Read Online In Wicked Chains (The Wicked) by Avril Ashton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Avril Ashton
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tugging on her clothes, she had to search the house for her boots, but she found them downstairs beside the couch. Elina stood, car keys dangling from one finger and stared at the brown leather couch.
She remembered his mouth on her, his fingers, a touch of magic.
One last look at the couch, then she hurried out the door and into the garage. She refused to think about the particular incident up against the car, instead she gunned the engine and backed out the garage like that motherfucker was collapsing.
She didn’t look back. Once she put distance between herself and Kingston, she opened the driver side window. The time on her dash read eight forty-three. Freezing wind blew inside the car, chilling the tears on her cheek.
Elina let herself into her condo, undressing as she walked through the place, stopping in the bathroom to run a bath. She intended to scrub every touch, every kiss, and every scent away.
Slumped in the tub, surrounded by bubbles up to her neck, Elina willed herself to stop crying. Her head understood Kingston’s reaction. He doesn’t do commitment. She knew that going in, from being around him, watching the parade of women trailing behind him.
What did you expect, Elina? Idiota . She shook her head at her naiveté. She knew all this, yet her heart refused acceptance. He had feelings for her, last night proved it, but what did it mean and was it strong enough to blossom into love?
No. He made his decision and she had to live with it. She’d see him with other women unless she stopped hanging with the group and she wasn’t prepared to do that.
Grin and bear. Let him see she wasn’t pining. He had his chance. She’d take hers and find a man who wanted her.
She frowned and blew absentmindedly at the bubbles covering her knees. How in the hell was she supposed to find a man anyway?
Damn, that’s a problem for another time. She stepped out of the tub. Towel wrapped around her, eyes grainy, she fell into bed. Thinking would come later.
* * * *
Kingston crept behind the dilapidated house, careful not to step on the dead leaves and broken beer bottles littering the yard. No unnecessary noise. He reached the back door and gently jiggled the handle.
Locked, but not for long. He fished his wallet from his jean pocket and retrieved the tools he needed. Using his teeth to hold the knife he carried, he made quick work of the door, easing it open once he had it unlocked.
He replaced the tools in his wallet and slid it into his front pockets. The knife he held steady in his right hand as he stepped through the doorway. Familiar smells greeted him. He caught cigarette smoke, beer, and stale sweat, threatening to take him back to places he’d rather not go.
The worn floorboards creaked under his weight and he froze, head cocked, listening for any movement.
None came.
He walked through the kitchen with dirty dishes piled high in the sink, roaches running wild over the stove and countertop, and entered the living room. The ancient TV was on, muted, picture grainy from the rabbit-ears antenna perched precariously atop the tiny box.
He recognized that TV. In fact all the furniture looked familiar. It was all the same smells, same furniture, but different house. This one was way smaller, though the yellow-green carpet was the same.
Snores reached his ears, coming from his left. Kingston turned in that direction, the last room in this filthy place.
The door stood ajar and he pushed it open with his foot. A giant figure lay face down on the bed, loud snores rumbling. Kingston stepped inside, covering his nose at the overpowering stench of sweat and filth.
Walking up to the bed, he held the knife to the neck of the sleeping man. “Wake the fuck up.” He pressed the blade deep into the skin, watching as a bead of blood welled up.
“Wha-wha?” The man on the bed flailed, arms and legs flying out.
Kingston palmed the back of his head and pressed the man’s face into the mattress.
She remembered his mouth on her, his fingers, a touch of magic.
One last look at the couch, then she hurried out the door and into the garage. She refused to think about the particular incident up against the car, instead she gunned the engine and backed out the garage like that motherfucker was collapsing.
She didn’t look back. Once she put distance between herself and Kingston, she opened the driver side window. The time on her dash read eight forty-three. Freezing wind blew inside the car, chilling the tears on her cheek.
Elina let herself into her condo, undressing as she walked through the place, stopping in the bathroom to run a bath. She intended to scrub every touch, every kiss, and every scent away.
Slumped in the tub, surrounded by bubbles up to her neck, Elina willed herself to stop crying. Her head understood Kingston’s reaction. He doesn’t do commitment. She knew that going in, from being around him, watching the parade of women trailing behind him.
What did you expect, Elina? Idiota . She shook her head at her naiveté. She knew all this, yet her heart refused acceptance. He had feelings for her, last night proved it, but what did it mean and was it strong enough to blossom into love?
No. He made his decision and she had to live with it. She’d see him with other women unless she stopped hanging with the group and she wasn’t prepared to do that.
Grin and bear. Let him see she wasn’t pining. He had his chance. She’d take hers and find a man who wanted her.
She frowned and blew absentmindedly at the bubbles covering her knees. How in the hell was she supposed to find a man anyway?
Damn, that’s a problem for another time. She stepped out of the tub. Towel wrapped around her, eyes grainy, she fell into bed. Thinking would come later.
* * * *
Kingston crept behind the dilapidated house, careful not to step on the dead leaves and broken beer bottles littering the yard. No unnecessary noise. He reached the back door and gently jiggled the handle.
Locked, but not for long. He fished his wallet from his jean pocket and retrieved the tools he needed. Using his teeth to hold the knife he carried, he made quick work of the door, easing it open once he had it unlocked.
He replaced the tools in his wallet and slid it into his front pockets. The knife he held steady in his right hand as he stepped through the doorway. Familiar smells greeted him. He caught cigarette smoke, beer, and stale sweat, threatening to take him back to places he’d rather not go.
The worn floorboards creaked under his weight and he froze, head cocked, listening for any movement.
None came.
He walked through the kitchen with dirty dishes piled high in the sink, roaches running wild over the stove and countertop, and entered the living room. The ancient TV was on, muted, picture grainy from the rabbit-ears antenna perched precariously atop the tiny box.
He recognized that TV. In fact all the furniture looked familiar. It was all the same smells, same furniture, but different house. This one was way smaller, though the yellow-green carpet was the same.
Snores reached his ears, coming from his left. Kingston turned in that direction, the last room in this filthy place.
The door stood ajar and he pushed it open with his foot. A giant figure lay face down on the bed, loud snores rumbling. Kingston stepped inside, covering his nose at the overpowering stench of sweat and filth.
Walking up to the bed, he held the knife to the neck of the sleeping man. “Wake the fuck up.” He pressed the blade deep into the skin, watching as a bead of blood welled up.
“Wha-wha?” The man on the bed flailed, arms and legs flying out.
Kingston palmed the back of his head and pressed the man’s face into the mattress.
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