Midnight Confessions

Marlo

I sat on the edge of the large bed for hours, staring at the black screen of my hidden burner phone.

He’s locking you in to keep you from finding what he buried under the floorboards.

My fingernails were chipped and bleeding. I had spent the first half of the night dragging my hands over every inch of the hardwood floor in that bedroom, desperately searching for a loose plank, a hidden latch, anything. I found nothing. The text message was a ghost. A mind game meant to make me lose my grip on reality.

Then, at exactly 2:15 AM, a heavy, electronic clack echoed through the quiet room.

I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. I stared at the door. The red light on the electronic deadbolt had turned green. The lock was open.

I didn't know if Jarrah had unlocked it from his security panel, or if the system had glitched, but I didn't care. I needed to get out of that room before the walls completely crushed me. I slipped my phone back into my boot and pulled the door open.

The hallway was pitch black and freezing cold. The rest of the massive house was dead silent, except for a strange, rhythmic sound coming from deep beneath the floors.

Thwack Thwack Thwack.

It was muffled, heavy, and precise.

I crept barefoot down the staircase, the cold marble freezing the soles of my feet. I followed the sound, moving past the kitchen and down a second, hidden flight of stairs that led into the basement of the estate. The smell of damp stone shifted into something sharp and metallic. Gunpowder.

At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy steel door stood wide open.

I stepped into the doorway and froze.

It was a massive indoor shooting range. Harsh white lights beat down from the ceiling, illuminating the fifty yard concrete tunnel.

At the firing line stood Jarrah.

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose black sweatpants riding low on his hips. A thick pair of black ear defenders covered his ears. He held a sleek, dark handgun in both hands.

Thwack. A brass casing flew through the air, clinking sharply onto the concrete. Fifty yards away, a paper target jerked as a bullet ripped perfectly through the center of its chest.

Thwack Thwack Thwack

He fired with terrifying, mechanical precision. There was no hesitation. No mercy. Standing in the shadows, I watched the muscles in his broad back flex with every pull of the trigger. Under the harsh lights, the thick, silver burn scars that covered his skin looked even more violent. They were a permanent, horrific reminder of the fire that tied us together.

The conflict inside me was a physical ache. My brain screamed at me to run. This man was a killer. A mob boss. A monster who locked me in a room. But my heart beat so fast it hurt, pulling me toward him like gravity.

Jarrah lowered the gun. He didn't turn around. He didn't even take off his ear defenders.

"You're supposed to be in bed, little bird," his deep, rough voice echoed off the walls.

I swallowed hard, stepping fully into the light. "The door unlocked itself."

"I unlocked it," Jarrah corrected, slowly turning around. He pulled the ear defenders off his head and let them rest around his neck. His chest was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his dark hair messy. His eyes locked onto mine, completely stripping away my defenses. "I couldn't sleep and I knew you were awake. I could hear your heart beating from down the hall."

He set the gun down on the table and grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his neck.

I walked slowly toward him, my bare feet silent on the floor covered in brass casings. "Why are you down here in the middle of the night?"

Jarrah looked at the paper target at the end of the tunnel. His face was a mask of pure exhaustion. "Because if I stop practicing, I die. And if I die, you die."

He tossed the towel onto the table. "You look at this house, Marlo, and you see luxury. You see a shipping empire. But it’s not an empire. It’s a graveyard. My father built the Vance logistics network by stepping on the throats of anyone in his way. Every ship we own, every port we control, was bought with blood."

His voice dropped into a low, bitter rasp. "I was supposed to be his golden boy. The heir to a legitimate fortune but after the fire after I defied him to pull you out of that burning house he realized I wasn't a businessman. He realized I was a weapon. So he molded me into one. I became the attack dog for a family I despise."

I stopped right beside the table. I looked up at him, my chest aching at the raw, heavy pain bleeding through his words.

"You didn't have to become a monster, Jarrah," I whispered.

"Yes, I did," he growled softly, stepping closer to me. The heat radiating off his large body washed over the freezing chill of my skin. "Because Siobhan and Cal are monsters and a good man couldn't have kept you alive for ten years. Only a monster could do that."

The air between us grew impossibly thick. My breathing turned shallow.

Jarrah’s eyes dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before he turned to the table. He picked up the handgun, dropped the empty magazine, and smoothly slid a fresh one into the grip with a sharp clack.

He held the gun out to me. The grip was pointing at my chest.

"Take it," he commanded softly.

My hands shook. "Jarrah, I don't know how to use that."

"Take it, Marlo. Or the next time Cal O'Shea breaks down a door, you won't have a choice."

I slowly reached out, my cold fingers wrapping around the warm, textured metal grip. The gun was incredibly heavy.

Before I could even adjust my stance, Jarrah stepped forward. He didn't just stand beside me. He moved directly behind me. His massive, hard chest pressed flush against my back as his large hands grabbed my waist, I gasped softly as the rough skin of his ribs brushed against my thin sweater.

"Lift your arms," he whispered.

His deep voice vibrated right against my ear, sending a hot shiver straight down my spine. He reached around me, his large, calloused hands completely covering mine. He guided my arms up, locking my elbows into place, aiming the heavy barrel down the dark tunnel.

I couldn't think. I could barely breathe. The smell of gunpowder, mint, and his raw male sweat was completely suffocating. He was a cage of heat and muscle surrounding me.

"Keep your eyes open," Jarrah murmured, his cheek brushing against my temple. His thumb stroked over my knuckles, pushing my index finger gently against the cold steel of the trigger. "When the time comes, you don't hesitate. You don't think about his family. You don't think about his life. You only think about survival."

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs. His body was so close, so perfectly molded to mine, that I could feel the steady, heavy thud of his own heartbeat pressing into my spine. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating.

"Squeeze," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over my neck.

I squeezed the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot was deafening, echoing violently in the enclosed room. The recoil violently shoved my arms back, but Jarrah’s solid chest absorbed the shock perfectly. He held me so tight I didn't even stumble.

I lowered the gun, my ears ringing, my lungs burning as I gasped for air.

Jarrah didn't let go. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his face still buried in my hair.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. "Now you know how to shoot. Because the person who sent that message to your phone tonight"

Jarrah’s grip tightened around my waist.

"is already inside my house."