Page 14 of Fragile Twisted Vows

“Because she and your father were too busy snooping around and trying to get my ass in trouble rather than providing me any bit of security,” he groans.

He’s speaking in riddles here. Who is he and what the fuck does he want with me? Why am I once again caught up in bullshit that I want no part of?

“What is it exactly that you do, Damien? Who are you really?” I ask as my eyes narrow on him.

He’s quiet for a moment, staring at me with dark, sinister eyes.

The silence fills the room and wraps around me like a boa. It’s more uncomfortable than when he speaks. Mostly because I feel like when he does speak again, I won’t like what he has to say.

And I’m exactly right.

“I’m the type of man your father tries so hard to get rid of,” he says, and I freeze then.

My father has had many missions in life, and most of them I could care less about. I never wanted to pay attention to any of his campaign trails or debates or elections, but there is one thing that’s universally known about Michael Fairchild.

He’s been after the cartel for years. He’s been trying to lock these men that have filled the city with drugs and crime up for years. It’s why he gets the votes. Because he vows to make New York safe.

And I know when Damien mentions this small, little comment, he’s talking about those men.

He is one of those very bad, very dark men.

And he’s abducted me.

Oh god, I’m sitting in the penthouse suite of a cartel member. And with the riches he’s obtained so quickly, with the aura of dominance and power he exudes, I think he’s higher up on the ladder than I want to admit.

My eyes drift down his long arms. They land on the massive platinum Rolex that adorns his wrist. I look at the gold chain on his neck, the expensive cufflinks on his jacket. I look at the Italian leather, designer shoes.

Alone, this man’s outfit probably costs more than a couple hundred grand. As rich as my father is, he doesn’t make that kind of money.

Dirty money. Blood money. The kind of money that could buy you the world.

The kind that would buy you a brand-new penthouse suite alongside several other properties and businesses.

Christ.

“And…what do you want with me?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t come out as a squeak.

The corner of his full mouth lifts slightly, an evil smirk forming on his handsome face.

He looks like he’s about to eat me alive.

And he most likely is.

“I want you to be my wife, Lucille Fairchild,” he growls, and I can’t help it, I can’t stop the anguish and fear from pouring forward.

However, my fear doesn’t come in the form of a scream or a cry.

Instead, I lean forward and vomit all over those pretty, expensive designer shoes he’s wearing.

six

Damien

“Oh, for fucks sake!” I shout, jerking my foot away from the spray of vomit that leaves Lucille’s mouth and lands directly on my leg, ruining my pants.

She places her small hand over her mouth, her nostrils flaring as she takes deep, heaving breaths.

I’ve made many women react in many different ways, but I’ve not made them do that.

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