbled to close it, her fingers unwilling to comply with this simple task. When she looked up again, he was next to her.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked nodding toward the clasps of her case.
“No.” Mira snatched the case from his reach and took a step back. “No thank you, Mr. Creed,” she swiftly amended. They were strangers. Whatever had passed between them five years ago for a few short weeks was no longer relevant. She wasn’t even sure he remembered her.
“Mira, you’re an excellent prosecutor. Really, very good.”
Mira waited a heartbeat for his punchline, but when none appeared to be forthcoming, she murmured her thanks. She couldn’t hold the intensity of his gaze and dropped her eyes to her case. She wanted to leave, but he was blocking her exit.
“I found it very interesting to watch you in action. You go through all the right motions, hide it well, but you really are a submissive, aren’t you?”
Mira jerked her head up and met Jack’s mocking gaze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hmmm. I suspected you didn’t do all your homework for the trial, did you? Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you what I’m talking about.”
Mira exhaled between trembling lips and hugged her briefcase closer to her. “There was no trial Mr. Creed. Your brother confessed.” The words came out too weak and she cleared her throat. “And even if I had an interest in having dinner with you, don’t you think it would be unwise for the defendant’s brother and the prosecuting attorney to be seen out on the town the same day of the conviction.”
Jack threw her a small lopsided smile and looked down at his hand, resting lightly on the table she was using as a shield. He tapped it a couple of times with his long fingers, then his gaze returned to her eyes, a broader smile creasing his face. “You’re quite right. We should have dinner at my place.”
Mira laughed, a sharp hysterical giggle. Then she said, “Why do you want to have dinner with me, Mr. Creed?”
“You should call me Jack.”
Mira pursed her lips but said nothing.
He grinned as he rocked up on his feet, his hands in his pockets. He leaned into her and said, “Two reasons. I find that submissive little quirk of yours scintillating. I think we should explore it so you have a better understanding of what BDSM is about. And if I recall correctly, you have a highly fuckable body, and I can’t seem to stop picturing it under me, naked and writhing.”
Mira jolted as heat rushed to her face. She raised her hand and dealt a stinging slap across his face. “You’re disgusting,” she seethed.
He absorbed the blow with a smile, his eyes twinkling. Then dropped his eyes, toeing the carpet with his shoe. “Did you forget who I am?” He looked up, the smile gone, his eyes drilling into hers, dark and serious.
A sliver of ice snaked up Mira’s spine. “Are you threatening me?” She tried to keep her voice from quaking.
Jack cocked his head to the side. “I am inviting you to dinner tonight.”
“I am not available for dinner and I really have to go.” She tried to sidle by him and he reached out with his hand, gently drawing her hand to him, brushing the back of it with his lips. “Your mouth is saying no, Mira.” He dropped his eyes to her chest. “But your nipples are saying yes.”
She yanked her hand from his and rushed down the aisle between the rows of seats.
“Mira,” he called after her. “What time shall I send my car for you?”
✽ ✽ ✽
The rest of the day played out as expected; the press questioning Mira’s courage and integrity for backing off the first-degree murder charges, sensationalizing the reasons, one even implying that she was in bed with the Creeds, bringing up her former association with Jack Creed. Then back at her office, she was equally celebrated and criticized by her colleagues, many of whom second-guessed her actions, thought she should have gone to trial. Telling her that’s what they would have done. But her boss was not one of them. He had given her the case because he trusted her judgement. She was smart, dispassionate and wily. She knew what she needed to get the most pain for the least pain. Though just 28, her career as a prosecutor was solid. She was smart, professional, cool-headed and dogged. He told her she could go all the way to the top and he was one of the rare good guys who would be more than happy to support her.
It was almost 8pm and fully dark when Mira walked through the front door of her house, finally putting the day to bed. As she closed and locked the door behind her, she dropped her briefcase on the floor and pulled her pumps off her feet with a groan. She threw them carelessly toward the front closet, then shimmied out of her stockings, pulling them down past white lace panties and tossing them on her shoes. All this done in the dark, a sense of safety embracing her. She wiggled her toes and stretched the arches of her feet, willing them not to cramp, then scratched at her legs to wipe away the layer of irritation left by heat and nylon. A small grating pain tapped at her temples and she rolled her shoulders in a futile attempt to banish the stress that stretched through her like a taut elastic band.
She padded in the dark, sure as a cat, to the kitchen, shrugging out of her suit jacket and abandoning it on a bar stool next to the island. It slid off the chair and fell to the floor, but Mira’s attention had already shifted to an open bottle of red wine. She flicked on the under counter lights as she reached for the bottle and a large stemless wine glass ready and waiting for her arrival home. “I love you,” she murmured to the glass, pressing it to her cheek, its coolness against her flesh, soothing. She poured a good eight ounces into the glass, looked at the scant few ounces remaining in the bottle and drained the remainder into her glass. She took a large swallow of the wine, letting it slide over her tongue like a lover’s caress. Blessed numbness. As it hit her empty belly, a soft warmth spread through her, softening the edges of her day. She sighed. Everything was better with wine. Even murder.
