Broken Angel Page 24

  “Do you wish to test that theory, Marcus?” The soft, sinewy voice sent a chill racing through his blood. He dropped his gaze to the floor with an angry snort.

  “I did not think so.”

  Jenner turned and left, as silently as he’d arrived.

  He stared after him and then returned to the weights, uneasy for the first time since he’d issued the challenge.

  Losing the money would sting, but it wouldn’t sink him. Even losing Angel wouldn’t take him out of the game. The boy’s notoriety had already spread through the underground, elevating his House reputation, and he’d lined up plenty of prime fighting material to take his place. He had expected the boy to die, after all. It galled him that he’d survived, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He’d still have Lillith, and she had become the most profitable whore in his stable. The twisted bitch enjoyed high-end role-play—though she preferred the dominatrix position.

  He could afford to lose the money, and Angel with it. Still, ten million was a serious chunk of cash that he didn’t feel like parting with. He’d just make sure he won.

  Jenner, however, he’d have to deal with. He’d prefer to do it with a bullet—but his lieutenant was the one man he wouldn’t dare try and have killed. The freak would find out, and get to him first.

  * * * *

  Gabriel slept through the morning and woke with an empty stomach. Though he had no clue regarding his current position in the bizarre arrangement of the organization, he headed for the kitchen with the idea that the bastards at least owed him a solid meal.

  His tumultuous anger had abated, but agony ran deep through the marrow of his bones. For a long, harsh year, he had subjected himself to more torment and degradation than he’d experienced in the years combined under his father’s iron rule—all to save someone who had no desire to be saved. He recalled with vicious clarity each gesture, each tear-filled embrace at the few meetings he and Lillith had been allowed during his captivity, and fresh rage flowed. How could she? And he’d fallen for it. Every single time.

  His strength left him suddenly on his way through the deserted dining room. He collapsed at the nearest table and buried his face in his hands. A shuddering sob rose from him. Hot moisture burned his eyes.

  He sat shaking, unaware of time’s passage, until a hand brushed his still-bruised shoulder. He sprang to his feet, knocking the chair beneath him to the floor with a loud clatter. His arm drew back automatically poised to strike, and his blurred vision resolved. Lillith stood in front of him.

  She had been crying. Tears still streaked her dusky skin beneath her red, swollen eyes. Her tears no longer moved him. In fact, her mere presence returned his temper to full boil.

  Rather than lash out at her, he turned his back and walked away.

  “Gabriel, wait,” she called in a tremulous whisper.

  Vibrating with emotion, he halted but didn’t face her. He didn’t speak to her, either. Couldn’t trust himself to keep from throttling her once he got started.

  Her footsteps approached, and stopped just behind him. “Please listen,” she said. “I just...well, I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” he repeated in disbelief. “You—”

  He turned around at last, and she shrank back. “You want to apologize?” he said hoarsely. “You were fucking him the whole time, Lillith. Weren’t you? You let me think...” He stopped, not sure if he would be able to go on. At last, he found his voice and said, “I fought for you. I bled for you. I went to hell and back, just so you could—oh, my God.”

  Realization slashed at him. He recalled their first face-to-face conversation after his capture. When she’d asked how much he made on the fight.

  “The money,” he said. “You just wanted the money.”

  “Gabriel, I’m sorry,” she insisted. “I was trying to—”

  “Fuck your sorry!” He took half a step toward her, and reined himself in just before he could wrap his hands around her throat. The voice that issued from his mouth didn’t sound like his, and yet he recognized it. He’d heard the same voice in his head that morning, insisting she’d gotten herself into this. The voice had been painfully right. “And fuck you, too. Better yet, Slade can fuck you. You’d enjoy that, at least.”

  “Yes, I would enjoy that.” She advanced on him with a malevolent smile. “Just like I enjoyed watching you suffer. And almost as much as I enjoyed delivering you to Marcus.”

  His heart shattered somewhere around his feet.

  “I told him to bring you in,” she said. “I knew you would do anything for me, even fight—to the death, if you had to. You’re so predictably honorable.” The words twisted from poison-spewing lips, and his legs weakened.

  She sidled up to him. “Oh. One more thing, brother. All those years we lived with Father, all those times you took a beating in my place? I arranged that, too. I fucked up on purpose because I knew you’d take the punishment for me. And I wanted to watch him hurt you.”

  Flashing an acid grin, Lillith turned and sauntered away. He forced his frozen tongue to move, called her name, and she stopped without turning.

  “You were right about one thing,” he said. “You don’t deserve me.”

  With that, he entered the kitchen and closed the door on her rigid back with an air of solemn finality.

  Chapter 33

  It felt strange walking the streets of Manhattan alone. With every step he had to remind himself that no one would come after him, revoke his walking license or chain him like an animal, humiliate him into silent obedience.

  No one needed him. Especially Lillith.

  He shuddered and pushed her from his mind. The idea that she’d orchestrated the endless brutality that had been his life was still too raw, too enormous to consider. If he entertained it long, he would break beyond repair.

  Instead he concentrated on Slade. The bastard. Tonight, he would do the humiliating. And he’d walk away with more money than he’d ever dreamed existed.

  He slowed his pace. He’d entered unfamiliar territory, and his destination neared. Second Avenue, between 84th and 85th. He moved with the crowds, crossed when they did, and watched the buildings for Parkview Towers Plaza.

  The structure looked just like the rest. Unassuming concrete and glass, one more high-rise in a city full of them. A sliver of apprehension lodged in his throat when he pushed through the doors and headed for the elevators. He tried not to look at anyone else, unable to shake the feeling they would know exactly who he was, what he planned to do. And who he was here to see. He caught a car, punched the tenth-floor button, and waited.

  When the elevator arrived, only he stepped out. A quick glance confirmed his direction: right, since the hall to the left ended abruptly in a window. He passed closed and windowless office doors, scanning the names until he found the right one.

  SUNIL DAS JHYANESHWAR-JANA, B.A., Psy.D.

  He depressed the buzzer next to the door. An answering hum sounded almost immediately—someone releasing the lock from inside. He swallowed, jacked the handle and pushed the door open.

  “Hello, Angel.”

  “Jenner.” He stepped through and let the door close. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you’re not...busy.” He faltered as the man stood from behind a massive mahogany desk and approached. Jenner wore a dark gray tailored suit over a crisp white shirt and a shimmering silk tie that looked almost silver. Polished shoes, an expensive watch, and wire-rimmed glasses completed the transformation from sadist to doctor. Even his braid looked almost natural. Not a hint of his usual terror-inducing nature remained—except in his eyes. He couldn’t change that cold, penetrating stare.

  “I am not. Many of our clients have been rescheduled until we can determine when Shiro will return.” For an instant his voice seemed to catch, but he recovered. “You had an unpleasant encounter this morning. With your sister?”

  He shook his head. Explaining would open a floodgate, and the last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of Jenner. “Have you tal
ked to them?”

  “Of course. Ms. Ramone was most receptive. That should not surprise you. And Harada will not object.” Fury and disgust warred in his gaze at the mention of the Pandora leader. “You have leave to proceed, if you wish.”

  “You sure you’re okay with this?” He forced himself not to look away. “I mean, it seems like you’re getting a raw deal here. I’m just a kid from Buffalo, and Slade is...”

  Jenner stopped him with a gesture. “Marcus Slade has no true strength. You must understand this if you are to be victorious tonight.”

  “Right. He seems pretty strong to me—asshole’s almost as big as Apollo.”

  “You are not listening again. True strength, not brawn. Strength is power.” Jenner frowned, folded his arms. “Think, tenshi. I cannot spoon-feed this to you. Who is the stronger?”

  He fell silent. Slade had money, influence, followers. Motel, limo, yacht. Everything. And what did he have to compare? Nothing but a year of hell. A lifetime of hell.

  A lifetime he’d survived in spite of Slade’s—and Lillith’s—best efforts to destroy him.

  “I am,” he said softly. “I didn’t give in. Didn’t run when he thought I would. I stopped playing by his rules. And now I’m going to make my own.”

  Jenner almost smiled. “There is hope for you yet, Angel. Perhaps one day you will arrive at these conclusions without my assistance.”

  “Thanks. I think.” He smirked and shook his head. “You know, Jenner, you’re not half as bad as everyone believes.”

  Jenner cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting. I was under the impression that I am much worse. If you are disappointed, I will gladly prove your observations wrong.”

  He surprised himself by laughing aloud. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  * * * *

  Slade stalked into his dimly lit suite and locked the door, then tugged off his sweat-soaked shirt. Two solid hours of working out, pushing his limits, had done little to dampen his disgust. Young Mr. Morgan had been damned lucky so far, and smarter than he’d suspected. He’d managed to avoid Mendez and taken the only step that would let him live. For now.

  So the brat wanted his money. He’d damned well work for it—and on the extremely slim chance he won, Mendez would take him out before he could buy so much as a cup of coffee.

  He ignored the vague thought that the monster he’d created in Gabriel Morgan might actually be unbeatable.

  Intent on draining every ounce of hot water and tolerating the cold as long as possible, he headed for the shower. A female voice from the general direction of his bed stopped him.

  “You’re not worried, are you?”

  “Goddamn it, Lillith!” He threw the shirt down. “Did I tell you to come in here?”

  “Ask me if I care.” Lillith slid off the bed and approached him. She’d worn his favorite outfit—a black leather bodysuit laced wide up the front that left nothing to the imagination, netted thigh-high boots, and a studded ring-clasp collar. He couldn’t help seeing the extra wiggle in her walk, the sultry sway of her body—her fuck-me glide.

  The woman was almost as good as him at getting what she wanted.

  He shook his head, both to indicate the negative and clear it of the desire she invoked. “Of course I’m not worried. You think I can’t take that bleeding-heart brother of yours?”

  “I know you can.” She trailed fingertips down his slick chest. “My bleeding-heart brother is a broken man. He lived for me. And now he knows exactly what a pathetic...painful...humiliating...waste his life has been.”

  “Yes. You are an utter bitch, Lillith.” He smiled and seized her wrist. “I could hold you responsible for this, you know. Taking him was your idea.”

  “But training him was Jenner’s job.”

  And he hadn’t let him do it. He shouldn’t have taken Jenner out of the boy’s training. Lately, though, the old man had been far more trouble than he was worth. He never should have accepted Harada’s offer. Given time, Jenner could take over House Ulysses.

  Still, there was no way he’d just hand him back. He was worth too much.

  “You give him too much power, Marcus,” Lillith said, as though she’d read his mind. “He shouldn’t be lieutenant.”

  He couldn’t help but agree. Jenner should be dead—the world would be a safer place. But since that wasn’t possible, maybe a demotion would give him greater control over the bastard. “Really,” he said. “Who do you suggest for the position, then?”

  “Let me motivate them.” Lillith grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “I can be very persuasive.”

  “Persuade me that your brother won’t be a problem.”

  “You are worried.” She laughed. He wanted to slap her, but she’d enjoy that. “Don’t. You got what you wanted from him. Your precious reputation is restored. Now just beat his ass, keep the money and forget him.”

  “Ah, Lillith. My sweet little snake.” He flung an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, almost crushing her. “He’s strong. I’ve made sure of it. And I would really rather not lose to that boy.”

  “Then hit him where it hurts.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Use me.” Her tongue moistened her lips, pink on red. “Remind him of how long he suffered for nothing. Tell him how much I hate him.”

  He grinned. “I’ll take great pleasure in doing that.”

  “Good.” Sure fingers unfastened his jeans, slid them down. Lillith followed their direction and sank to her knees. “And get rid of Jenner. You catch more flies with honey. Let me show you.”

  “God, Lillith...”

  His hands plunged into her hair, and the world fell behind a pulsating curtain of pure lust.

  Chapter 34

  The electricity in the arena adjacent to Slade’s nightclub crackled thick in the air. The place had filled with people dying to discover what was behind the mysterious invitation to the “match of the decade.”

  Every House seemed represented equally, along with a vast number of the usual spectators. Lights blazed from the ceiling and washed the crowd in fluorescent glory. There was no sign of a betting window, no friendly informal gatherings for wagers. In fact, even the tables had been removed. Only the audience and the ring remained.

  Twenty minutes after the gathering began, the lights dimmed and went out altogether. A collective gasp rose as the room plunged into darkness. Spotlights came on with a snap, trained on the empty cage. Murmurs rippled through the spectators, and silence fell when Marcus Slade strode into the light.

  “Ladies and gentleman, welcome.” His voice boomed through the stillness. “Tonight we have only one match—but I promise it will be worth your while. After a brief explanation, I will allow you time to place wagers among yourselves, and then the fight will begin.”

  Slade revolved in a slow half-circle, scanning the shadowed masses of the crowd before he went on. “One of my own fighters,” he began, “will face me in the ring. We have ten million dollars riding on this match, ladies and gentlemen. The winner walks away with the money, and the loser just walks away. If he can.” Nervous laughter from the mob chased his statement.

  The silence returned.

  “My opponent will be...Angel.”

  As Slade announced his name, he entered the cage at the opposite end, already devoid of shirt and shoes. The quiet intensified for a brief instant before the first cheer rang out, bringing with it an avalanche of whistles, shouts and applause. He smiled, bowed his head briefly and melted back into the shadows beyond the spotlights.

  “The match begins in fifteen minutes, ladies and gentleman. Place your bets.”

  Slade left the cage. The house lights came back up, and the noise level spiked a few decibels. Spectators scrambled around the floor, placing wagers and exclaiming in amazed anticipation over the coming fight.

  * * * *

  Near the edge of the crowd, Diego Mendez pulled Nails aside. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Nails shot his boss a repro
achful look and rubbed absently at his wounded thigh. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” he said. “I ain’t his keeper.”

  He pounded a fist into his open palm. He’d been looking for the kid ever since Wolff reamed him out for holding a match outside. He wanted him dead—but as long as the pretty-boy stayed in the organization, he couldn’t touch him. At least not directly.

  Now he’d have to pay Slade, too. That pissed him off.

  “Angel,” he whispered. “I will send you to Hell.”

  * * * *

  Gabriel entered the cage just after Slade, bringing with him every scrap of rage and frustration he’d gathered since Lillith’s crushing confession, and planning to pound it all into Slade’s miserable hide. However, when his erstwhile captor stripped off his own shirt to reveal broad, sculpted muscles and arms thick as tree trunks, he realized it wouldn’t be that easy.

  There was no bell. Only Slade, who simply said, “Let’s go.”

  And he went.

  Slade dodged the first few punches he threw at him. A sharp right caught him along the jaw, staggered him. He recovered and landed a blow, knocking the wind from Gabriel long enough to backhand him to the ground.

  He bounded back to his feet, shook his head and came at Slade again. He hooked with both fists, hitting solid flesh.

  Slade crouched and swept his knees. His feet slid back. He fell forward, palms smacking the mat. Slade twisted a hand in his hair, forced his head up and delivered another stinging slap that drew blood.

  The salt tang of it filled his mouth. Slade was intentionally humiliating him. Once again, he stood and squared off, facing his opponent.

  No more.

  He strode forward, drew a fist back at head level. He didn’t throw the punch until he reached Slade and gripped the other man’s arm with his free hand. His knuckles rammed the bridge of his opponent’s nose.

  Blood gushed from Slade’s nostrils. He took a step back.