Devious Vow: Chapter 15

There are a few things about Eloise LeBlanc that I’m slowly remembering, the more time I spend around her. Sure, some are purely libido-related. Like how fucking sexy it is when she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s thinking about something.

Or the way her luscious ass fills out a pencil skirt oh so well. Or the scent of her, which has an immediate Viagra-on-steroids effect on my dick whenever I catch it in the air, which is very inconvenient if I’m sitting down with a client just as Eloise walks by the conference room.

Fuck you, pheromones.

But there are other non-sexual things about Eloise that are slowly coming back to me from before as I notice them again. Her tenacity, for example, which might even rival that of my sister, Tempest.

But the biggest one—which is fucking with me more that I care to admit—is “the switch”.

At least, that’s what I called it when we were at Knightsblood together. One day she’d be colder than frostbite to me. The next, one could almost say she was flirting. Then, inevitably, the switch would flip again, and she’d go right back to being that psycho winter witch from Narnia.

To be fair, I probably wasn’t much better. But the more time I spend working with her ten years later, the more I notice that switch.

One day, she acts like she wants to cut my dick off. The next, she’s allowing—more like begging—me to finger her dripping wet pussy before going down on her with her ankles up on my desk and her fingers tangled in my hair.

But then comes “the switch”. Not twelve hours after the aforementioned ankles-on-desk incident where she humped my tongue so greedily and eagerly, she was right back to being the Snow Queen of Narnia again.

It’s not even the switch, or the back-and-forth, that annoys the fuck out of me. Because I do not give a fuck about games.

But that is precisely what’s fucking me up when it comes to Eloise’s mood switches: I suddenly find myself giving a fuck about them.

Which, much like the random rock-hard erections the very scent of her keeps eliciting in me, is very inconvenient.

Anyway, once again, the switch has flipped. For a week or so after the incident in my office, she was giving me a shoulder colder than Sir Edmund Hillary’s or Tenzing Norgay’s when they were scaling Everest. But now?

She’s all fucking smiles. All batted eyelashes. All blushing cheeks whenever I glare at her. It’s fucking with my head.

…Both of them, actually.

And the real problem is, as suspicious as I am of her mood swings to the Dark Side and back again, I’m also fucking addicted to them. Worse, I can’t even tell anymore if it’s her suddenly being all smiles, or the head-fuck of the switch itself that I’m addicted to.

And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is my current headspace as I make my way through the Crown and Black offices. I suppose to most of my employees—guessing from the looks on their faces when they pass me—I look like I’m about to go waterboard someone.

The truth is, I’m thinking about Eloise. And not about waterboarding her, either. More like about clamping my lips and teeth around one of her nipples as she bounces up and down on my cock.

Which is how it is that I happen to walk right past Conference Room B before my brain catches up to what my eyes just fucking saw in there. Every muscle tenses. Stone-faced, my mind now clear, I turn and stalk back to the wall of windows looking into the conference room.

Mother. Fucking. Fuck.

Roughly seven seconds later, Gabriel looks up with a start as I barge into his office with murder on my face.

“What the fuck is that?!” I snarl, jabbing my thumb back vaguely in the direction of the conference room.

My brother arches a brow that screams “now what” as he sighs and collects some papers into a file before tucking it under his arm.

“I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this, because I have a meeting in two minutes,” Gabriel sighs. “But could you possibly be slightly more specific?”

“Happily,” I snap. “I would, specifically, like to know why the ever-loving fuck Ansel fucking Albrecht is sitting in Conference Room B.”

That’s the motherfucker I just saw sitting in one of the four-thousand-dollar, custom-upholstered chairs in the conference room.

He doesn’t deserve to be sitting in one of those chairs. Honestly, I think he’d be far better suited to the kind of chair that’s connected to high voltage wires, and instead of custom upholstery, you get a prison warden and a priest giving you last rites.

Because of all the things about Eloise to be “reminded” of, this is one I’d never need a reminder for.

He’s a part of her story I’ll never be able to forget. And I fucking hate the anger that even seeing him stirs up in me, because of what that says about me giving a shit when it comes to Eloise.

Gabriel nods carefully. “Look, I know he was a douchebag at school⁠—”

“Douchebag would have been an improvement.”

Gabriel chuckles, which almost makes my temper boil over before I remind myself that my brother doesn’t know anything about that night, and what I saw.

No one does.

No one but Ansel.

“Well, douchebag he may have been, and, okay, probably still is, he’s also a potential new client ready to commit five mil a year.”

“It’s a hard pass, Gabriel,” I say icily. “Get him the fuck out of here.”

My brother’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“I said no. We’re not taking him on.”

“Like hell we’re not. Five million a year? And, unlike a growing number of our clients, Ansel’s business is actually above board.”

“I wasn’t aware the German fucking Mafia was considered ‘above board’ these days.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “There was a split, a few years back. Ansel took his inheritance and disowned the rest of his family. His little brother, Yann, is running the organization now. Ansel himself is totally legit. He runs a securities trading house now.”

“I don’t give a fuck if he’s the Pope and curing goddamn cancer. We’re not taking him on as a client. End of fucking discussion⁠—”

“It’s not a discussion at all,” Gabriel fires back, his jaw clenched. “Taylor and I have—come on! Alistair!”

But I’m already out of his office and storming my way toward the elevators, loosening my tie.

I have a practice bag in the sub-basement to annihilate, because if I don’t, I’m going to march into the conference room and destroy Ansel’s fucking face instead.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s pure fucking wrath.

Of the three of us—Gabriel, Taylor, and me—it’s usually Gabriel who stays at the office the latest, burning the midnight oil. That’s not to say Taylor and I aren’t also essentially married to our jobs, but we can extricate ourselves from this place when we have to. Taylor prefers to adjourn to her office at her apartment for night-time work. And I…especially recently…often find myself needing to take a break to unwind in what most would call self-destructive and violent ways before diving back into work somewhere around eleven or twelve at night. At home.

But tonight, I’m here.

I’m not the only one, either.

Stretching, I push my laptop aside and stand from my desk. At the interior-facing wall of windows in my office, I look down into the pit, where the only light still on is the one in Eloise’s cubicle.

She’s all but buried in her mountains of busywork, courtesy of yours truly. But as I look down on her now, I’m not as pleased with myself as I was a week ago about handing her all of that.

I dumped the work on her before because of, well, what she once did to me. Then the episode in my office happened, followed by a week of cold shoulders and silent treatment, followed by her unusual and downright suspiciously cheerful about-turn.

I mean the woman brought me another fucking chai latte with two shots of espresso today, unprompted and unannounced, then smiled and told me to have a nice day.

I threw the latte away because I figured it was laced with laxatives or poison, but I’m beginning to think it really was just a kind gesture.

Flip, the switch turns on. Flip, it turns off. Flip, just kidding! It’s back on!

Clap on, clap off.

It’s impossible to keep up.

My brow furrows as I stare at the mountain of work crap I’ve all but buried her in. For what? To satisfy my own sense of revenge? If so, what the fuck does that say about me? I mean, much as I hate to admit it, Gabriel’s right: what happened at Knightsblood was ten fucking years ago.

Yes, there are things I saw that I’ll never unsee. There was her cruelty. But fuck, I was cruel right back to her.

But I’m not that boy anymore, and she’s not that girl.

Maybe it’s time to let the past stay where it is.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when I buzz her cubicle from my office phone: that I’m simply offering an olive branch. Let’s ignore the fact that we’re the only two people here, and that my cock is at least sixty-percent hard, and that I’m already fantasizing about bending her across my desk, Massimo Carveli’s wife or not.

Fuck. This is a very, very bad idea.

“Hello?” she answers, confused.

“Come up to my office.”

Looking down through my window, I smirk when she startles, whipping around to look up at me, like she’s only just realized we’re the only two here.

I relish the blush on her face when she figures that out.

“For what?” she asks, tucking a strand of blonde behind her ear.

“For because-I-said-so,” I growl.

I swear to fuck, I can see her roll her goddamn eyes from all the way up here.

“I’m sort of busy right now,” she says, just tersely enough to make the point that she’s aware that she’s talking to the guy responsible for said work.

“Working hours are over. You’re done.”

“I’m salaried, not hourly. What do you care how late I work?”

“Electricity isn’t free, Eloise.”

She snorts through the phone. “So my single lightbulb, an LED one by the way, is going to bankrupt the firm by being on for another few hours a night?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you haven’t worked in almost two years is less about your dipshit of a husband and more about your inability to just nod and say yes when your boss asks you to do something?”

The phone is silent. Then I hear the click as she puts the phone back on the cradle before standing. I smirk as she smooths down her skirt suit and then makes her way up to the executive level.

I’m at the bar cart at the far side of my office when she steps in.

“You’re in a mood.”

I shrug, my back to her. “It’s not a mood if that’s my default setting.”

“I’m glad you can admit your flaws, Alistair.” She grins as I turn to glare at her.

“Drink?”

She nods. “Whatever you’re having. Thanks.”

I pour her a whiskey, neat, as she walks over. Turning, I hand it to her and then clink my glass to hers.

“Cheers.”

Eloise smiles as she lifts her glass. “Thanks, boss.”

“I think I clearly requested sir, not boss.”

I relish the heat that blooms in her face. “I’ll have to remember that,” she says through the redness in her cheeks. “Sir.”

I’m about to quip back when she suddenly knocks back the drink in one gulp.

“Jesus Christ, I asked if you wanted a drink, not shots on Spring Break in Cozumel.”

Eloise blushes, then reaches past me to grab the bottle and pour herself another.

“You didn’t used to drink like this,” I growl quietly.

“I also didn’t used to be married to a psychopath,” she murmurs, taking a deep sip.

My jaw clenches. Something simmers hotly in my veins. “Would you like to explain to me how the fuck that happened? Marrying him, I mean.”

She frowns. “Honestly? Not particularly.”

“What if I’m not asking.”

“Then I’d say our conversation is back on track.”

I glare at her. “Eloise⁠—”

“Because my father’s living will demanded it, okay? When he fell into his coma, his people made sure to…follow through.”

“I knew about the will. I’m just confused why you went along with it.”

Eloise glares at me. “As much as I hated when you called me princess back at school, you weren’t wrong,” she hisses. “I am a mafia princess. And that means family duty. And arranged marriages, even if you fucking hate them.”

“So why the fuck do you stay with him?”

She looks away, her face tight. “Can we please change the subject? Nine at night after twelve straight hours at work isn’t really my peak emotional state to discuss my forced marriage to a psychopath.”

Fair enough. I take a sip of whiskey. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Oh, goodie, we can skip over talking about my arranged marriage to a lunatic and talk about my dad being in a coma instead. Much better.”

I grin. So does she, before she hides it with a gulp of whiskey. Then her brow worries.

“Did I see Ansel Albrecht in the conference room earlier⁠—”

“New fucking topic,” I snarl, harshly enough that she jumps. Her eyes widen as she looks at me with a little bit of fear and a little bit of confusion. Then she just shrugs.

“Works for me.”

She finishes her drink, and then her brows knit as she looks up at me.

“I wanted to say…I’m sorry about Layla,” she says quietly. “When I heard…”

“Thanks.” My voice is clipped as I look away.

Layla, Gabriel and I’s first younger sister above Tempest in the birth-order, was also at Knightsblood when Eloise was there.

Then she died.

Fuck heroine.

Eloise nods quietly at my silence and reaches for the bottle again. I get there first and cover it with my hand.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. If you hate your husband so much, try something other than poisoning your liver.”

“What, like fooling around with my boss?” she says coldly, throwing me an accusatory look.

“Oh, right, because you were kicking and screaming,” I say dryly. “Unless of course your ankles squirming on my desk were ‘kicking’ and your desperately slutty moans were ‘screaming’.”

Eloise’s face turns scarlet. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make it seem like…I don’t know. A punishment. Like I owed you what happened the other day.”

“Maybe because you treated it like it was a punishment. You froze me the fuck out eight seconds later,” I grunt.

Eloise looks away, her lips pursed. “May I please have another drink,” she mutters.

“Fuck it. Fine.”

I watch as she snatches up the bottle and pours a glass. She takes a small sip, still not meeting my eye.

“It wasn’t a punishment. I mean…” She blushes. “It didn’t feel like a punishment at the time. For the record.” Her brows knit tightly. For a moment I think she’s going to knock back her whole drink again. But she sets it down instead, her hands twisting before she looks up at me.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Camille?”

I stiffen. “Let’s not go there.”

There’s a determined look in her eyes as she shakes her head.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Eloise—”

“Ten years ago, she told me that you got her drunk, maybe drugged her, and…you know…”

What. The. Fuck.

When she trails off, my office goes pin-drop silent but for the angry thud of my pulse. My molars grind painfully, my skin feels raw against my clothes, and my emotions duel with each other.

“You seriously think I’m capable of that?” I hiss coldly.

Eloise swallows, and she shakes her head.

“No,,” she says quietly. “But I did hear from someone else that you left the bar with her that night.”

My memories of that night are…hazy, at best. But they involve bumping into Eloise’s crazy-ass sister at some bar in Tribeca, immediately trying to leave, and then somehow finding myself slumped in the passenger seat of her car.

I dimly remember her hand on my thigh, and me telling her to let me the fuck out of the car. I also remember blurred streetlights and shoving her hand off my leg over and over before blue and red lights filled the night, together with sirens.

Then I remember waking up to see my brother and Taylor hovering over me in a hospital room.

So to say that I feel rage at Camille’s very different account of things is a vast understatement.

“Would you care to hear the actual story about that night?”

“No need, I know now,” she says quietly. She shakes her head, looking away. “I was so, so fucking mad at you,” she whispers.

“Because you thought I fucked your sister?”

“Yes!” she blurts loudly. Her face falls as she looks away again. “Yes,” she murmurs again, quieter. “I know we were cruel to each other. But that just seemed…beyond.”

She’s right. It would have been. Even after every shot we fired at each other. Even after the “pranks” like dying a showerhead blue turned far more dangerous. Even after we came at each other with knives drawn.

Even after what I saw that night that almost destroyed me and arguably made me the cold, walled-off fucker I am today.

…Fucking her psycho sister would have been crossing a line.

My brows knit. “When did you find out I didn’t?”

Eloise looks down at her hands. “Three days ago.”

Holy fuck.

She’s spent ten goddamn years thinking… Suddenly, a thought hits me.

“You still thought I’d done that⁠—”

“Look, I know my sister,” she spits. “I didn’t think you did what she said you did. But…”

“But you still thought I went home with her that night.”

“Yeah.”

“And you still thought I’d done that a week and a half ago, when what happened in this office…happened.”

She nods. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“I was going to say flattering.”

She blushes, rolling her eyes as she tries to hide her smile. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And here I thought I was an asshole because I touched someone else’s wife.”

She goes quiet, her chest rising and falling as her eyes meet mine.

“I’m not⁠—”

“Because I took what belongs to another man.”

Her lips purse, the bottom one quivering.

“I don’t belong to anyone⁠—”

“Well, that’s not true at all, is it?”

In one move, I grab her by the hip and jaw, yanking her against my chest as I crush my lips to hers.

She does belong to someone.

Me.