Nash (Daddies of Justice #3)

Chapter 4

Rosie, 2 Years Ago

R osie tugged at the tight metallic halter top that barely contained her ample breasts. Her feet ached in the sky-high stilettos as she tottered between the roulette and blackjack tables, offering fake smiles and free drinks to the leering high-rollers in their designer suits.

A portly man with sausage-like fingers grabbed her ass as she leaned over to place his whiskey on the rocks.

"Ow!" Rosie yelped, nearly dropping the crystal tumbler.

The man guffawed, his bulging eyes raking over her body. "Easy there, sweetcheeks. Wouldn't want to make a mess." He smacked his lips. "Unless it's the fun kinda mess, if you know what I mean."

His cronies chuckled, nudging each other like overgrown frat boys.

Rosie's cheeks burned with shame and fury. She wanted to slap the leer right off that jerk’s bloated face. But she couldn't risk another "disciplinary session" with Bobby. The bruises from the last time had barely faded.

Biting her tongue, Rosie slunk away to the bar to refresh her drinks tray. It was going to be another long, demoralizing night at the casino. Another night of groping hands, vulgar propositions, and "private parties" she was forced to attend with the highest of high-rollers.

But as Rosie scanned the writhing mass of ego and excess, her gaze snagged on one man at the roulette table, who stood out from the rest. Quite literally—he towered over the other patrons, his broad shoulders and tapered waist apparent even from a distance. High cheekbones you could cut glass on. He was hotter than a Hemsworth.

And he was looking directly at her.

Rosie's pulse kicked into overdrive. She dropped her eyes, busying herself with wiping an imaginary speck from a champagne flute. But she could still feel his gaze burning into her. Against her better judgment, she peeked up at him from under her lashes.

He was smiling at her. Not a drunken leer or a suggestive smirk. But a warm, friendly smile, as if he recognized her from somewhere. As if he knew her.

Unnerved, Rosie scuttled off with her refreshed drink tray. She'd been at this hellhole long enough to know that a pretty face didn't mean a pretty soul. In fact, the most attractive men usually turned out to be the most sadistic. The ones who got off on seeing a woman in pain, in fear.

She shuddered, trying to block the memories that threatened to surface. The "private sessions" with Bobby's most valued clients. The bite of rope and the sting of a palm across her cheek. The cold press of steel and the coppery scent of blood . . .

No. She couldn't think about that now. She had to focus on getting through this shift. Then she could crawl into her crappy bed in the dank little room she shared with the other girls and cry herself to sleep.

As Rosie made her rounds, smiling mechanically as she served up booze and cleavage, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She glanced around uneasily until her gaze collided with a pair of striking blue eyes.

Him again. The man from the roulette table. He was still looking at her with that unsettlingly kind smile. Almost as if he wanted to rescue her.

Rosie snorted under her breath. A knight in shining armor, here in this den of sin and depravity? Not bloody likely.

No, in Rosie's experience, the only people who bothered noticing a forgotten girl were the ones who wanted to hurt her.

As if on cue, a meaty hand landed on her hip, spinning her around.

"Hey, runt," Bobby sneered, his breath reeking of cheap booze and expensive cologne. He licked his lips, tongue sliding between the gaps where his front teeth should have been. "Come with me. There’s a special guest who wants to see you."

Rosie froze. A sick dread settled in her stomach. She knew what "special guest" meant. They were the ones who paid the big bucks for the hard stuff. The ones who enjoyed breaking girls like her for sport.

Bobby's grip tightened, bruising her delicate flesh. "You deaf, bitch? Move it, or I'll make you wish you had."

Rosie gritted her teeth, not trusting herself to speak. She allowed Bobby to lead her away, past the leering patrons and their filthy jokes. They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, scuffed with age.

"Remember the rules, runt," he growled, his voice a low growl in her ear. "You disrespect our guest, you're dead. You understand?"

Rosie nodded, unable to even muster a "Yes, sir " as Bobby shoved her roughly inside the dimly lit room.

The man sitting there was fat and bald, with piggy eyes that gleamed with cruel amusement. He was immaculately groomed, his gold silk robe draping over a body that spoke of overindulgence in just about every way imaginable. Diamond cufflinks glinted on his thick wrists, and the strong scent of expensive cologne wafted toward her.

And those piggy eyes? They were cold, dead pools of malice.

"Come here, little one," he purred, beckoning her over with his fat fingers. "We're going to have such fun tonight, you and I."

Rosie shivered but forced herself to walk over, taking her place on her knees at the man's feet.

As his hands began to roam, she closed her eyes and let herself drift away to a safer place. A place where she wasn't Rosie the Slave, but Rosie the Brave. Someone who could handle herself, who never backed down, who could kill a man with her bare fists.

Two men, if it came to it.

The man’s hands moved down to her inner thigh and Rosie gagged. She took an involuntary step back—

And found herself pinned against Bobby's bulk. "Aw, now don't be like that, sweet cheeks," he said with mock disappointment. "Mr. Fanucci here is a very important client. Ain't that right, sir?"

Fanucci's fleshy lips stretched into a smirk. "Indeed. And I'm in the mood for something . . . extra special tonight." He reached into his robe and withdrew a wicked-looking switchblade. "Let's have a little fun, girl, shall we?"

Rosie's breath came in panicked gasps as Bobby seized her wrists, grinning savagely. She thrashed in his grip, but it was futile—he was too strong.

“I’m sick of your feistiness, Runt. You know, Mr. Fanucci is paying a lot of money for you. But I know for a fact he’d pay a damn sight more to take things even further. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Fanucci?”

Mr. Fannucci laughed, his piggy eyes as cold and dead as ever. “There’s no limit to what I’d pay to sink this blade into a pretty girl’s neck. As long as you clean up the mess for me afterward. Never been a fan of the clean-up.”

“Of course, Mr. Fanucci," replied Bobby obsequiously. "We’ll deal with the body. We specialize in that sort of thing, sir.”

Rosie swallowed. Should she fight and risk getting killed for it? And give in and face . . . what? Something worse than death?

Bobby poked Rosie in the back. “So, what do you say, runt? You gonna play with Mr. Fanucci like a good girl? Or is he gonna have to do something very, very bad to you?”

“I, uh, I’ll be good,” stammered Rosie.

“I don't know," said Mr. Fanucci with a sick chuckle. "I think I’ve got a taste for it now, girl. Seeing the fear in your ears. Hearing you scream. You did say these walls are sound-proofed, didn’t you, Bobby?”

“Completely, sir.”

The knife flashed as Fanucci stood up, and Rosie’s heart hammed like a racehorse. Bobby grabbed her hair, pulling her head tight back, and Mr. Fanucci, whose breath stank like the sewers, pressed the sharp blade against Rosie’s neck.

She screwed her eyes tight shut, trying to imagine she was back in England with her family, that her parents had never died and she’d never come out here and ended up in this mess in the first place. She felt the knife press even harder against her skin and—

Crash.

The door exploded inward, nearly flying off its hinges. Rosie's head whipped around and she gaped in shock.

It was him. Hotter than a Hemsworth.

In an eye blink, he crossed the room and planted his fist in Bobby's face with a sickening crunch. Bobby dropped like a stone, blood spurting from his misshapen nose.

Fanucci barely had time to process what was happening before a foot slammed into his groin. He crumpled, the knife clattering to the floor.

And then the stranger's arms were around Rosie, cradling her against his strong chest. She stared up at him, stunned. This close, his eyes were even more mesmerizing, flecked with shades of cobalt and azure.

"I've got you, Rosie," he murmured. "You're safe now."

Rosie trembled in the stranger's arms, adrenaline still surging through her veins. Her voice shook as she whispered, "Who . . . who are you?"

His lips quirked in a faint smile. "I'm your guardian angel, baby."

Before she could respond, he strode out of the room with her, leaving the two men groaning in pain behind them.

Rosie clung to his neck, her mind reeling. Was this really happening? Or had she finally snapped under the constant abuse and fear? She'd somehow started to hallucinate her own rescue?

The casino blurred around them as he navigated the crowds with purposeful strides. In a matter of moments, they burst out into the crisp night air. A sleek black car waited at the curb, engine purring.

He deposited her gently into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. As they pulled away from the glittering lights of her prison, Rosie finally found her voice.

"Wh-where are we going?" She hated how small and lost she sounded.

"Somewhere safe." His tone was reassuring but brooked no argument. "I'm Nash, by the way. Nash Marks."

***

Rosie stepped out of the bathroom of the safehouse, engulfed in a cloud of steam. The oversized t-shirt Nash had given her skimmed her thighs, and the matching pajama pants, covered in hearts, made her feel instantly cozy.

Nash looked up from his seat on the couch, his gaze softening as it landed on her. He set aside the file he was reading and rose to his feet. "Feeling better?"

She nodded, twisting her damp hair nervously. "Thank you. For the clothes, and . . . everything." She rubbed her throat, which thankfully, hadn’t been cut. There was a small scratch where the blade had almost sliced into her, but then Nash had arrived in the literal nick of time.

"Anytime, sweetheart." He gestured to the bed. "Why don't you hop in? You've had a hell of a day."

Rosie paused warily. "Are you . . . are you getting in with me?"

Nash's eyes widened. "No, sweetheart. Nothing like that. This is your safe space. Okay? I'm not here to harm you. Or hump you."

She bit her lip and nodded. It was such a relief to be in the company of a man who didn't seem interested in her body. A relief and also a little ironic, since Nash was the first man she'd seen in forever that she was actually attracted to. Still, after all she'd been through, the last thing she wanted right now was sex. It was so late, and she was so very tired.

She climbed under the covers, unable to suppress a small sigh as she sank into the mattress. When was the last time she'd slept in a real bed?

Nash pulled the blankets up to her chin, tucking her in with gentle hands.

“You’re, like, the one good thing in this city,” she said quietly.

“No,” said Nash gently as he sat on the edge of her bed. “That’s not true. There’s a lot to love in this place. But if you want me to help you get home . . . where is home? You’re British, right?”

Rosie nodded, a tear falling down her cheek. “I came here on a gap year. My parents died young. Mom had cancer and Dad went into cardiac arrest the day she died. He was pronounced dead three days later. I thought taking a trip would help me get over it, give me some headspace to heal. But I guess I ran out of money pretty fast. I fell in with a bad crowd and got a job in a seedy bar. Things kind of spiraled out of control after that. I was so naive back then. Trusted the wrong kind of people. And I ended up . . .”

“Hey,” said Nash. “You don’t have to talk to me about all that right now. Or ever, if you don’t want to. But I can help you get back to England, if you like?”

Rosie shook her head. “I don’t know. My parents are dead. I don't have any other family. There’s nothing for me back there. I don’t have a home anymore.”

Nash stroked her hair behind her ear, an act of such tenderness it almost broke her. “Sweetheart,” he told her, “I promise you, this city can feel like home to you if you want it to be."

"I don't know," said Rosie. "I feel like running away. I just wish I knew where to go."

Nash's jaw tightened. "You should never have to run away. That's one of the reasons I'm working to make this city as safe as possible. I want it to be a safe-haven for everyone."

Rosie smirked. "You're cleaning up a whole city? Busy guy."

Nash chuckled. "Not just me. My brothers, too. We kinda made it our mission after our sister was . . . well, she wasn't treated right, just like you."

"I'm sorry," Rosie said, deadly serious now. "Did you manage to rescue her?"

Nash sniffed. "No. We didn't. We swore after that we'd never let it happen to anyone else. Not on our watch."

"So . . . you're like . . . vigilantes?"

"Kind of," Nash explained. "I'm an ex-DEA agent. Blake is special ops. Jax, well, he's our computer guy. Or used to be, before he left town with his girl. He still pitches in now and again though. We run a private security company called Paladin. Operate a little under the radar, but we work with the cops when we can. The good ones, anyway." He paused a moment, his eyes lighting up as though he'd just remembered something. "Hang on a sec! I almost forgot." He went away to the kitchen area and pulled something out of a paper bag on the counter. “I got you something.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, for the inevitable moment I rescued you.” He brought over a little brown teddy bear saying “I Heart Chicago” on its top. “I've been gathering a few things together to make the safehouse comfortable for you. Pajamas, books, a cuddly toy. Was planning on getting you out within the next couple of weeks, but looks like I pulled it off even sooner.” He gave the bear to Rosie and she cuddled it tight.

“Thank you,” she said. “It feels nice to cuddle a toy.”

Nash smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with embracing our Little sides.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but she nodded.

“Every time you cuddle this bear, remember my promise. I’m going to help you find a home to love and cherish. Okay? Somewhere you feel safe and respected.” The way he spoke to her was so soothing, so caring.

Rosie nodded. Then she looked up at him with a big grin. "I'll call him Max. Always thought that was a cute name."

"Max," said Nash approvingly. "Suits him."

Suddenly, for some reason, Rosie felt very, very childlike. "I thought. . . ." She bit her lip. "Could you maybe . . . read me a story?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Of course, little one. Scoot over."

Little one.

Why did it feel so good, so right, to be called that by him? It didn’t feel sleazy or flirtatious like when the other guys had called her “little miss” or “little lady” at the casino. Those times had been icky. This felt different. Kind.

She shifted to make room, and he stretched out beside her, propped up against the headboard.

Rosie forced herself to relax, unwinding her white-knuckled grip on the blankets. "What's going to happen to Bobby? And the others at the casino?"

Nash's expression darkened. "The cops will be crawling all over that place by now. I've been undercover for weeks, gathering evidence." He shook his head, looking rueful. "Tonight wasn't supposed to go down like that, but when I saw him take you into that back room, I couldn't wait any longer."

Something fluttered in her chest. "I can't believe you were there all that time and I never noticed you."

"Trust me, baby girl, I noticed you." His gaze raked over her, intense and heated, before he seemed to catch himself. He cleared his throat, looking away. "Now, about this story. You want Snow White or Cinderella ?”

She couldn’t believe he was literally holding up two children’s books. “Where did you get those from?”

“I have a bunch of them on the bookshelf here,” he told her. “You’re not the first girl to stay in this safehouse. My brothers and I run a private security firm for people just like you, and we find that these kinds of touches help. Cute pajamas. Children’s books. Little things for . . . little ones.

There it was again. That phrase. Little ones. Maybe she’d ask him more about it tomorrow. Right now, she was too sleepy. Too comfortable. Too relieved.

The warmth of Nash’s body seeped into her side as he began to read a book about a bunny rabbit, his deep voice washing over her like a soothing balm.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Rosie felt the knot of fear in her chest start to unravel. She wasn't naive enough to believe her troubles were over, but here, in this moment, she finally felt like she could take a breath.

Her eyelids grew heavy as Nash's words blurred together. She nestled deeper into the pillows, letting the steady rumble of his voice lull her into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

Rosie woke to sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar windows, bathing the room in a warm glow. She sat up slowly, blinking away the remnants of sleep as the events of the previous night came rushing back. The casino, Bobby's sneering face, the glint of a knife . . . and Nash, her unlikely savior, bursting through the door like an avenging angel.

She glanced around the room, taking in the sparse but comfortable furnishings. No sign of Nash. Maybe he'd stepped out for a bit. Rosie slipped out of bed, padding barefoot across the carpet. God, it felt good to be here. She decided since she was alone to treat herself to another hot shower, trying to scrub off as much of the casino as she possibly could.

She stripped out of her pajamas and grabbed the towel off the back of the chair she’d used last night. She twisted the bathroom doorknob and pushed the door open, only to freeze in her tracks.

Steam billowed out, momentarily obscuring her view, but there was no mistaking the male figure standing under the spray. Muscular and chiseled, his buttocks as tight as steel. Nash turned, his eyes widening as they landed on her own butt-naked form.

Oh my god.

Rosie couldn't help but stare, her gaze raking over his lean, muscular body, the water sluicing over his tanned skin. And that tight butt. Jesus, that butt. Heat flooded her cheeks as her eyes dipped lower, taking in the impressive length of him.

A strangled scream tore from her throat. Nash lunged out of the shower, rivulets of water streaming down his body as he clapped a hand over her mouth, pulling her flush against his slick, naked chest.

He's going to hurt me , Rosie thought wildly, her heart slamming against her ribcage. Another muffled scream worked its way out of her as she struggled against his hold, their naked bodies pressed tight together.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Nash murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rosie. I would never hurt you."

She stilled in his arms, her chest heaving as she stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. His hand eased away from her mouth, allowing her to suck in a shaky breath.

"I . . . I thought you were out," she managed, acutely aware of every inch of his naked body pressed against hers, skin to skin, warm and wet. "I was just going to take a shower."

Nash's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I should have locked the door. You looked fast asleep when I came in."

“I. . . .” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t mind. I actually quite like being squashed up against you.”

It was at that very moment that she became aware of him. Of the hot hardness pressing against her stomach. She couldn’t help herself—she looked down and saw the hungry hard-on, and it surprised her how much she liked the sight of it. After everything she’d been through, she was still a woman, after all. She still had desires. But only for the right kind of man. The caring kind. The kind who called her “little one” and for some strange reason, that turned her on.

“Shit,” said Nash, stepping back. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. This whole thing has been . . . Fuck.” He grabbed a towel but Rosie reached out and clasped his fist.

“Wait,” she said. “I want you to know that I want this. You’re the first person I’ve wanted in . . . Kiss me, Nash.”

Nash’s eyes raked over Rosie’s naked form, then he looked back at her questioningly. “You don't really want this, sweetheart. You’ve been through a lot. I don’t want to—”

“Please,” she begged, looking down at his hard-on, which was showing no signs of dissipating. "Please, please, Nash. I don't want the last person I kissed to be Bobby Fire."

With a strange guttural growl, Nash dropped the towel and scooped Rosie up in his arms. He kissed her hard, passionately, pinning her up against the wall as she straddled him, his tongue probing so hot and heavy it felt like he was trying to taste her very soul.

She ground against him, wild with lust, wet and horny for the first time since she had been held captive. She knew, in that moment, that she wanted this man, Nash to claim her. She was destined to be his. Forever. No matter what.

And then . . .

He pulled away. His eyes were wide and panicked, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “Shit. I’ve made it worse. Fuck. I shouldn’t. You’re so vulnerable. Oh, fuck. Rosie, I’m so sorry.” He grabbed a towel and put it around her, then tied one at his waist. “Fuck. I’m an asshole. I’m an idiot.”

Rosie still felt like her skin was on fire, the imprint of his touch seared into her flesh.

Nash cleared his throat. "I’ll bring you some clothes. We’ll have coffee. Wait, you’re British. What do you like best? Tea?"

“Coffee is fine,” she said quickly, not meeting his eyes. "And please, don’t worry. I liked it."

"Rosie." His voice was gentle, but firm. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, she raised her gaze to his. The intensity she found there made her breath catch.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have . . . it was inappropriate of me to touch you like that. It won't happen again."

She swallowed hard, torn between relief and an irrational disappointment. "Right. Of course."

"I want you to feel safe here," Nash continued, his eyes searching hers. "Safe with me . And I would never do anything to jeopardize that. I hope you can believe that."

Rosie wanted to. Desperately. But the cynical part of her, the part that had been hardened by months of abuse and degradation, couldn't help but wonder if this was all just an act. If he was simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to show his true colors.

As if sensing her hesitation, Nash took a step closer. Rosie stiffened, but he merely reached out and brushed a lock of damp hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured. "Not now, not ever. And I’m not going to kiss you like that. Never, ever again. That's a promise."

She searched his face for any sign of deceit but found none. Only a raw sincerity that made her heart ache with a sudden, fierce longing.

"Okay," she whispered. “Never again.”