His Forever Series Books 11-21

1. His Order, Book Eleven-2

"Yes, you made a promise, I know that," Pierre says in a tone dangerously close to mocking. But I'll let it go for now. "Yet he can still pass away quietly in the hospital, from his injuries. At least as far as Ms. West is concerned."

He pulls the lower lid of his right eye down as he says it, in a gesture he sometimes uses to hint at something he's not quite saying. Not sure why he's doing it now, since he's saying what he means very clearly.

I’m pissed because he's right. I should kill Reynard now, before he does any more damage. But I made a promise to Nicole and I don't think I can keep a secret like that from her. She's still so fragile, her mood alternating between pure vulnerability and steel composure, sharp enough to cut. I can't force her to face my lies on top of that. Or the horror that she caused a man's death, however circumstantially.

"Good, you're silent. That means you're considering my advice," Pierre muses, flipping the laptop shut.

"No," I say and roll the chair back to my desk. "You just concentrate on finding his inside man, and let me worry about the big picture."

"Well, as to that, I'm afraid you're losing sight of what's truly important," he says. "I know you love her—"

I slam my fist against the tabletop so hard, the receptionist outside looks up at me. But better the desk than Pierre's face. "I'll handle it my way."

My phone's ringing, but I ignore it as I glare at Pierre.

"You should get that, Boss," he says, getting up and walking to the door.

I wait for him to exit before picking up the phone.

"Sir, I've just escorted Ms. West to the police station, where she is meeting with the detectives," Thompson informs me, and I feel like the air in the room has been sucked out.

"She wasn't to leave the office," I say.

"I didn't understand that I was to force her to stay there," Thompson says.

"No, you weren't. I'm coming there now, make sure she waits for me."

Her meeting with the cops so soon is not a good idea. I thought she understood that. I've managed to keep my involvement with Reynard's current condition a secret for the most part, and I want it to remain like that. For all her intelligence, Nicole's incredibly naive about how the world works. She's honest, sincere and just, so she thinks the rest of the world wants to be too. But most people are just out for their own gain nowadays. And I'd burst that bubble of naivety in her, if I wasn't so addicted to the purity of her light, the raw honesty with which she throws herself into everything.

I'm tainted by my past, things done to me, and things I've done. Dishonest, dirty things that leave a caustic darkness deep in your soul which feeds off all that is good and clean until it destroys it. I'll die before I let that happen to Nicole. And that's why I won't kill Reynard. She'd find out, blame herself, and the seed of darkness would be planted. One that can never be removed again.

Nicole

At the police station, the detective steers me into a small, windowless interrogation room. The only furniture inside it is a chipped grey desk and four chairs. The place smells like paint and metal, strong enough to burn my nose.

"Let's start at the beginning," the detective says, clicking on her pen. "How did you come into contact with the man who abducted you?"

Charles' dead black eyes swim to the forefront of my mind, and cold sweat erupts along my back.

"He…he was introduced to me by my co-worker as a source for an article I was working on," I finally manage. But I met him before, when he accosted me on the way to the subway after Mark first came back into my life. So I tell her that, and about the time I saw him in the diner where I met Lucy, as well as about the meeting in the park with Martin, where we were interrupted.

Once I start talking it gets easier to keep going. But my heart starts racing as I get to the part about how I met Charles at the bar, how he drugged me, how I woke up in a dingy house in the middle of the woods, how cold it was, how I ran through the woods to escape, only to find out that was just part of Charles’ sick game.

"Slow down," the detective finally interrupts, and by then I'm nearly panting since I haven't even been pausing for breath in my haste to get it all out once and for all. "If I understand correctly, all this started when you took the assignment to write an article about the investment banker Mark Cross?"

My breath hitches in my throat. I haven't mentioned Mark at all in my retelling of the story, since I don't think I should.

"He came here to report you missing," the detective informs me. "Yet he's been less than cooperative since then."

"Yes, I was working on an article about his new company," I say, since I don’t want to lie to her. "But I'm here to talk about Charles. He told me he killed my colleague Lucy, described it to me in detail. Should I talk about that?"

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat that appeared right after I asked the question. The detective nods, and I swallow again. Then I lunge into the story, telling it in disjointed sentences, and mentioning the escort in LA too. But I leave out all the parts that connect Mark to it all. And that leaves a huge gaping hole in the story.

"And Charles planned to do the same with you?" the detective asks when I finally pause for breath.

I nod and just that little action propels me right into the woods, hanging off the tree, my death a certainty.

"He meant to slit my throat," I mutter not even recognizing my own voice. "I was so cold."

The detective jots something down on a pad in front of her.

"But you were rescued?" she says, looking up at me sharply. "By Cross?"

I nod again.

"How did he know where to find you?"

"I don't know," I answer and it's the truth, even though I can plainly read in the detective's eyes that she doesn't believe me. "But I'm glad he did."

"And Charles escaped?" she asks, studying my face very closely.

I shrug. "He must have. I passed out as soon as I knew I was safe, woke up in the hospital."

"Where Cross secured the whole ward to keep you safe?" she asks wryly though I think that's more of a rhetorical question.

"Why are you so interested in Mark Cross? I thought I was here to tell you about Charles?" my voice shakes, so there's no real force behind my words. But whatever they know about Mark's involvement, they won't be getting confirmation from me. Until I write the article. But I stifle that thought as soon as it emerges.

"We're investigating all angles of this case," she tells me, jotting something down on her pad. "Cross' involvement is just one of them."

But she's making this whole interview about that, and I open my mouth to call her on it when a loud rap on the door echoes through the room. A tall man in a three-piece suit and greying hair walks in a second later.

"I'm terminating this interview," he tells the detective. "If you wish to speak to any of my clients it must go through my office."

He smiles at me as I look at him questioningly. I'm not his client. I've never seen him before in my life. But judging by the grimace on the detective's face she knows him.

"So when will Cross be available to speak, Counselor?" she asks. "We've been trying to set up an interview with him for over a week."

"He's a very busy man," the lawyer says then turns to me, extending his hand. "I'm Roger Lattimer, and my firm is retained by Mr. Cross. He's waiting outside for you, Ms. West, and he'll explain everything while I deal with the police."

I get up, hoping my legs will support me. They feel like jelly.

"Cross is here?" the detective asks the lawyer and gets up too. "Then I can talk to him right now."

The lawyer shakes his head. "I have some information to impart to you. It is worthwhile to your investigation."

He sets the briefcase down on the desk and pulls a folder from it, turning to me. "You may leave now, Ms. West."

And I do, my heart jumping in my throat. Mark's angry with me for coming here, and I'm sure I'm about to find out just how much.

Outside, Mark's leaning against his car with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes are shooting pure blue flames at me, even though the rest of his face is a frozen, unreadable mask.

I look at the ground as I approach him, because the intensity of his gaze is more than I can handle.

"I'm sorry," I mutter once I reach him. "I just had to…" but I don't know what I had to do. Disobey him maybe, because talking about my ordeal didn't help. It just jogged all those memories and now they're playing on a loop inside my head, Charles' black eyes and Lucy's face the most prominent among them. But it's alright, because Mark's here now. He'll take charge now, punish me, and banish all else but the pleasure and pain.

He peels himself off the car and swings the passenger door open. "Get in."

I do it without a second thought, clutching my oversized bag to my chest as he slams the door shut behind me.

"I have to make sure they keep Charles locked up," I say once he gets in too.

"Reynard’s in a coma," Mark says, checking the side mirror then driving away from the curb like we're being chased. "He's out of the picture one way or another for now."

"The cops asked a lot of questions about your involvement," I say, hastily adding, "But I didn't tell them anything."

His eyes fix onto mine, the flames in them so fierce my belly turns to mush. "Good. You will let me handle that from now on. Everything they have to ask you will go through my lawyer."

He's the cold, commanding Mark now, using the voice that brooks no argument. And I feel myself growing wet in anticipation of my punishment later. Maybe even right now.

"My editor has asked me to write the article about what happened," I say quietly, looking down at my interlaced hands. "He wants me to get an interview with you too."

I'd imagined telling him this differently, maybe over a candlelit dinner, but I've kept secrets from him before, and that didn't end well.

He brakes with unnecessary force for a yellow light, the seatbelt cutting into my shoulder.

"And you agreed?" he barks, glaring at me again.

"It's my story to tell, Mark," I counter, my voice finally gaining some firmness.

"So it is," he agrees and guns the accelerator as the light turns green.

But it's a very weak acquiescence, if that's what it is at all. A few minutes of silence later, he stops in front of a fancy restaurant, the valet already opening my door for me.

"You can leave your bag in the car," Mark tells me as he hands the keys to the valet then offers me his arm.

I'm way underdressed for this upscale restaurant, but I toss my bag back onto the seat, and take his arm anyway.