A Brutal Tenderness

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  A Brutal Tenderness

  Marata Eros

  __________________________________________________________________________________ There are two sides to every story. In this dark and sexy companion novel to the New York Timesbestseller A Terrible Love, experience the sizzling passion and pulse-pounding suspense through FBI agent Cas Steele’s eyes as he hunts down a psychopath...and falls for the killer’s prey.

  Cas has been charged with an unsavory task: manipulate the hauntingly beautiful Jewell MacLeod—a woman he has every reason to hate—and slowly gain her trust in order to use her as bait to lure in a killer. But as the killer draws closer, Cas realizes that he can’t deny the scorching chemistry that ignites between him and Jewell, even if giving into his physical desire for her means jeopardizing his mission...and opening himself up to the possibility of a real and terrible love...

  _____________________________________________________________ Marata Eros is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of dark, romantic new adult novels, including A Terrible Love and its companion novel A Brutal Tenderness. A passionate writer who loves interacting with her readers, Marata lives in South Dakota with her husband.

  Fiction · Pocket Star eBooks · August 2013

  978-1-4767-5559-5 · $5.99 U.S./$5.99 Can.

  A BRUTAL TENDERNESS

  a companion novel to a terrible love

  MARATA EROS

  pocket star

  new york london toronto sydney new delhi

  For my readers: It’s here because of you.

  “ You’re the One”

  By Rev Theory You’re the one

  You are the hurt inside of me

  And you are the one that makes me weak Shadows that crawl all over me

  Swallow the light that lets me see

  Have I fallen too far away, away (I keep running away, I keep running away, I keep pushing away)

  Now that it’s over

  It’s hard to stay sober again

  You’re the one

  4 marata eros

  contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Love Letter to My Readers Acknowledgments

  prologue

  I watch from a distance as the umbrellas become a tangled wen of black, linked together by mourning.

  Theirs.

  Mine.

  My hands grip my long-range binoculars, special issue. With a flick of my wrist, I snap them open and feel rage, impotent rage. Faith, who was like a sister to me, is being lowered into the ground, and that merciless fuck walks free—a pretender among those of us who grieve, those of us who will never be the same again without her. I want to kill the bastard who stole my Faith. Dead because of a coincidence that I might have stopped. If only I’d paid closer attention. If only I’d been prepared. The guilt batters against my soul, unforgiving, insistent.

  “Cas . . .” Agent Luke Adams begins.

  “Don’t,” I say. In my peripheral vision, I see Luke breathe out in a frustrated hiss. He says something low into the mike hidden underneath his protective gear, wrapping him in false safety against guns and most knives. A cloak of protection that won’t be needed today.

  We’re following direct orders. The senator of South Dakota’s son, Thaddeus MacLeod, will not be taken into custody, even for the hint of a whisper of questioning. Circumstantial evidence and a high-profile family have kept our team of FBI waiting for the go we’re not going to get.

  We’re crippled by politics and protocol. The senator, a newly anointed presidential candidate, will not have his bid for the highest office in the country threatened because a group of FBI operatives determines that his son is the most obvious suspect in this murder. Hell, I don’t even need evidence; my gut tells me it’s him: Thaddeus MacLeod raped and murdered my cousin while the spoiled bitch she had taken under her wing listened in the safety of a nearby closet. Doing nothing to help, nothing to stop it.

  I tried to shove away the memories of her recorded recounting. But I’m haunted by parts of Jewell MacLeod’s confession. She did not speak for two days after being found in that dark hole of torment. But when they finally got her talking, it was clear that she’d been living in a special kind of hell since it happened. A hell she created for herself by listening to another die and yet doing nothing.

  Saying nothing.

  Choosing to do nothing.

  My skin crawls as my eyes move over the crowd of mourners, my gaze traveling past Jewell’s stepmother, in a crimson dress, before they reach Jewell, dressed in black, her red hair burning from the distance I’m keeping from her. I’ve seen the tapes. I know her face. I’m not a fan of the Witness Protection Program; the ones we protect should be aware of our protection. That she will, but I understand why it’s necessary. Given Jewell’s public position and the delicacy of the mission, we want an ironclad acquisition and subsequent conviction.

  My eyes narrow as I watch her, the woman Faith protected with her life and who now plans to flee. The FBI is deep into the MacLeods’ lives, a finger in every pie, and her emptied trust account first alerted us. Just as the acquisition of her new identity—provided by FBI, unknown to her—confirmed our suspicions. Luring the suspected killer into our hands is a dance of strategy and unorthodox methods. In this case, Jewell’s ignorance keeps the advantage in our favor. If she were to know that we protect her, her behavior might reflect that and give the killer subtle signals to stay away. Just as we need him to get close.

  A smile spreads across my face. She’s unknowingly tipped our hand, shown what her plans are and therefore pegged herself as the first person to be in Witness Protection without realizing it. It’s really perfect, I think.

  The program will give her a sense of control. She doesn’t know she’ll be a pawn in our pursuit of the murderer, Thad, that bastard stepbrother of hers.

  My gaze shifts to Thad. Tall and good-looking, a poster child for prodigal son, and I see the monster that Faith told me about lurking beneath the veneer.

  I try to shake off the shattered remnants of my haunting guilt. But it grips me, carrying me off on the current of my memory like a captured leaf, forever churning as the water of my emotions takes me back to the night that Faith called me. And I didn’t answer.

  Two Weeks Ago “Come on, ass wipe, don’t be a sissy girl. Bring it,” Luke Adams goads from above me as I toss my head to the side to shake off th
e sweat that runs into my eyes. The beads fling like paint spatter as I grunt and slam the bar high, locking my elbows as I ram the bar into his palms, and Luke smiles like the ass clown he is. I strain for balance, the huge discs forcing grace when I’m tired as shit.

  “Nice Cas, you still have the balls . . . today,” Luke says, deadpan.

  I don’t say anything but carefully lower the bar, clanking it softly in the bracketed cradle of the seated weight bench.

  I snake my hand out and latch on to Luke’s thigh, giving him a horse bite that should last into next week.

  “Fuck!” he howls, trying to give a well-placed retaliatory wrist chop. I feel the breeze of his hand as I jerk my own back. Sitting up, I swivel around on the bench and rip a towel off one of the many pegs hanging from the wooden towel tree.

  “You dick!” Luke hisses with a laugh, holding his abused thigh.

  “No commentary when you spot, Adams,” I instruct dryly, dabbing at the sweat now chilling on my neck.

  “I’m just trying to get you to focus, you jag-up. Jesus, that’s going to bruise.”

  “Yeah, let’s call 1-800-who-gives-a-shit,” I say with a smirk. Adams gets so worked up. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, he always says.

  Luke gives me a disgusted look and rubs his leg. “You’re a prick, but you’re a strong prick, so I’ll let that slide, Steel.”

  I grunt a half laugh as I scroll through messages, many of them encrypted updates about the Scent. That’s my code for what I call an investigation when it’s wrapping, when all of us on the same team are closing in on the suspect. And right now, the Scent is so powerful I’m gagging on the stench.

  We’re closing in on a suspect. A male who’s been profiled to fit the serial killer model to a t.

  “Well?” Adams asks, dabbing at his own sweat-coated hair.

  “Looks like he’s waiting for something ”

  Adams touches his nose. “How’s your . . .”

  I swivel my face up to look up at Luke as he stands there, sweaty and tired after our workout ritual. “He’s here,” I say. “The sick fuck is here.” I feel my eyes take on a thousand-mile stare. Then I say, almost to myself, “I think he knows.”

  Luke grows still, looking around the deep bowels of the FBI compound where we work out six days a week. It’s like goddamned Fort Knox. He looks around anyway. In a whisper, he says, “He can’t know, Steel. We’ve been tight on this at every step.”

  I shake my head, wiping down my forearms, the last place to sweat, the last place to dry. “Nah, I think he’s been successful for this long because he’s just that instinctual.”

  I let Luke chew over that mental morsel.

  Finally, he nods, then grins. “Kinda like you, Cas. Raw instinct.” He makes a sudden fist with his hand as his grin widens. “In fact, you should have been a serial killer.”

  “Fuck off, Adams,” I say casually, flicking him with the edge of my towel. It snaps like a firecracker and catches his leg in the exact spot I’d horse-bit him minutes before.

  “Ow! Ya masochistic fuck!”

  A little too close to the truth, I think.

  I smile and he throws his towel over my head before tackling me.

  Just another day in the gym.

  When I’ve made Adams submit to my satisfaction, we clean up. The locker room fills with steam, along with the reek that all guys’ locker rooms have: eau de ass with a chaser of rotting socks. Yeah, I walk over to the mirror above the row of basins and swipe a forearm across the murky surface, my armband tat flashing black geometrics, the sun tat at my shoulder gazing back from my upper pec.

  My longish hair is wet from the shower, and I comb my fingers through it to keep it out of my eyes until it gets a natural blow-dry on my bike—a 1965 vintage Harley. My pride and joy.

  The mirror begins to fog again before I can fix my hair, and I sigh in disgust. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be sporting a different look on the next assignment. I’ll be fucking thrilled to get rid of the long shit. “You’re beauttee-ful, Steel,” Luke says, fluttering his eyelashes as I finish sweeping my nearly black hair off my face, and I flip him the bird in the mirror. He laughs.

  “What’s put that shit-eating grin on your face?” Then Luke snaps his fingers. “I got it: You’re gettin’ some.”

  I turn around and give Luke a glare as I grab my leather jacket and punch the locker door open ahead of us. “No, asshole, just dreaming of a long bike ride.”

  “Goddamn! It’s a bike. It’s not like a chick, Cas ”

  “Well . . .”

  “Okay, you ride both, but”—he spreads out his hands—“it’s not the same, just sayin’. ”

  I can’t help it; Luke always gets me grinning. Even in a long case, as wide and unyielding as the ocean, Luke struggles through and pulls out the humor. Thank Christ, because I’m feeling the strain. How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid? Sat and had more than two cold ones and a half-day’s ride to someplace unknown but by the black ribbon of road and the beast under my seat? Too fucking long.

  We walk in companionable silence, making our way through the security checkpoints. Finally, when we’re released from the subterranean section of the FBI, the dungeon where the bodies of the federal defenders of the good old US of A are fine-tuned, we break away for our separate vehicles and Luke turns with a finger in the air like a flag.

  I throw my gear over my shoulder, my body begging for sleep without nightmares.

  “How’s it going?” he asks suddenly.

  I shrug, a strand of hair falling forward as I blow it to the side.

  “I don’t know, I’m hanging in there with it.”

  “You want to kick his ass,” Luke easily guesses.

  I nod. “More every day.”

  “Listen, don’t compromise your cover because of this personal shit, Steel.” His eyes, not normally serious, hold mine with an intensity that’s uncomfortable.

  “She’s family, man. I can’t just call the neutrality card or some shit like that.”

  “You’re too in your head on this, Cas. Be there for her, but not all the way.”

  I throw my hand out in frustration. “What would you do if your cousin brought you these stories?” My eyes search his and I take a step closer, casting him in the late shadows that summer’s brought as it kisses twilight’s descent. “They’re grooming this man for president, Luke,” I say in a low voice, my implication obvious. I hate to consider a suspect’s environment as anything but that: surroundings. But it matters that our prime suspect’s dad is running for president. If we’re wrong, if we can’t garner the proof necessary to put him away, the FBI won’t recover from the fallout.

  Luke catches my meaning instantly. Luke and I go way back. He’s well aware of the close relationship I had with Faith. How Thad MacLeod’s abusive and perverted behavior toward Jewell had escalated. He hadn’t stopped at animals. We’re sure of it, yet not sure enough to charge. “We know he’s got a son who’s busy torturing and killing animals. Are you sure there’s nothing sketchy about the sister?

  “Stepsister,” I clarify. Then I wonder why Faith couldn’t have chosen a different best friend.

  Luke shrugs. “It’s sick as fuck, but it doesn’t mean anything. Faith shouldn’t have gotten involved, man.”

  I shrug again. Must be my family curse: We’re everyone’s champion, always pulling up the downtrodden. That’s the Steel way. Faith comes by it naturally.

  “We’re the G-men, Steel. You know we can’t touch local; let the PD have it. He’s not president yet, just a senator. It’s not on us.”

  “Jewell’s afraid, Blaine”: Faith’s words to me whisper through my head, her level-headedness making the situation feel that much more urgent.

  “Besides, you don’t need this noise now. We’ve got the noose of pressure in place around our prime suspect and it’s tightening as we speak.” Luke throws his hands up, palms out, like case closed.

  We’re all gunning to catch this
serial killer, but things have a way of slipping out of the most capable of hands. Maybe it’s just nerves, but I have a bad feeling. I feel my cell in my hand like a talisman, a comfort knowing Faith can reach me if she needs to. My eyes drop to the screen as I swipe my thumb across it, my fingerprint password opening it . . . to a black screen.

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  “What?” Luke asks.

  I grunt. “My fucking phone’s dead as shit.”

  Luke grins. “Kind of running with the undercover role, Steel?”

  I give him a sour look. It’s not easy to switch gears; I’m so deep into my latest gig I find it hard to remember where I begin and the persona ends.

  Luke shrugs. “So what? It’s your day off,” he says, dismissing the importance of a dead cell.

  But that disquieting feeling intensifies like a slow-blooming orchid inside me as the instincts that Luke noted earlier are so much a part of me come alive.

  When Luke’s cell vibrates, he looks at the message that comes in. He turns to me, and his eyes confirm my fear.

  My life turns on a dime right then. I can almost feel the slow spiral like an internal slide of vertigo that threatens to engulf me.

  The serial killer has been given too much rope, and instead of strangling himself with it, he has taken down one more victim. Thaddeus MacLeod had us feds fooled like trained dogs. He slipped our noose entirely.

  In a pivotal moment of destiny inserting its will, he shatters my life. I pick up the pieces, my hands bloodied and raw. A new promise is put into place that day. The day Faith dies.

  Thaddeus MacLeod will pay with his life.

  I don’t understand it then, but later I realize he’s not the only one accountable for Faith’s death. Jewell isn’t an innocent party in this. She’s the only one who in that moment could have stopped it. And she made the conscious decision not to.

  We’re too late to stop what was put in motion: Faith stolen in a huge gulp when a fortuitous moment presents itself. My cell phone not working when Faith called me sealed her fate. Accidental . . . final.