by Penelope Sky
Magnus’s eyes shifted back and forth.
“Anything else?”
He inhaled a breath, deep and slow, like he kept back everything he actually wanted to say.
My eyes burned deeper into his. “Speak.”
“Our operation is perfect. By scaling it up, we risk uncertainty. We risk a decrease in our product. We’ll need to find more girls. The bigger something grows, the more difficult it is to manage. We have more money than we can spend in several lifetimes. When will it be enough, Fender?”
My hands immediately squeezed the reins because my brother was a broken record. Nothing he’d said in the past had changed my mind. Nothing he said in the present or future would change it either. “Never. It’ll never be enough.”
His expression didn’t change, but his disappointment filled the air around us, an invisible energy. “You can’t prove anything to someone who’s dead.”
I would never stop. Everything had been taken from me, and I wouldn’t stop until everything was taken back. This was more than revenge. It was more than spite. It wasn’t even about proving anything to a man I’d murdered near a stream.
It was about proving it to myself.
That I won.
That my mother won. My sister. My brother.
My family won.
I looked into his face and saw the only person I had left. “Do I need to remind you that you would be dead if it weren’t for me? That you would have gone to bed for the last time and never awoken?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, growing more strained. “No.”
“Then I shouldn’t have to remind you that we’re all that’s left of our family name. I shouldn’t have to remind you that no amount of money will make us forget that our home was once a dumpster in an alley. That we couldn’t afford the doctor or the medication, so we had to steal to be able to get it. That we were jumped by full-grown men because we chose to take a different alley home. I shouldn’t have to remind you of the suffering we endured because he decided to be a coward and make us cowards with him.”
Magnus didn’t drop his gaze.
“Don’t make me remind you again. Don’t make me remind you that I’m all you have left in this world—and you shouldn’t take it for granted.”
I drove in the fading light, the lights from the city becoming visible over the horizon. I had driven in silence most of the way, choosing to turn over my own thoughts endlessly as entertainment.
I hit the call button on the screen in the center console.
It only rang once. “Sir, it’s great to hear from you. You’re on your way?”
“A couple hours out.”
“The house is ready for you—as always.”
I didn’t care about that. “Tell Melanie to be ready for me. She’ll know what that means.”
It’d been a long day.
But no amount of fatigue would make me want her less.
She’d been in my thoughts often, especially when I looked into the fireplace, remembering conversations in her cabin, remembering nights we lay together in my bed. I was obsessed with her the way I was obsessed with money. There was no amount that would ever be enough. All of her still felt like a shortfall.
The car was handed off to the valet, and my bag was retrieved by another staff member. The only person who spoke to me was Gilbert, because I didn’t want to exchange pleasantries and give orders to twelve different people every time I came into residence.
Gilbert stood next to the open door, arms behind his back, standing tall and proud. His eyes watched me, full of excitement that could hardly be suppressed. “Glad you’re back, sir. Wasn’t the same without you.”
I gave him a slight nod as I entered my home and wiped my dirty boots on the rug. My bomber jacket was dropped off my shoulders, and Gilbert was there to catch it.
He shut the main door as I headed up the stairs. “Shall I bring a tray, sir?”
I continued to the second and third landing. “Place it outside my door in an hour.” I’d had a big breakfast before I left the camp, but many hours had passed, and I skipped lunch. I was hungry, but that need was dwarfed by another.
I made it to my bedroom and found her there.
Ready for me.
She was in black lingerie and heels, sitting on the edge of the bed like she’d been waiting there since I called. Her hair was in soft curls with a beautiful shine under the chandelier. The fireplace cast a glow across her cheek, brightening her already beautiful skin. Her makeup was sultry and heavy, perfect with her lingerie.
I took a moment to look at her before I approached the bed, pulling my shirt off as I went.
She got to her feet, standing in high heels.
My clothes and boots fell, like breadcrumbs across the hardwood floor and the carpet.
Her eyes took me in, trailing over my nakedness, slightly biting her bottom lip like she missed my heavy body on top of hers, missed my warm flesh, missed my big hands on her little body.
My hands gripped her hips, and I pulled her into me for a kiss, wanting her taste on my mouth, wanting her breath in my lungs, wanting her smell all over me.
But she pulled away. Her hands planted against my chest, and she pushed me back slightly, our lips close together but not touching.
I looked at her lips and then her eyes, knowing she had something to say to me, and I wished she’d spit it out quickly so I could have her after a long ten days without her. Ten fucking days.
She whispered to me in her beautiful, flowery voice, speaking in perfect French like she was fluent. “Mon homme m’a manqué. Emmène-moi au lit…”
I sucked in a deep breath between my clenched teeth. Flames rose up my veins and spread through my entire body. My hands gripped her waist deeply, squeezing her so hard that I was certain it hurt. When I let out the breath, all my muscles tightened, my dick hardened even more, and I released the first thought that came to mind. “Chérie, je t’aime.”
Hours later, I grabbed the tray outside my bedroom, and we ate together at my dining table. She sat across from me, wearing a shirt she’d helped herself to from my dresser, and it fit her like a loose dress. Her lobes held solid diamonds, and whenever she tucked her hair behind her ear, they glimmered. The tears and screams had ruined her perfectly applied makeup, the mascara in dots underneath her lashes, streaks from the corner of her eyes like rivers down her face. But I preferred to see her with ruined makeup—because that meant I’d done a good job.
The food was excellent as always, but I didn’t really enjoy it because I was too busy enjoying her appearance, appreciating the fact that she was really there with me. This wasn’t a hallucination that my mind had created in my cabin. I didn’t have to stare at the flames and see her face somewhere in between. This image of her was real.
Her eyes met mine. Sometimes they were down on her food, sometimes they looked out the window. She’d missed me while I was gone, and now that she had me back, she was nervous, intimidated by my presence. “How was your trip?”
“Fine.” I expected her to ask me about Raven’s well-being, but she was smart enough not to. “Gilbert teaching you?”
She nodded before she took a bite of her food.
“Your French is good.”
“That’s pretty much all I know how to say.”
It was the most beautiful line I’d ever heard spoken, like prose straight out of a classic French novel. It was the single most erotic moment of my life, coming home to my woman and listening to her say those words to me. “You said it beautifully.”
She gave a slight smile before she looked down into her soup.
“Gilbert been good to you?”
“He’s been wonderful. We’ve had our lunches together, sometimes dinner.”
“And he was pleasant to you?” When I’d realized Melanie’s assumption about Gilbert was correct, that he did hate her, it made me angry. To have my own staff disrespecting the woman I’d chosen was ludicrous. It was disrespectful to me—and no one disrespec
ted me.
“Very.” She lifted her chin and studied my face, reading the anger in my eyes. “It’s water under the bridge, Fender.”
I’d never understood the expression because I didn’t believe in it. Water was never under the bridge with me. The only time it was was with Melanie—because it was impossible to hold a grudge against her.
“What did you do at the camp?” Anytime that place was mentioned, her voice trailed off, like she was hit by the memories of the cold, the drugs, her sister.
“Make an appearance.” I did my checks to make sure everyone was doing their job, but my presence was work enough. It taught everyone in my employ that I could show up at any moment, for any reason, and if anyone had their pants down, they’d die by my bare hands.
She finished her meal then set down her fork. “I asked Gilbert if we could go shopping together, but he said I’m not allowed to leave.” She silently asked for an explanation, her eyes shifting back and forth between mine.
I held her gaze, waiting for the rest of the sentence or a question.
“You think I’ll run away?” Hurt was in her voice, a slight change in her tone.
I studied that look for a long time, loving the fading light in her eyes, the way she needed my confidence to be happy. “No.”
Her eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“I just don’t want you out and about when I’m not in the city. The safest place in the world for you is right beside me. When I’m not here, second best is this palace. If you want to go shopping tomorrow, you may. I just expect you to be home by the time I’m finished with work.”
I lay against the pillows at my headboard, my legs straight and stretched out in front of me, my hands on her hips to hold but not to guide. I watched her move up and down, rolling her hips, getting slick with shiny sweat, her tight pussy taking in my tank of a dick like it was her honor to ride it.
She knew I liked it slow when she was on top. I liked to savor the feeling of her tightness around my length, how she remained so goddamn wet all night long, the little pants she made when she grew tired but pushed through it.
It allowed me to enjoy her in a whole new way. It made me feel like a king in my palace, to watch the most beautiful woman bed me like she was my queen.
She was my queen.
My countess.
When I was ready to give my final load, I grabbed her hips and forced her down, taking in my entire length as I came, the muscles in my thighs tightening, my arms bulging just a bit more, my throat constricting with the moan that I muffled.
My world was in constant chaos. The only quiet moments I had occurred when scotch was in my hand, but those moments were brief, fleeting. While she brought passion and fire into my life, she also gave me peace.
I’d never known peace.
My time with her wasn’t spent thinking about my empire, the men I spared but should have killed, my brother and his idiotic qualms. My past had faded further into the background, become less present in my mind and soul.
She was artwork, and like the paintings on my wall, when I looked at her, I only thought of beauty, of ponds filled with lily pads, of pink roses in the garden covered in drops of fresh rain.
Those were the images that flashed across my mind the first time I saw her.
Peace.
When we were finished, we got comfortable in bed, her body curled around mine, using me as a hard pillow that probably gave her neck a crick. Looking down and seeing her spread across my enormous bed in front of the fire made me feel even more powerful. I had the money, the power, the world…and now, I had the woman.
She fell asleep instantly, her arm loosening around my torso, her breathing deep and even.
I let her stay for a while, until the fire had burned down, until the night deepened so she wouldn’t wake up when I carried her to her bedroom. I slid from under her body, put on my boxers, and then carried her down the stairs to her bedroom.
The instant I stepped inside, it felt cold.
I got her into bed and walked toward her fireplace to get it started, to let the warmth make her bedroom feel like mine. When I moved to the living room, I saw her translation book there, along with a notebook filled with French phrases.
I stared for a while before I departed.
“Fender…?” Her quiet voice was raspy, like an hour of sleep was enough to make her throat go dry. She sat up and looked at the sheets as they fell down, realizing she was naked and her lingerie had been left behind. Then she surveyed the fire, slowly understanding where she was.
I stilled near the door, waiting for her unease to disappear when her surroundings became familiar to her. When she lay down again and closed her eyes, I would leave. I felt like a father making sure his child was tucked in for the night and unafraid of the monsters under their bed.
She didn’t lie down again. She looked at me with disappointment. Hurt. Pain. Resentment.
I held her gaze and issued no apology.
Her eyes slowly fell, and then she lowered herself back to bed, pulling the sheets over her shoulder. Another argument was futile, and she finally got that through her head.
I turned back to the door.
“You say the safest place in the world is at your side.”
I held on to the door but didn’t step into the hall.
“I’m not by your side, Fender. I’m alone.”
Seventeen
The Count of Monte Cristo
Melanie
Fender worked in his office the next day.
I worked on my French, took a walk outside because the rain had passed, and when I asked Gilbert to tag along, he said he had too much to do since Fender was in residence. When I sat in the garden room for lunch, Gilbert only served one tray.
I looked at the empty spot across from me where Fender should be. “He’s not coming?”
“Said he had too much to do. He’s taking his lunch in the office.” Gilbert excused himself.
I sat there alone. Now I was used to eating with either Gilbert or Fender, and without either one of them, it felt strange. There was only an empty chair across from me, a chair that I would never see because Fender’s enormous size covered it like a cobblestone wall.
I eventually gathered my things onto the tray and carried it toward the front of the palace to his office. The door was open, and he was behind his desk, his food beside him, his dark eyes focused on the screen of his laptop.
I took a seat in the sitting room and placed my silver tray on the table, where it made an audible clank.
His eyes immediately shifted to me, intense and deep, like two drops of shiny oil.
I turned back to my food and waited for him to berate me, to order me out.
He said nothing.
I sat at the edge of the couch and took a drink of my tea before I turned to look at him.
He was back at work like nothing happened.
I brought my book into his office so I could read on the couch.
Sometimes he spoke on the phone, speaking entirely in French at a speed I would never be able to learn. Sometimes I could detect the subject of the conversation based on his mood, the way he barked out orders, or reprimanded whoever was on the line. Then he turned back to his laptop or looked through paperwork.
I had no idea what he actually did in here all day. He seemed like he just looked at paperwork and then yelled at people.
Maybe that was all a boss was supposed to do.
Gilbert stepped into the office then hesitated when he saw me on the couch. His hesitation turned to panic. “Melanie, you shouldn’t be in here. His Highness needs to work—”
“She’s fine.” Fender spoke from his desk, his phone in his hands as he read something.
Gilbert stared at me for a few more seconds before he approached the desk. “Sir, I’m here to remind you of your dinner with the president Thursday. Is this still satisfactory, or shall I reschedule?”
“It’s fine.”
He gave a bow then depart
ed the room.
Dinner with the president?
Fender set down his phone then came around the desk, in his sweatpants without a shirt. It seemed to be the attire he wore even when he had visitors in his office. He was in his home, so he didn’t give a damn about professionalism.
He moved to the couch across from me. “What are you reading?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.” I closed the book and set it on the table. “One of the few books you have in English.”
He leaned back and spread his knees apart, his elbow propped on the armrest. The other arm was down and relaxed on his thigh. His jawline was prickled with hair because if he didn’t shave every day, it would come in thick and dark. Even in his most relaxed position, his body was like a solid concrete wall that accompanied him wherever he went, and whether there was rain, snow, or a hurricane, it remained forceful. How did someone get that strong? “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Good story.”
“You’ve read it?” I asked in surprise.
He gave that rare, slight smile.
“I just… You don’t seem like someone who reads.”
“Because I’m a kingpin? Criminals aren’t stupid, especially the ones who are good at it.”
I never doubted he was smart. “You don’t have a lot of free time, so I couldn’t imagine you spending it reading…that’s all.”
