Savage Hunger (Savage Trilogy 1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Candace

I arrive at the mansion in a pair of leggings at three o’clock, a good two hours before I was instructed by a commanding text message sent by Gabriel hours before, but I do so with good reason. I need a little work time in his office. I let myself into the mansion and the housekeeper, a fifty-something Hispanic woman named Bianca, just happens to be sweeping up near the door. “You’re early,” she greets, jabbing loose black hair back into the bun at the top of her head.

“Traffic is nuts,” I say. “And I have a work call I was afraid would run over. This way I’m here and ready for the stylist when it’s done.”

“Very smart. None of the staff is here, of course, since it’s Saturday, so you’ll have the offices to yourself. Make yourself at home. It’s almost your home anyway.”

I smile, praying it doesn’t look as wickedly stiff as it feels, before rushing upstairs and entering said extra office, which is attached to Gabriel’s office. I dump my garment bag in a chair and then set my briefcase on the mahogany desk that sits in front of a wall of windows. Once I have my sketch pad out, I open my MacBook as well, just for show. I then grab my phone and click to the photo I’d taken from a phone I’d picked up from Gabriel’s desk just before he proposed and now believe was some sort of burner phone. A way he communicates with someone to ensure the messages are not hacked or seen. Only I saw them.

The message exchange reads:

The general has to go sooner rather than later but after the wedding. I’m going to rush the proposal. That means you need to speed things up. He’s becoming difficult. He needs to know that I can take everything from him, including her. If that doesn’t work, we’ll end him in a more final fashion.

Even before those messages, I’d sensed something was off with Gabriel. I’d been ready to break things off. He’d proposed only days later and I’d accepted to protect my father, who was gone then and is still gone now. I don’t know what those messages mean, but nothing good, that’s for sure. Finally, I have a chance to look for answers.

Heart beating a million miles an hour, I kick off my lace-free sneakers and rush to the connecting door that leads to Gabriel’s lobby. Easing it open, I peek into the dark room. Once I’m sure the coast is clear, I step inside, shut the door again, and then rush to Gabriel’s office. I try to open the door. The knob doesn’t turn. “Damn it,” I murmur. “No. No. No.” But yes. Of course, it’s locked. What the heck was I thinking?

I rush to his secretary’s desk and open it, digging in a drawer and then another, until I find a key. Please let this be to his door. I hurry back to his office and try the lock. It doesn’t fit. Breathing out in frustration, I do the only thing left to do. I sit down at his secretary’s desk and start taking photos of random documents without even looking at what they are. I just shoot as many photos as I can. Fifteen minutes later, I have what must be hundreds of shots when voices sound just beyond the offices. Gabriel’s voice. My heart lurches and I quickly shut the desk, but before I have time to escape, the lobby door begins to open. I dive under the desk, praying his secretary isn’t the female voice I’m hearing.

The next thing I know there’s a rush of movement, and the sound of two people doing what I believe to be kissing. “Holy hell, woman, I need to be inside you,” Gabriel murmurs roughly.

“As your campaign manager,” the female says. A female that I now know to be the gorgeous, twenty-something, Monica Martin. “I do believe,” she adds, “it’s in your best interest to fuck away all your stress.”

“Shouldn’t I do that with my fiancée?” he asks.

“Why, when you’d rather be fucking me?” she challenges. “She’s good for your presidency. I’m the one who’ll keep you satisfied when she can’t do the job.”

I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound, fighting the tears that want to burn my eyes. I don’t love him, but I’ve dated the man for a year. I’ve agreed to marry him and to be this used, to be this abused, hurts so damn badly.

“Fuck me,” Monica demands. “Fuck me on your desk,” she says, and thank God, I can hear them move in that direction. I can hear his door open and then shut. I poke my head out from under the desk, confirm I’m alone and then ease carefully out from under the desk. Once I’m on my feet, it’s all I can do not to run, but I force myself to tiptoe forward and ease the door I’d come in open, slip inside the other room, and then seal the door.