Twins for the Mafia Heir (The Warwicks #3)

14. Emma

Chapter 14

Emma

W hen I wake up, watery morning light is just coming through the windows, and the armchair is empty.

I hold myself still and silent, listening hard for movement from the bathroom or closet. There’s no creek of floorboards, no whisper of fabric. It seems like Achilles really has left me on my own again.

How is that disappointing and a relief at the same time?

I sit up slowly, hugging the coverlet to my body to ward off the chill of the early hour, and take stock of how I feel. There’s a tender soreness between my legs, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, my whole body is loose and relaxed in a way it’s never been before. In a way I’ve never allowed it to be before.

My face feels so hot I have to press my icy fingers to my cheeks to relieve them.

I can’t deny it to myself, no matter how crazy it sounds. Despite the circumstances, despite whatever loathing Achilles feels for me and the wariness I feel for him-

Last night was incredible.

Achilles’s thumb between my legs, his fingers inside me and then his cock, the heat of his body as we clung to each other, and the way he held me when I shattered- I keep replaying every sensation in my mind until my own body begins to respond. The ache in my core deepens, and I’m shocked to realize I’m wet and ready for more.

My hand moves without conscious thought, skimming over my stomach, grazing the tender spots on my thighs where his grip left faint marks. My fingertips trace the curve of my hip before slipping lower, over the soft skin of my inner thigh. Heat pools low in my belly as I let my fingers wander, testing the pleasure igniting under my touch.

I bite my lip, my breath growing unsteady as my fingers slide further. Last night’s memories are etched into my body, and as I circle the sensitive flesh, I find myself chasing them, desperate to reclaim even a sliver of how he made me feel.

The tenderness between my legs is undeniable, a lingering echo of him, but instead of pulling back, I lean into it. My palm presses flat against my stomach, grounding me as my fingers gently rub my clit. A shaky breath escapes me, the quiet sound almost too loud in the stillness of the room. A nervous thrill courses through me, heightening every touch.

My movements grow bolder, and each stroke more deliberate as I explore the ache that demands attention. My hips shift instinctively, seeking more, and my breath catches in my throat as the intensity deepens.

My nipples harden and a tingling warmth spreads to my toes. With my free hand, I squeeze my breast, the dual sensations drawing soft gasps from my lips. My fingers move faster, stroking up and down in a rhythm that matches the rising heat within me.

Images of Achilles flood my mind: the weight of his gaze, the possessive way his hands roamed my body, the rough yet careful way he claimed me. My imagination fills in the gaps, merging memory and fantasy as I let myself imagine what it would feel like to have his hands on me again.

The tension builds quickly, a coiled spring deep in my core, tightening with every stroke. My body knows what it craves, and I surrender completely, chasing the release that teeters just out of reach. My movements quicken, each pass of my fingers sending another wave of heat surging through me.

When the climax finally breaks, it’s almost too much. My back arches off the bed, a silent cry on my lips as pleasure courses through me in sharp, breathless bursts. The tension unravels all at once, leaving me boneless and trembling in its wake.

For a moment, I simply lie there, chest heaving, the cool air prickling my heated skin. I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my lips, faint and secretive, as I come back to myself.

Even without him here, my body remembers him. And that, I realize, is both thrilling and utterly terrifying.

Growing up with the father I had and the fear I felt every day, intimacy was an alien concept to me. Even when I got old enough to be naturally curious about it, I never let myself imagine what sex would be like. It could only be a way for another person to control you, to take from you, to hurt you. It couldn’t be really pleasurable, not if it was something my monstrous father did to beget me. Surely that was a lie women told themselves so they could survive the horrible men they were chained to.

My certainty that this was the case only became more ingrained after my father died and I was left entirely anchorless. I rebuilt myself as Silver, a man who could never be touched, literally and figuratively. I covered every inch of myself but my eyes in clothes and blended into a crowd of doppelgangers. I was surrounded at all times by violent men, but they served me , obeyed me .

At least, I liked to believe they did. In reality, all my caution meant nothing. I couldn’t build an empire based on not being touched or known and expect it to last.

But Achilles… I let Achilles touch me, and he did it specifically to make me feel good. He let me keep up whatever walls helped me relax, and worked magic with the rest. I was safe in his hands last night. I was his priority.

Is the first time like this for other girls ? I think dazedly. Does getting their V-card punched throw their worldviews into chaos too ?

I shake my head. I’m getting so far ahead of myself that I’m wandering into absurdity. It pays Achilles to treat me well when he thinks I’m mafia princess Raleigh Warwick, whose money his boss is after. If he knew my true identity, or if I didn’t have some concrete use, things would not be the same. No matter how physically good he made me feel, I need to be on alert for the next opportunity to escape.

In fact, that might be what I have on my hands right now.

I have no idea what time it is, how long Achilles has been gone, where he went, or when he’ll be back. But he’s not here now, and that gives me a chance. If Iris were in my position, she might try to grab some intel on her way out of the house. But the more I get to know her, the more I realize how superhuman Iris actually is, and how far I fall in comparison. I’m not trying that. I’m just running .

Slipping out of bed is almost painful when the cold air hits my bare legs and ass, but I brace myself and scoop up my clothes. The floor creaking beneath my own feet is enough to make me freeze and listen. After scaring myself half a dozen times, though, I’m dressed and ready to move out.

There’s no internal lock on the door for me to pick, but that’s not surprising. Achilles bows to Fantasia, sure, but he wouldn’t put himself in the position to be locked away. What is surprising is that he left me alone and completely unrestrained in the first place.

A treacherous voice in my head tells me that must mean something, but I shove it aside. What it means is that I can escape. End of story.

The hall outside the door is empty, and the house is eerily quiet beneath me. I wonder if the men from dinner last night are busy sleeping off hangovers. Fantasia too, I hope. I crouch and creep down the hall to the corner, listening again before I peek. No one, again. The path to the stairs leading to the first floor is clear.

Behind me, faint but approaching, I hear footsteps. I turn to see someone’s shadow moving along the wall, approaching the corner at the opposite end of the hall. Just before they can come around it and spot me lurking, I lunge around my corner for the stairs like a silenced bullet.

I take the steps down two at a time, hopping along the outsides of them to keep them from creaking too badly. On the first floor, I make for the dining room, remembering the door on the far end that looked like it could lead to the exterior of the house. I’m not sure of the time- the hazy blue light of the house could be due to the hour or the cloud cover- but it feels early.

Too early for the table to be set for breakfast? That’s my hope.

Sure enough, the only sign of the staff in the dining room is a maid poking at sleepy embers in the fireplace. There’s something black stuck into her ear- bluetooth earbuds? That works for me. I keep low so I don’t make a shadow on the wall of windows and slink down the opposite length of the room from her, watching her with one eye and the door in front of me with the other. She doesn’t even flinch when I turn the handle and slip outside- into a wall of mist.

God, fuck this English weather. I almost jump back into the house, like a cat that’s accidentally stuck its paw in water. The cold cuts right through to my bones, and the mist is already condensing on my clothes and hair. I’ve got nowhere to go but forward, though. Gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering, I keep my hand on the wall and use it to guide me around the house.

I can only pray I’m going in the right direction, toward the back of the property instead of the front. The mist is absolutely impenetrable, which is a blessing and a curse. Even walking out in the open, someone would have to come right up on me before they see me. At the same time, sounds echo strangely in this cloud. It might just be my own anxiety, but I can’t tell if the birds are chirping near or far away from me. Are those my footsteps or the sound of someone behind me-

I almost stumble over the marble stairs that appear in front of me, leading up to what I assume is a back terrace. I don’t want to go up there, where I’ll probably be walking in front of windows. Instead, I feel my way around the stairs to the front of the terrace, leaving the grass for a brick walkway, and keep following the stonework-

And stop hard as a shadow melts out of the mist before me. There’s an ironwork table and chairs set up along the walkway, and a man sits at it, hunched against the weather and his own grim thoughts.

It’s Achilles.

I’m too close to retreat, and anyway, it’s too late. At the same time I see him, he looks up from his folded hands and sees me. His brow is furrowed, his eyes dark with thoughts I can’t fathom. I expect him to demand what I’m doing out here, creeping around in this cloud. But when he opens his mouth, all he says is,

“It’s freezing out here.”

My heart is in my throat, but I fight to display my fear as a reaction to the cold instead. I rub at my arms and step closer like I’m not horrified to be caught again .

“You’re not wearing a jacket either,” I say, sitting across from him and wincing at the chill of the iron chair through my pants.

“I like the cold,” Achilles says, almost defiantly. “You’re not used to the climate-” He presses his lips together, and I can almost see the thoughts move behind his eyes.

And whose fault is it that I’m here?

He clears his throat and rests his arms on the table. “I’m sorry, Raleigh,” he says heavily. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought-” He stops himself again, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in his own words. “You’re so young, and now you’re chained to me for god knows how long. I took something from you that you should have been able to give to someone you love- Anyway, it’s done now.”

This is too much right now. I don’t know why his words are making my stomach twist, but I need him to stop. It’s not important to my goals of escape to reassure him about this. Still, I find myself opening my mouth to do it.

“You did what you could,” I say quickly. “And you didn’t hurt me. You- It-” I flush. “It wasn’t… bad.”

Achilles’s chocolate eyes hold mine for a long moment. Did he look at me this way last night? I’ll never know. Next time, I’ll keep my eyes open to find out.

No, I shouldn’t be thinking about a next time . I should be searching for chinks in this man’s armor. He regrets bringing me here, regrets the situation we’re in, is clearly upset about the orders Fantasia gave him. Is there something there? Can I convince him to side with me instead of Fantasia? Or, at the very least, can I get him distracted by his anger at Fantasia, enough to give me more chances to slip away?

“So… now what?” I ask. “I mean, am I just supposed to live here like normal? Fantasia wants my share of my brother’s money, but what happens when she gets it? Why does she need it in the first place?”

Something closes behind Achilles’s eyes. I didn’t think I pushed too hard, my questions were fair. But perhaps he’s kept Fantasia’s secrets for so long that even if I deserve these answers and he feels bad for me, he won’t spill them.

“Fantasia is the first female head of the Warwick family,” he says diplomatically. “She needs to work harder than her male predecessors to prove her right to rule. If she could bring a wayward branch of the family back into the fold, that would give her greater legitimacy and increase the wealth of Wesley Hall.”

That… is a bunch of bullshit. Or, at least, part of it might be true, but Fantasia’s motivations don’t sound believable. I think of her paranoia, her instability, the fact that every time I’ve seen her, she’s been at least a little bit drunk. Is she fighting for power and wealth, trying desperately to prove something, or is there another reason she wants to increase the income of the family? Is there something she can’t afford yet that she’s desperate to have?

I’m not sure.

Regardless, it wouldn’t be wise to push about this just yet. Achilles seems to be lost in his own thoughts again. I don’t mind the silence, but the cold is beginning to make my whole body shake. When a shiver goes right up my spine, Achilles blinks back to himself.

“Come, let’s go back inside,” he says. “We’ll get you some new clothes today. Some warmer ones.”

He stands and reaches out to me, like he’ll put his arm around my shoulders, but pulls back at the last second. I let him lead me back toward the house, my cage, and wonder how much longer I’ll have to be here. Will I have to dismantle this place from the inside before I’m able to escape, or will I get another chance- today, tomorrow, next week- to slip away without a trace?