The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

14. Nora

Nora

a better woman than me

“ I t’s too much syrup,” Dima says, watching as Thalia drips a glob over her third helping of pancakes.

“That’s an oxymoron, Deems.” She bats her lashes at Dima before shoveling a forkful of pancakes into her mouth.

Last night, after my willing and eager participation in August’s molestation of me in the hallway, I raced upstairs only to face a million questions from Thalia. Apparently, she’s wildly in favor of me fucking our head of security, consequences be damned. I can’t say I disagree, but I’m sure August does. Despite his actions and the way it feels like he struggles to control himself around me, I know that he’d sooner chew his own arm off before allowing anything inappropriate to happen between us. Well, more inappropriate than strumming my clit with his kneecap.

Sighing hopelessly, I take a bite out of my pancake and stare off into the distance.

“What’s your problem, Nonny?” Dima raises her brows at me as she scrutinizes everything from m y face to the food still left on my plate.

“She has the hot’s for the new guy,” Thalia offers, wiggling her brows at me.

“August?” Dima asks, looking genuinely taken aback. I shoot Thals a warning glare; she rolls her eyes.

“Please, Deems is one of the girls. Maybe she has some advice. Some tips to help you snare the brooding sex demon.”

Dima coughs loudly before glaring at me. “It’s not a good idea, Nonny.” She shakes her head, punctuating her disapproval with each slight movement. “Find a nice boy, one not tied up in this mess.”

“August is nice,” I insist, despite knowing better.

“He’s nice, but not for you.” Dima offers Thalia and me one more stern glare before clearing our plates.

“I have to go,” Thalia declares, still chewing a mouthful of pancakes. “I have classes today.”

“Take my car. Adam can drive it back when you see him.”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t know when that’ll be. I’ll call a cab.”

The last of her pancake pile disappears into the vortex of her mouth before she picks up her phone to call.

Five minutes later, she’s changed, drowning in my borrowed sweats, and hugging me goodbye in the hallway. Thalia’s arms drop from around my waist. She’s about to say something, probably about August, but a soft knock at the front door startles us.

Stepping back, I glance over her shoulder at the outline of a person hovering on the other side of the frosted glass. Who’d knock? Most of Ricky’s guys either barge in or wait diligently outside.

Thal s doesn’t seem bothered by the visitor and slings her purse over her shoulder before following me to the door. I’m feeling slightly resentful that our goodbye’s been cut short when I fling it open, locking eyes with a woman close to my age. Mousy brown hair lands on her shoulders, framing the stark, pinched angles of her face in a way that feels too harsh for the warm green of her eyes. Something about her features remind of me of a ferret—no, not quite a ferret, maybe a rat. She’s dressed in navy pants and a loose white shirt; the outfit making her look strangely official.

A second later, that fleeting thought is confirmed when the silver chain around her neck catches the rays of bright morning sunshine filling the doorway. There, nestled comfortably against her flat chest, is a shiny police badge hanging off the other nondescript chain—rat indeed.

The woman faces Thalia and then me before turning on a completely fake, beaming smile.

“Er, how did you—” I look around the driveway. No one should be able to walk up to the front door. “Did the guys let you in?” Confusion fills my tone.

“Oh, no.” She casts a quick look over her shoulder to the guardhouse, where a police car’s pulled haphazardly across the entrance to the driveway. “They’re currently indisposed.” And yeah, they are. Four of Ricky’s men are bent over the trunk of the car, getting a pat down by two uniformed officers. “I’m Rachel. Detective Andrews to my friends. And you are?” She watches me expectantly.

“Um, oh. I’m N-Nora.” I stutter over my name. Shit, I’ve never dealt with the police before. “What can I do for you?” I force my eyes away from the guys being searched and back to her.

“I’m here to speak to Ricky. He’s your…?” She lets the question dangle between us. If she’s hoping I’ll jump to fill in the gaps clearly missing from her intel, she’s mistaken.

“He’s not here, sorry.” I smile stiffly. “Thals, let me walk you out.” The taxi Thalia called earlier just pulled up behind the pig brigade.

“No, don’t stress. You deal with whatever this is,” she says, gesturing to the police officer. “Call me later, okay?” Quickly pressing a kiss to my cheek, Thalia jogs across the driveway and slides into her waiting taxi. I watch her pull away, wishing I’d asked her to say.

“When will he be back?” The sound of the detective’s voice snaps my head back in her direction. “I’m happy to wait. In the street if necessary.” Like fuck she will. That’s the last thing Ricky would want. We keep a low profile here for a reason.

“I don’t know, but it’s unlikely it’ll be today.” Looking over my shoulder into the sunny house at my back. I have seconds to make a decision. One I’m not equipped to make. Biting down on my lip, I stare at her. “Would you like to come in? I can call him to check?”

“Thank you, Nora.” She doesn’t wait for me to step aside before rushing forward, practically knocking me out of the way as she marches into the house.

“Dima!” I call out, trying to suffocate the panic rising in my voice. “Dima!” I try again.

She comes rushing down from the loft. Her eyes flare slightly as she takes in Detective Andrews.

“Nonny?” Her eyes dart between the detective and me.

“Dima, could you show the detective to the living room? I need to call Ricky. To see where he is.” I give Dima a glare I hope conveys the ‘don’t let this bitch out of your sight’ message I’m determined to communicate. She nods, wordlessly ushering the detective toward the formal living room where Ricky usually sees guests. It’s got one doorway and no thoroughfare to any other part of the house. No way to snoop.

Racing toward Ricky’s office, I key the passcode into the electronic lock and run for the phone and dial his number six times before giving up and leaving a message.

“Ricky, there’s a detective here. You need to call me urgently.”

Fuck. Hanging up, I try our family lawyer, Stephen, next. His phone rings incessantly before his assistant finally answers.

“Amber, it’s Nora. Is Stephen there?” I plead in a whisper I’m not sure is necessary. But I want nothing carrying back to rat-faced Rachel.

“Hi Nora. No, sorry, he’s been in court all day. I can text him if it’s urgent.” Urgent? Yes, it is to me, but I’m not sure this is something to pull him out of court for. At least not yet.

“No. It’s okay.” I take a deep breath before I say goodbye.

Frustrated, I chew down on my bottom lip and mentally count to ten. Tapping the headset of the phone against my palm, I know what I need to do. Who I need to call.

The thought makes my palms sweat. I don’t want to. But who else? It’s alarming that Adam doesn’t even cross my mind, but I can’t unpack that right now.

“Nora?” August answers immediately, sounding out of breath.

“Sorry, are you busy?” I squeak the words out. A sudden mental picture of him in bed, on top of some woman while he pumps furiously into her, races through my mind. But why would he take my call if he’s in the middle of fucking someone? Because it’s work, Nora. I am a job to him.

“I ’m working out.” August grunts out the words, still out of breath.

“There’s a detective here,” I whisper, refusing to acknowledge the relief I feel hearing his voice.

“On my way.” He clips the words out before hanging up.

Shit. Anxiety thrums beneath my skin as I pace the length of Ricky’s office, counting to ten again. It’s a poor attempt to make my racing heart slow just enough so I can go out and face this woman without casting any suspicion on myself. Suspicion for what, I don’t know.

Dima knocks on the door quietly. I know it’s her because the detective—Rachel—couldn’t possibly know where in the house I am.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss, cracking the door open.

“Go to her, Nonny. You’re acting like someone who has something to hide, and you don’t.” She grabs my arm, hauling me out of the office just as August bursts through the front doors.

Shirtless.

In the tiniest pair of running shorts I’ve ever seen.

All the moisture drains from my mouth and gathers… somewhere else.

I stare at the way his thighs bulge inappropriately. Frozen in my spot, my eyes devour the smooth, golden-brown skin that stretches over his tattooed chest, tracking the rivulets of sweat creeping down his stacked abdominal muscles.

Dima elbows me in the ribs; my eyes shoot to her as she makes the sign of the cross before rushing out of the hallway. Turning away from August, I jog back to the small living room where Detective Andrews waits.

“I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out of me as I drop into the chair oppos ite her. “I was trying to get hold of Ricky.” A cup of tea and two glasses of water sit on the small coffee table separating us. Dima must’ve set them down. Grabbing one of the waters, I gulp it down, hoping she hasn’t sipped on it already.

August’s presence fills the space. He doesn’t need to speak. That dark and dangerous aura that seems to envelop him clouds every room he enters.

Detective Andrew’s eyes shoot to him; she looks taken aback. Honestly? I can’t fault her. I don’t need to turn around to know he looks like some seductive sex god assassin. The kind who probably—definitely—fucks his victims to death. Death by multiple orgasms. What a way to go. Just fucked straight into the ground until your heart stops.

Oh my shit, am I having a mental breakdown? Is this what stress-induced psychosis feels like? Because there’s no way I’m thinking about August fucking me to death right now, unless my mind has truly snapped.

Dragging yet another deep breath into my lungs, I finally look at August. “Jesus,” I mutter, turning to her apologetically. “Put a shirt on, am I right?” I attempt a laugh. It’s forced and awkward and my internal cringe is so deep I barely manage to stifle it.

“Who’s this?” She quirks a brow at August, waiting for him to answer.

I laugh again. Fuck my whole life. “Oh, no one. Another one of the security dicks. Wanna pat him down too?” Wiggling my eyebrows at her, as more insane laughter bubbles out of me. August cuts a sharp glare in my direction and I roll my eyes.

“What can we do for you?” He levels a hard stare at the detective.

I realize then that she must be great at her job because she doesn’t even falter under the weig ht of those deep brown eyes. A better woman than me, that’s for sure.

“What's your name?” She extracts a small notepad from her pocket, watching him.

“August,” he says.

“August who?” She taps the pen on the edge of the pad and waits. My eyes bounce nervously between them.

“Do you have a warrant?” he asks, ignoring her question.

“Why would I need a warrant?” She rebuts. The urge to reach for a nonexistent bowl of popcorn is overwhelming.

“You seem to be gathering information.” He nods to the notepad.

“I have a terrible memory.” She smiles at him as she says it. Okay, maybe she isn’t as immune to his masculine wiles as I thought.

“I have a great one,” he deadpans.

“Nora, I didn’t get your last name either.” She looks at me and I squirm visibly in my seat. I’m fucking terrible at this.

“I doubt she offered it,” August says. “Ricky won’t be back until tomorrow, so you need to leave. If you’d like to meet with him—” He plucks a card out of God knows where and hands it to her. “—you can give his office a call. They’ll be sure to set something up.”

Detective Rachel stands, taking the card from August’s outstretched hand and glancing at me. Calculating green eyes catalog every movement, every twitch I make. She nods and turns to August. “Well, it was good to meet you, Nora. And August… I wish I could say the same.”

I sag back into the sofa as he follows her out. The white walls of the small reception room feel like they’re closing in on me as I sit stewing in my near-hysterical ne rves, waiting for August to return.

He walks back in but stops in the doorway. “Jesus fucking Christ, let’s hope you never need to be questioned by the police.” He drags his palm down his face, then moves like he’s about to leave.

“Wait.” Standing abruptly, I step in front of him, blocking his exit. “I know it’s your day off, but could you maybe stay? Just until Ricky gets back.” I ask—beg, actually. It’s pathetic, but I don’t want to be alone. Not after that visit, and the feeling that whatever Ricky’s been doing, whatever evil shit he’s wrapped up in, is blowing dangerously close to home.

“Yeah. Sure.” He looks down at his shirtless body. All the sweat that dotted his torso when he first arrived has seeped into his skin. “Let me just grab a change of clothes from my car.”

“You can use the guest bathroom.” I point to the door on the opposite side of the hallway. “To shower.” Cringe . “Not that you need to. But if you wanted,” I tack the last part on; he smirks.

“Dima!” I whisper loudly as August walks out of the house to get his bag. She hurries in from the kitchen. “You abandoned me.” Her eyes dart to the front door August just strolled out of.

“You were okay with him.” She pats my hand and then glances at me, concern stretching across her brow. “I have a bad feeling, Nonny.”

“Me too,” I mutter as August’s frame darkens the glass panel of the front door a second before he pulls it open. He smiles at Dima. It’s a strange smile, one that punches through my heart. Kind and genuine, completely unfamiliar to me.

Except, that’s not entirely true. I saw a similar smile that night at the gallery.

T he stream of water sounding from the shower shuts off, and the hallway slips into a suffocating silence. Holding my breath, I listen for the quiet click of the bathroom lock latching free and then watch as August steps out of the room; steam trailing behind him. Droplets of water bead along his neck. My fingers itch to trail the path they take as they trickle below his shirt collar.

Before I get to do anything stupid, the front door slams open and Ricky storms in. His footfalls echo through the otherwise silent space. I can’t stop myself from chewing the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit I picked up after my parents died that only ever manifested in front of Ricky. They’re staring at each other—August and Ricky. What does this look like to Ricky... I don’t waste any time wondering as I take a step toward him.

Old, familiar habits clamp down on my limbs, that pull toward a father figure as a source of comfort—no matter how false that idea of him has proven to be. The person I rush to when everything is wrong, the person I run to when the world overwhelms me. But now, in this moment, despite desperately needing comfort, despite feeling catastrophically overwhelmed, I can’t bring myself to close the distance between us.

Marna’s grief-stricken face fills my mind; a shattered mother. Knowing there’s even a microscopic chance that Ricky was involved in Elijah’s death—all the information August shared, and everything he’s left unsaid—surges inside of me.

We’re at a crossroads, Ricky and I, and I need to decide if I’m willing to ignore everything I know, everything I suspect, or if it’s time to finally distance myself from the malice lurking inside my godfather.

I stop.

Halfway between the two men, I look up at the only father I’ve ever known.

“Nonny,” he says my name like he always does, caring and kind, likely designed to keep me submissive. “I came as soon as Stephen called.” I smile at his words; it’s sad. That childlike need to seek out his comfort hasn’t gone away. It wars with my common sense, but I don’t wait to see which will win out.

“Why was she here?” I whisper out.

“I don’t know, but I see you were not left to face her alone.” His eyes drift over to August and then back to me.

“I called August when I couldn’t get hold of you. He—” I stop myself from explaining further when August drops his gym bag on the wooden floor of the hallway. That subtle thud somehow reminds me that I don’t need to explain this to Ricky. He wasn’t here. August was.

“No matter, Nonny. You go relax. I need to go over the detective’s visit with August.” Ricky steps forward, places an apathetic kiss on my forehead, and turns away from me.

Frozen in place in the hallway, my eyes are fixed on August’s gym bag, still on the floor where he dumped it moments ago. I wait, but I don’t know what it is I’m waiting for. Then Ricky’s office door closes, and it’s like the world comes back into focus.

My legs move, racing, rushing, they carry me out into the garden. They propel me down the stone steps and into Dima’s cottage. She’s sitting at the small two-seater table near the window.

“Nonny?” Concern twists her usually impassive face as she takes me in.

“I just need—” Gesturing for the door, for my escape, I wait for her protests. They don’t come, so I push forward. Half to the door, I feel her hand on my wrist. A light squeeze, a silent offer of reassurance, a promise… Smiling down at her, I nod before stalking out of the cottage and into the resident’s staircase.

I need to clear my head; I need the loud crashing waves of the beach; I need to get away from this house and the violent men who fuck with my head.