I expect the feel of his eyes on me, but he is oddly still. Focused. Even though his mien seems nonchalant and cool, I notice the tight grip he has around the steering wheel.
Nerves thrash through me.
As soon as we entered the District’s streets, I feel a tidal wave of melancholy and sorrow hit me. As though the sixteen-year-old version of myself was left at the City’s limits and is now back inside me. Intense feelings rise to the backs of my eyes. Pin pricks of heat tease behind them.
The last time I was here, I destroyed him and a part of us. I try to stifle my sobs, but when I turn to hide my glossy eyes from him, I catch sight of a black van tailgating us.
The tears dry up.
I watch the ominous vehicle following the RV for a few kilometres before I turn back to Bronson, who is calmly watching the dark road rushing between the tyres. I look at his fists, still trying to crush the wheel within them.
I swallow hard. “We’re being followed.”
“I know, baby,” he says smoothly.
We travel for twenty more minutes; the van never leaving our rear. Obvious. Intentional. Unapologetic.
Finally, we roll through open boom gates and head down a long driveway. I exhale my relief, but then the van follows us in. I twist to Bronson, but he’s still stoic. Stoic on Bronson seems so wrong.
It is dark around the grounds, but delicately placed garden lights illuminate hedges and a manicured, lush lawn. So many hedges. Ahead, an enormous palace of a house looms above the shrubbery. There are cars everywhere, rows and rows of them stretching into the darkness, but Bronson pulls into one of the first bays. An empty bay right beside marble steps that lead up to a grand portico.
My stomach stirs.
I try to speak with an even voice as I say, “We’re not where I think we are, are we?”
“Yes.”
Twisting to face him, I scowl. “And you have me in this!” Noting that the van has now disappeared, I unbuckle my belt and feel the need to throttle Bronson for making me wear this outfit.
“We are speaking Jimmy’s language, baby,” he assures softly, not a hint of unease in his lovely, deep cadence. “He doesn’t take women. He takes submissives. And just like every aspect of his life, he likes rules, codes, and contracts. He respects them. Understands them. When it comes to him, you are safer in that collar than you have ever been.”
The first thing that comes to mind is,‘do you take women or submissives?’ Then I bite back the words, remembering I shouldn’t care. “Why wouldn’t I be safe? Aren’t you family?”
He raises a dark brow at me. “Yes. We arefamily,” he confirms, playing with the word family in an odd way that hints at something distasteful.
I blink at him as he steps from the driver’s side, stare at him as he rounds the back of the vehicle.Family.
Opening the door for me, he smiles at my outfit. “Out you pop, baby.”
I frown at him, sliding from the front seat. My feminine wedges hit the exposed aggregate driveway. Bronson shuts the door and slides the key into his pocket. I think about stealing it and taking the RV back to Darwin, but then he places his hand on the small of my back, halting my thoughts. His fingers span out, nearly covering my entire lower back, while his thumb strokes the dimple above the curve of my arse.
Although very gentle, it is a possessive and dominant hold that makes my heart thunder and my palms sweat.
Guiding me towards an imposing set of doors guarded by two men in black suits, his fingers continue their exploration of my lower back, distracting me enough not to pay much attention to the scantily dressed lady answering the door.
“Bronson, my boy,” I hear a voice boom immediately. I widen my eyes at the formidable sight of Jimmy Storm sashaying towards us with wide open arms and a welcoming smile. “I’m pleased you came by before going home, my boy. And you brought a friend. This makes me very happy. It’s good to see you with someone. You know I worry about you.”
Bronson laughs. “No need to worry about me, Jimmy. I’m golden. You know that.”
The two men never glance my way, as if I’m invisible. A fly on the wall.
“Se! Always reliable. Come, let’s talk. . . How do you feel?” he asks, moving in a way that doesn’t allow for objection.
“It’s just a scratch, mate.”
As Jimmy walks us down a corridor and into another room, I can’t help but take him all in. I’ve seen him many times on the news, but never in the flesh. Clearly Italian, his skin is tanned but weathered with age, and his once dark hair is peppered with grey. A black suit hugs his strong but trim physique and he is shorter and leaner than Bronson, but more regal looking, his presence seemingly potent in the air. Such a mass of confidence and power. . . his body moves ethereally as though God-like and untouchable.
But no one is untouchable.