by Geneva Lee
“It simply means it could be time for you to have the baby.” He delivered this bombshell like a bouquet of flowers.
My mouth fell open as a dozen reasons why I couldn’t have the baby swam in my overrun brain. “I still have four weeks.”
We were safe as long as I was pregnant. I could protect the him. And I couldn’t have him without Alexander by my side. He needed time. I knew he was looking to find me—to find us. By now, Georgia and Smith and everyone would be tracking us down. I needed time, and now it felt like I was on the clock.
“The baby is viable at this age and will likely do fine if we need to deliver. We’ll monitor the situation,” he continued. “My concern is the health of the fetus.”
I almost couldn’t bring myself to ask the one thing I needed to know. I’d been cut out of this equation. He’d made it clear that he was here for my son not for me. But regardless of what he said, I had to hope that he still felt some duty to me. “And the health of its mother?”
Rolland turned away and didn’t answer, but the look said enough. He’d save the baby, but me?
The nurse’s words earlier echoed through me: No one is going to hurt your baby.
No one would hurt either of us. I wouldn’t let them.
Chapter 8
ALEXANDER
Clara stretched across the bed, her slender arms tied over her head. She was a work of art that I would never tire of worshipping. I wanted my mouth on her, my skin against hers, my cock buried inside her. Crawling over, she arched off the bed, trying to make contact. It seemed she had similar thoughts. Catching her nipple between my lips, I tugged it between my teeth, earning a hiss of pleasure. Everyone sound she made was music—my own private symphony.
“Does my poppet like that?” I asked, my hand snaking down to discover the damp heat between her thighs. “You’ve gotten so wet.”
I plunged a finger lazily inside her, relishing how she contracted around it. She was always ready. It made it impossible to resist her, even when I was angry with her—and I was angry. I just couldn’t remember why.
Clara bucked against the rope, but it held her. I’d made certain to tie it to the bedpost so I could take my time torturing her.
“Yes, please,” she whimpered.
I loved the way she circled her hips against me, trying to make contact, trying to relieve the steady need building inside her. It was a need only I could satisfy and I took not only pleasure in that but relief. In my world, there was only her. She’d been made for me. I would never understand it. I had before, and I would never do so again. “You’re so greedy. You want my hands and my mouth”—I brushed a kiss over her pebbled nipple—“and my cock.”
“X,” she panted, craning her head, trying to raise her face to mine. “Please.”
There was a desperation in her plea that settled onto my shoulders. But was I enough for her? Had I given her everything she wanted? Could I ever deserve her?
“Patience,” I soothed her. “I’ll give you want you need—what you’ve been asking for.”
Running a hand over her flat belly, I paused. Something was wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember,” I admitted quietly.
“Then don’t stop,” she urged me.
I shook my head, trying to clear the unease and concentrated on the smoothness of her skin, the freckles dusting her shoulder. Covering her mouth with mine, I stole a kiss. But it wasn’t theft. Not anymore. She belonged to me. We’d given ourselves to each other.
She needed to trust me. After all this time, it was still so hard for her to do that. Maybe I needed to remind her exactly who her body belonged to—a lesson I was sure she would enjoy.
“Greedy little poppet. Greedy little cunt. I think I’ll teach you how to be patient.” Reaching overhead I found a second length of rope. I’d left it there, but I couldn’t remember why. Now I understood.
I slid it roughly under her torso, knowing it would scratch and burn and knowing Clara wanted that. She was delicate but strong and when I treated her roughly, she became herself fully. I looped the rope around her, dragging it across her breasts. “I think these need more attention.”
Clara bit her lip with each slide and tuck of the rope, gasping as I tightened it around each breast until they were plump and bound. Sitting back on my heels, I admired her. Her breasts were full and swollen from the tightness of the rope. Her fingers, while free, coiled around her restraints. Not only was she beautiful with her porcelain skin wrapped with red rope, she was where I wanted her: under my control.
“Now if I do this…” I flicked my tongue over the furl of her nipple and she yelped. “I love when you cry out like that.”
“You love to see me in pain,” she said without a hint of accusation. It’s what she thought. It’s what she believed. But she didn’t understand. It was more than that.
“No, I love to see you free,” I corrected her gently. “There is beauty in restraint. You look so beautiful now—so fuckable.”
“Yes, please.” She bit her lip and attempted to nod.
“I’m not sure.” I closed my mouth over her breast again and she groaned. I could feel her grow wetter between her legs. She loved to give herself to me, but there were other considerations. “What about the baby?”
“Baby?” she repeated with a bark of laughter that marred the scene. “X, there’s only you and me, remember? Us. Forever.”
There was a ghost in her eyes as she spoke even though she laughed. She didn’t mean it. Some part of it was a lie.
I moved my hand down her flat, unmarred stomach. We’d agreed. Just us. That was right.
Wasn’t it?
“What do you want?” I turned my attention back to her. She was my world. I’d given up everything for her and received more than I could ever want. I’d never wanted that life anyway. I wanted her life.
“Take control. Do what you’ve always wanted to do,” she breathed.
I slipped between her legs, my hands settling at her throat.
“Yes,” she said with a smile as my fingers coiled around her slender neck.
My hands tightened as I thrust inside her. The smile remained as she gasped against my hold. I squeezed harder until no sound came but her body began to tremble under mine. It was what she needed—to give me total control. It was what only I could give her: protection and freedom. The knowledge rocketed through me and I filled her, watching her eyes glaze over with ecstasy until I collapsed against her. Bringing my lips to hers, I kissed her.
“Clara?” I murmured. “I love you.”
She was silent. I pulled back to discover her face still washed with bliss.
Peaceful.
Free.
I’d released her. For a moment, pure joy filled me and then, when she didn’t blink…
“Clara!” I bolted up in my seat, my hands reaching out and finding only air.
I’d killed her. All I’d ever wanted was to love her, and I had killed her.
“Alexander,” Georgia called, and I turned still caught between the dream and the real world.
“I killed her,” I whispered.
“There’s no reason to think—”
“In the dream,” I told him. “Maybe in life, too.” My voice broke on the truth of it. When we met I’d warned Clara that nothing good survived around me. I’d let myself believe that might not be true. But that was a lie. It had always been a lie. Why else had I hidden so many of my family’s ugly secrets? Because I’d needed to believe those lies myself.
We were tainted—infected—and I was the heart of the disease. I didn’t know how to be honest. I didn’t know how to be King. I didn’t know how to save her. I let this happen.
“We’re going to find her.” Georgia came to the edge of my desk and perched against it. “Clara is a fighter. She’s going to be fine.”
I didn’t know which one of us needed to believe that more.
“Everything is slipping away.
The tighter I try to hold onto something…” My thoughts turned to my dream: to my greatest fear. I’d held so tightly to Clara that I’d finally lost her—and I had no one to blame but myself.
If I’d been honest with her from the beginning, would any of this had happened? Would my wife be sleeping in our bed?
I buried my head in my hands, trying to remind myself that I couldn’t do anything about the past. I could only move forward. Wherever she was, she needed me and I wouldn’t fail her. Not again.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted to Georgia. “I’m going crazy and I need to keep my head straight. If I don’t…if I don’t…”
I couldn’t bring myself to consider what would happen if I couldn’t do that.
“Do you need to take back control?” she asked quietly.
A minute ticked by as this sank in, and we stared at one another. It was a dangerous game to play—and a more dangerous offer to make.
“What does that mean?” I asked icily.
“You’re a dominant. You may need to consider whether—”
“I’m not interested,” I cut her off. I wouldn’t touch another woman in any capacity.
“I’m not offering,” Georgia clarified. “I know you and Clara have submission all twisted up with love, but you need to consider how to keep your head clear. You need to be able to think. If that means—”
“Now isn’t the time for whips,” I spat out.
“It’s probably the perfect time,” she disagreed.
“I don’t want to punish someone,” I roared. How could she not see that? “I want to be punished. I want to carry her pain, because I know she’s in it. I want to bear this burden.”
Georgia arched a dark eyebrow. “Then hand someone else the whip.”
“I thought you weren’t offering.” I shook my head. “I’m not interesting. Judge my marriage all you want.”
“I’m not judging your marriage,” she said harshly. “I’m pointing out that there’s a way to clear your head and you may need to consider that option.”
“And let me be clear, it’s not an option.” I couldn’t believe she was suggesting it.
“Smith could do it,” she said, ignoring me. “He knows how to separate the two. If you need punishment—if you need to step outside yourself for a moment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I wasn’t about to hand anyone control over me. No matter what she thought. Even if part of me missed the vibration of a whip against my palm. Even if part of me wanted to feel its sting against my back. And the last person I would ever hand control was Smith. I respected him, but I would never bow before him. Just as no one would bow before me.
There was only one soul I knelt before, and only she could free me from this hell.
Georgia and I were both wrong. I didn’t need to seek punishment. I was being punished already.
“You slept.” Smith noted. He sounded oddly pleased, as if he’d been worried.
I nodded, dismissing his relief. It didn’t matter that it was in a chair in my office. What mattered was that I’d wasted time. I could buy anything but that. “Don’t remind me.”
“You have to sleep,” he said. Had he talked with Georgia? Were the two of them going to continue to mother me?
“I have to find her.” Why was everyone else so focused on things that didn’t involve bringing Clara home? She was the only thing I truly needed.
Smith didn’t pursue the argument I was angling for. Instead, he shrugged. “Are you sure about this?”
I nodded again, relieved to be back on track. We’d decided the next logical course was to speak to Oliver Jacobson. Whatever this contingency was, he knew about it. We were all certain of that. He’d been a key component in too many family tragedies and he’d made his threat clear before: he’d destroy my family from within. What better way to upset the game than to steal the Queen?
Plus, since our only lead on MI-18 was missing. It was the most we had to go on. Maybe he could lead us to them.
Maybe he could lead us to her.
Something deep within me told me that Jacobson had played his part. I’d once believed he was the one pulling the strings, now I saw the ones attached to him.
We came upon Edward in the hall. He looked like it was any other day of the week—his curly hair tamed and tucked behind his ears, his navy suit pressed with crisp lines. But I saw beyond that to the circles rimming his eyes and the hollow defeat reflected there. He wasn’t sleeping either.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, sounding more accusatory then I meant to. It was my call to ask him to stay away. I wanted to protect him from this, but there was no way to shield him from the pain of losing his best friend.
“Press conference,” he said flatly. He whipped his glasses off and inspected the lenses. “I wanted to avoid it, but we need to make a statement about Mary. It’s been two days.”
“I should handle that.” I’d let it fall through the cracks. What would it look like if I was absent from this? Especially if the doctors continued their investigations into the drugs my grandmother had been taking? It was my responsibility to be the face of this family, but I’d yoked my brother with that burden.
“I’ve taken care of that,” he explained. “We’re announcing that Clara has been placed on bed rest. I’ve spoken with her doctor and explained that the Queen needs rest.”
I let this news sink in. He’d taken care of everything. He’d stepped in and taken control of my responsibilities.
“I hope that’s okay,” he added quickly, misreading my silence.
I pulled my brother into a tight hug. I didn’t have to do all of this. I had people I could trust, even when I was missing the ones closest to me. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got this,” he promised. “You worry about her.”
“Mary’s doctors want to speak to her,” I reminded him.
“Bed rest,” he said again. “The baby is the most important thing.”
“Henry isn’t going to like that.”
“Henry can deal.” Edward slid his glasses back on and gave me a pointed look.
“You should check on Sarah.” One of us needed to.
“I already did. She’s holed up in her apartment. She blames herself, you know.”
That made two of us. It was why I hadn’t visited her.
“She should be reminded that it isn’t,” Edward pushed.
“I’ll talk to her,” I promised, “later.”
“And you should see your daughter,” Edward added softly. “She’s asking for you.”
“I will. I just—”
“She’s asking for Clara,” he cut me off, his Adam’s apple sliding on this revelation.“She doesn’t understand.”
“What am I going to tell her?” I asked him, knowing there was no good answer for her. For any of us.
“That you love her,” Edward suggested. “She may want her mother, but she needs her father.”
I thought about this for a moment. He was right. I’d been avoiding Elizabeth for a lot of reasons. They all led back to the same harsh reality: I’d failed her as much as I’d failed Clara.
“Belle’s taken over for Penny. Less questions,” Edward informed me.
And someone we both trusted. “Good.”
“Do I want to know where you’re going?” Edward eyed Smith, who was studiously staying out of earshot.
“No.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, one last sign of solidarity. Then heaved a sigh. I hated putting him in this position. Edward had always been the fun one, the charismatic one. Now he’d been saddled with holding up the family in the public eye. I reminded myself that if it was true—if Clara was on bed rest—he would have done the same. He would have stepped up. Because that’s what family did for each other.
“We need to step in the war room,” Smith said when I finally rejoined him. “Make sure we’re on the same page.”
Smith had persuaded me to tell the others about MI-18, a decisi
on that rested heavily on me. I didn’t know enough about the black ops department to know what would happen if we found them. Norris had warned me never to speak of the organisation leaving little room for interpretation about the possible consequences. Consequences I was choosing to ignore now. Without Norris here, I didn’t have any other choices.
When we reached the meeting room, photographs lined the bulletin board on the far side of the room. Brex had been busy.
“What’s this?” I asked.
He shrugged, giving me a tired grin that didn’t reach his brown eyes. “You asked me to track down a covert government agency.”
“And you found them?” None of the photos looked like people who would belong to a black ops unit.
“It’s important to remember that covert agencies don’t function with super spies alone,” Georgia said dryly.
“So we started there,” Brex added. “And we had something to go on. We know Norris was MI-18, so I dug into his file.”
“And?” The man had been my confidant, my protector, practically my father, for my entire life. Did I want to know what they’d found?
“That’s where things get interesting.” He looked at Georgia for encouragement. I wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “There is no James Norris. Not really. He exists on paper, but none of his background checks out.”
I clutched the edge of the table so hard I thought it might splinter under my grip. “I don’t understand.”
“His history is made up. How much do you know about his childhood? His education?” Georgia asked me. She didn’t seem nearly as nervous about this as her partner.
“Very little,” I admitted. “Are you telling me he made it up?” Norris was our only connection to MI-18. I knew about the organisation because of him. It might have been easier to question if DeAngelo hadn’t pointed us in the same direction.
“No. The opposite,” Brex said swiftly. “We think it’s all been erased so well—his life, his youth— that even he doesn’t think about it anymore. He never talked about it.”
