Feathers and Thorne Series Books 1 - 3: The Complete Collection

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Isabella

I sit up quickly, hearing Carter’s voice echo through the penthouse. It takes a minute to make sense of my eyes and my footing. I rush to his bedroom, being stopped by a huge, overwhelming presence in the doorway.

The man blocking my path turns like I knocked into his back and didn’t even feel it. The look he gives me is even worse in taste, his scowl deep and permanent on his tense features. I try to look past him, only catching a glimpse of movement in the bathroom.

Carter is maneuvering Tristan on the floor while another man, maybe more, holds a pair of pliers to Tristan Blackthorne’s wounded, bleeding back.

I hold a palm to my lips to keep from screaming, wanting to help but knowing I probably won’t be of much assistance. The man in the doorway isn’t interested in my help, either, shoving me back a step and slamming the door shut in my face.

I hiccup at his pushy brutality, all while Tristan and Carter scream in an argument.

The anguish from Tristan makes me dizzy, and I grab my shoes by the door, willing to run home, take the fancy car, or do anything to get out of this place! I’ll catch a ride on the city bus, but it’s already dark outside… Jacob Lacey is an owl over this city with snake-like antics.

It wouldn’t be safe for me, I know that. But I’m not sure how safe anyone is here.

The bedroom door flies open, and Carter stands there, bare-chested and bloody.

My breath hitches at him so utterly terrifying in sight. He is flexed, his muscles all carved and deep in brush strokes from the finest artist to ever exist. He holds his fists at his side, his jeans marked in just as much crimson as the rest of him, like he drizzled a bucket of paint over his entire posture.

I know it’s Tristan’s blood, but it doesn’t make me calm down anymore by the look of my boss.

“Where the hell are you going?” he barks, charging toward me.

I sink my back into the wall and pray he doesn’t plan on touching me with his drenched, ruby-red hands and chest. “I… Carter… I was just…”

He stops just inches from me, his chest daring to brush mine if not for how hard I struggle to keep to the wall. I’ve never not wanted to run my hands all over Carter’s body, but this is a very special circumstance.

“You don’t leave unless I tell you to leave,” he growls.

Tristan hollers from the bathroom, and I cringe at the angst that pours from his lips. “Fuck, Carter!”

I look to my boss, waiting for him to hurry back to his cousin’s side, but he stays planted before me with minimal reaction to Tristan calling for his assistance.

“You and I have dinner plans tonight,” he growls, slightly unhinged from the reality of how he appears now or what is happening in his chaotic penthouse.

I’m not even sure what happened to Tristan, but I know well enough to see that his wounded, bleeding state on the floor needs to be addressed before I do. He calls out again, fighting the verge of death by the sounds of his screams, and Carter Blackthorne doesn’t even flinch.

“Dinner plans,” I mumble, in too much awe to say much else. “Okay, I’ll stay. I’m sorry.”

He nods, standing before me for a long, intimidating moment, but he eventually moves from my side, stomping back into his bedroom, but not before stalling in the doorway.

“Bring me some towels from the linen closet, dove,” he snaps. “We ran out in here.”

I abide by his command and drop my shoes, hurrying to the closet in the hall and stacking as many towels as possible as I can hold. I linger in his bedroom, the brutes guarding his door not even paying any attention to me this time.

Tristan writhes on the floor, Carter pinning him down with all his might while a man with a set of pliers digs through a wound in Tristan’s back. The sight of this gruesome mess is enough to make me faint, but I hold firm, dropping the towels around the floor to clear some of the blood that covers everyone and everything.

I drape one over Tristan’s chest, his body shivering in pain but maybe also in a chill from being on these tile floors. He shoots me a tired, rough look but doesn’t speak, only barking through the pain of the man acting like a doctor behind him.

“Here we go,” the man gasps, yanking the pliers away and dropping a small copper bullet on the floor. “Go ahead and grab me some alcohol,” he adds, looking at me.

Carter growls a noise and releases the pressure he kept on Tristan’s shoulder, working to wipe his hands free of blood on the towel nearby.

“Dove, there’s some vodka in the kitchen. Go ahead and grab that for me.”

I hurry off to the kitchen, but now without hearing Carter’s ominous warning behind me.

“You don’t tell her what to do,” he barks. “Never.”

Coming back with the bottle, Carter rips it from my hands and grabs me by the wrist. I try to keep his pace out of the bedroom, scurrying all the way into my room and the bathroom adjacent to it. Carter slams the door shut, and I can see him trying to calm down, but he is failing.

Tristan screams in lapses of pure agony. I want to distract Carter, comfort him, but he is still so terribly covered in blood when he slides down to sit on the bench beside the shower. I flip on the warm water and set out a towel for him.

His eyes are cast darker in shade than usual.

“Carter,” I breathe, making sure I take slow, careful steps toward him. “Carter, are you—”

His hand snatches my wrist, yanking me to the floor and pushing me onto my knees at once. I hiss in shock but don’t complain, panting through my gritted teeth. He looks over me now, kneeling before him, a position I know very well.

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay,” he snaps, “unless you give a damn about my answer.”

I hesitate to ever speak again. His coldness in this situation is understandable, but any normal person would be in shock and at least slip a hint of unease, while Carter Blackthorne is so calm it petrifies me more than Tristan’s state when I woke up.

Fighting back the fear in my voice, I fake a tone of confidence. “Carter, are you okay?”

He looks over me briefly with hungry, greedy eyes. “I’m fine, dove. Let’s get ready for dinner tonight. We can’t be late.”

He moves to stand, but my hands squeeze into the fabric of his jeans, halting him at once. He stares down at me, brushing his clean knuckles through my scalp. He watches me, but his mind is too far away to think clearly.

“The shower,” I pant. “You’re covered in blood, Carter.”

He glances at his appearance in the mirror and nods, his hands moving to the hem of his jeans, right at his belt, but he hesitates. He drops his hands, and I know instantly what he wants from me.

I’ve gotten good at reading his mind and knowing his needs and wants as they come into his head.

I pull at his belt, undo his jeans, and help him get stark naked before me. He doesn’t move toward the shower, though. His erection builds right before my eyes just by having me on my knees, undressing him, and being utterly vulnerable for his use.

As much as we both probably want to be naked and feverish right now, neither of us can ignore the blood on his chest. He brushes my chin and smiles, eyeing the closet nearby.

“Go get dressed in something nice for me, dove,” he mutters through a debonair smirk. “We’re going somewhere important tonight for a meeting. I want to make sure you look your best.”

He steps past me and stands under the hot, steaming water to wash off. I try to hurry into my closet and strip down to get dressed, finding a beautiful, knee-length dress covered in silver silk. It hugs my body well, although tight in some areas, but I think Carter will appreciate it.

His opinion is really the only one that matters.

I step out of the closet while he moves from the shower, a towel tied just under the intense muscles of his lower abdomen. I bite my lip, further enticed by the muscle that leads to the arrow of dark hair that leads to his thick, throbbing cock.

“I like that dress,” he says, breaking the salacious, sweltering silence. “Wait, turn around.”

I turn, his hand brushing over the silk, riding the fabric up just over my ass. His fingertips loop around the strap of my thong, and he hisses, his chest flexing against my back in a pure signal of strength.

“Take these fucking things off,” he growls.

I work my way out of the panties, and he grabs my arm, dragging me into my bedroom once again. With a harsh push, he slams my chest into bed, bending me over the frame of my mattress with a hard, domineering shove.

The dress rides up naturally to expose my warm, milky core.

He opens a drawer in my nightstand and comes back behind me, a cold, albeit familiar device being pressed into my unsuspecting sex. I yelp slightly, fighting the pressure that immediately turns me on more, let alone having Carter run his massive palms across my ass, kneading them for his vanity.

After pulling me back upright, my dress falls over my ass and shields the toy from sight. He grips the remote in his hand, showing it to me in a snide taunt.

“You take it out tonight, and I’ll bend you over my knee and belt your ass right in the middle of the restaurant, dove. Got it?”

I nod profusely, and he releases me with a short, sweet kiss on my forehead.

Even while he’s off to go get ready for dinner, and his penthouse teems with chaos from Tristan’s state, I can’t help but fear his last warning.

Why would he threaten me about taking the device out unless that’s exactly what he’s going to try to do to me tonight? He’s going to attempt to find my breaking point at dinner.

I prepare for a long, difficult night ahead, but I refuse to disobey Carter Blackthorne.