All Chapters of Wickedly Twisted : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

AllisonAfter the bath, I crawl into my purple bed and fall asleep. If he gets in with me, I don't notice, and in the morning his side is already cold and empty, though his pillow's been used.I pull on some new sweats and head downstairs."Good morning." I jump, yelping again. Orin's standing in the kitchen at the island cutting fruit. "I wasn't sure what you like for breakfast so I went all out." He gestures at some eggs, a little yogurt, the fruit, a bagel, and toast."You have to stop doing that." I clutch my chest. "Your boss is going to be pissed if you give me a heart attack.""Doing what?" He looks genuinely confused. "Gregory told me to get you something to eat. He said you'd be hungry."If there's an implication in that statement, it doesn't reach his tone. I refuse to let myself blush. "I'm fine with coffee and fruit, thanks."Orin nods and brings me over something to eat as I sit at the table. He lingers for a moment but says nothing. I sip my coffee, trying to act like he

GregoryRiker Corgan is sweating as he shakes my hand. "I'd say you overpaid, but, uh—" He clears his throat. Corgan's a heavyset man, bald, middle-aged, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. "I suspect you already know.""Consider the excess a friendly gesture. I'm aware of the risk you're taking by selling to me." I walk with him toward the conference room door. We're in a nondescript office I rented right in downtown. Bottles of water gleam in the middle of the table. I have the entire twenty-first floor, although only two rooms are furnished. "Do you need anything else?""A drink," he says, not smiling. "Something strong. And a plane ticket to Mexico.""I could help with both, but I suspect you have them well in hand."Corgan chuckles as I escort him to the elevators. We pass empty space for cubicles, empty offices, empty halls. "Can I offer some advice?" he asks, and he doesn't look like he cares whether I agree or not. I definitely don't give a damn what he has to say. He goes o

AllisonI stare at the ceiling and try to remember the last time I spoke with Riker Corgan.It was probably at some industry thing, a party or a charity auction or something like that. But I can't seem to recall exactly when.Which is terrible. The man's dead—at least partially because of me—and I can't even recall what we last spoke about.Probably some inconsequential nothing.He was a business rival, but he was still a man. Now he's gone, murdered horrifically for selling to my husband.Sleep won't come. It's the middle of the night, a little past ten. My purple bed doesn't seem funny anymore now that the reality of my situation's become clear. Dead bodies, headless corpses, murdered businessmen. Corgan wasn't exactly a saint, but he also didn't deserve to get mutilated."You can't sleep." Gregory's voice drifts in from his side of the bed.I try not to look at him. I swear, he must hear my heart racing. "It was a stressful day.""You're not used to this. I understand.""You do? Do

AllisonAfter that night, we fall into a comfortable rhythm.Gregory's almost never home. There's always a guard on the front door and another lurking in a car out front, but they rarely speak to me. When I go for a run, the car's following as close as it can. I stick to main streets where it's easier for them to keep close tabs.Orin's always in the house. He's busy, constantly running errands for Gregory, but available whenever I need something. Which isn't very often—as it turns out, being Gregory's wife in the middle of a war for the marijuana trade on the West Coast is actually kind of boring.I sleep in most mornings. I don't even notice Gregory getting into bed at night, and he sneaks out before I'm up. We run into each other like strangers passing in a darkened alley, wary and uncertain. The memory of that sex still lingers, lighting me up whenever I need something to think about in the loneliness of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, but the intimacy we felt fades away.

AllisonThere they are, the pregnancy tests, lined up on the kitchen island like sandbags stacked against a storm. Except this time, the hurricane is Gregory, and I'm the poor beach about to get battered.He paces across the living room, hands behind his back. He won't look at me, and I'm terrified of what he's thinking. I didn't ask for this pregnancy—if I could go back, I'd make him put on a stupid condom. Better yet, I'd never sleep with him to begin with.I can't change what happened. I'm carrying his baby, and even if this was never a part of our agreement, I'm keeping this child.Gregory isn't the father type. He's made that obvious.Anything that restricts his freedom has to be annihilated.He's the sort of man that would rather run away than risk getting tethered in one place, even if it means turning his back on his family.Only he's caught in this war and there's no way he could escape now.Which means he's going to force me to make the most horrible decision imaginable.And