by E V Darcy
‘I couldn’t leave without asking you something very important,’ he called back. Hattie rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation; she knew exactly what this important thing was. He asked her every time he saw her—and she loved it.
‘Marry me!’ he shouted to her.
‘You’re insane!’ she called back with a laugh, waving him away.
‘Completely for you!’ He returned her merriment. ‘Say you’ll marry me and make me the happiest man alive!’ He held his hand to his chest and gave her the most pathetic lovelorn look she’d ever seen.
‘If I say yes, will you bugger off?’
‘Anything you desire, if you agree to be my wife, Lady Henrietta Snape!’
She threw her head back and laughed heartily; how easily he could make her forget all her earlier reservations about his plans. The man could make her smile and ease whatever weight was on her shoulders as no one else could. That couldn’t be a bad thing, right?
‘Fine. I’ll marry you,’ she shouted back with a shake of her head. ‘Now bugger off like you promised.’
‘Ah, Hattie, you’ve made me the happiest man alive!’ he called as he slipped back inside the car, waving to his driver to move on.
Hattie shook her head and began to close the door when a sudden force and ball of heat, threw her backwards, smashing her into the thicker inner door that swung open and toppled her into the living space as her windows exploded in a screech of glass. Heat rushed around her, so intense she wondered if the sun had crashed into the planet and scalded her body.
She lay there, dazed, confused for a moment before she sat up and screamed, ‘Jensen!’
Chapter Two
If this was another one of the stupid pranks Jensen had a penchant for, he was going to kill his brother, Roman Tyrrell decided as he strode purposefully down the unusually empty hospital corridor. That he’d been forced to cancel an incredibly important breakfast meeting with one of the company’s biggest clients to deal with whatever Jensen had got himself into this time, meant the bastard better be dead or dying. And if it was the latter, it better be slow and painful.
Roman stopped at another set of clear glass doors, ready to hit the button to open the clinically air-tight barriers when he saw her sat beyond them.
He wasn’t an oblivious man; he understood he was privileged. Outside of royalty, he was one of Avalone’s most eligible men—despite the fact he’d got engaged just two months ago to his long-term girlfriend.
At just thirty-two years old, Roman was not only as handsome as he was wealthy, he was hugely successful in his own right. The youngest vice-president in Seymour Medical’s lifetime, he’d not only earned the place by merit, he’d ensured he kept his place by increasing the company’s profit line two-fold since stepping into the role three years ago.
Oh yes, people wanted Roman Tyrrell; women to lure him to their beds, men to get into his pockets—sometimes the reverse was also true. People tried anything and everything to get his attention, but it was the gifts they threw at him that he enjoyed the most, and people could be so inventive with them! The use of a villa here, a boat there, and a private jet on one occasion. One prospective contractor had even offered Roman his wife for the weekend.
Those had been three very enjoyable days. What made it even better in Roman’s eyes was that his father had every intention of working with the guy and Roman had been about to tell the poor bastard such, when the man had made his offer. With his wife staring up at him with her big, blue, come-to-bed eyes, Roman had figured the paperwork could wait a few more days.
But for everything Roman had, for all he could have, there was one thing that had slipped through his fingers because of a mistake he’d made when he was barely a man.
And there she sat, beyond the medical grade doors—designed by his own company—barely ten feet from him, yet unfathomably out of reach.
Henrietta.
Her auburn hair, usually curled so perfectly into the most beautiful twists, was in utter disarray; a wild mess of a nest that stood high on her head. Her face was covered in black dust that smeared her perfectly clear skin, save for the tear tracks, long dried, that meandered down her cheeks from red-rimmed, brown eyes that were usually filled with warmth and laughter. And instead of the designer clothes she normally wore, she was dressed in those green scrubs doctors donned during surgery.
But Roman’s eyes focused on the tight bandage on her arm, noting how it ran all the way up from her wrist to where it disappeared under the sleeve. He imagined it continued upwards to her shoulder. She cradled it in her other hand as she stared, unblinkingly, across the corridor at the plain white, sterile wall.
Whatever had happened to her, she was hurting. Despite her lack of outward reaction, natural instinct to the injury, to pain was forcing her body to try and protect herself. Holding her arm close to her chest and the way her shoulder hunched and turned in towards her body ever so slightly, told Roman that while consciously she may not be aware of the fact, her body knew she was suffering.
Had his brother caused that? Had one of Jensen’s games hurt his Henrietta?
Roman felt his fingers curl in on themselves, his perfectly manicured nails digging into the palms of his hands; he was going to kill Jensen. He’d bloody throttle his twin when he got hold of him if he was the cause for Hattie’s injuries and obvious distress.
His arm snapped out to his left, punching the big blue button, causing the doors to release with a short, sharp hiss.
Hattie jumped at the sudden noise in the otherwise silent hallway, her head jerking around to look at the intruder into her quiet reverie.
Roman marched through the doors as soon as they allowed, and had her face not been covered in a thick layer of what looked like soot, he would have seen what little colour she had left in her cheeks drain away completely as her eyes met his. She struggled to her feet, which were also bandaged, carrying her weight on her left; had she hurt the whole right side of her body and not just her arm? Roman bit back the growl that wanted to erupt from him, wishing he could see the extent of the damage his brother had caused.
Throttling Jensen wasn’t going to be enough, he decided as he reached out to Hattie, offering his arm to her to help steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around the sleeve of his jacket and, for a brief moment, he wished he wore the t-shirts his brother always did, just to remember the touch of her fingers with more clarity than his mind could provide in his more private moments.
His eyes travelled from her fingers, up her covered arm, to her face, frowning at the black dust he was now positive was soot or ash from a fire. His stomach turned; what the hell had they been doing? If Hattie was this injured, perhaps his brother was worse…
He glanced down the deserted corridors that ran perpendicular to one another and met where the pair stood, looking for a doctor, a nurse, even a porter, but there were none he could see. His frown deepened as he glanced at the walls, searching for signs of what department he’d reached. He hadn’t been listening properly when given directions, he’d only paid attention to what he’d needed, not thinking the rest was important—this wasn’t the first time Jensen had ended up in a fancy hospital after one of his ideas went awry.
‘Henrietta,’ his voice was low, gruff as he turned his attention back to her. It was the first time he’d said her name since they’d last seen one another a year ago at some charity event he couldn’t even remember—although, he could recall with perfect clarity how she’d styled her hair, the green dress she’d worn, who she’d spoken too…
‘What’s going on?’
Her eyes clouded with confusion, her little nose wrinkling as her brows lowered. ‘Roman, I’m…’ He watched her plump lower lip wobble as she tried to find the words she wanted.
‘Oh, Roman,’ she breathed before throwing her good arm around him and burying her face against his chest.
His arms encircled her automatically, surprised at the level of feelings she displayed. Growing up she’d always been a
ball of emotion to him; she had never quite learnt how not to speak exactly what was on her mind and he’d envied that. It gave her a freedom he had never been able to capture. But since that night, all those years ago, she’d locked him out.
If they’d happened to run into one another at an event, conference, or just simply by happen-chance, she shut down. Her eyes became cold and distant, her face empty and her body language defensive and closed off. And every time it happened, he relived the aftermath of what started it all; recalled every word he’d thrown at her, every accusation he’d made towards her, and the self-loathing, guilt, and disgust he’d felt at himself came rushing to the forefront of his mind.
But right now, she was his Henrietta again. A ball of trembling feelings, vibrating in his arms, sending him back to the very first night they’d met when he’d held her small shaking frame and told her everything was going to be okay, that he’d look after her and be her family.
That night he’d looked into her wet, brown eyes and known, even at their young ages, that she was special. His tender heart had beat erratically in a way he knew it wouldn’t for any other, and even though he didn’t understand, and couldn’t comprehend what it meant back then, he knew that Lady Henrietta Snape was it for him. There would be no other.
There never had been.
‘Shush, Henrietta,’ he said as he wound one hand into her wild hair while the other pulled her closer, careful with her bad side and trying to take the weight from her poor feet. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’m here.’
And he meant it. Every word.
He didn’t care if when they walked out of here, they never spoke again. Today was the day he would ensure his brother stopped screwing up her life every time he visited. Jensen wasn’t going to cause her any more tears or heartache. If Roman so much as heard of Jensen making Hattie frown, he would ensure his life wasn’t worth living. He’d destroy his brother if he had to.
Hattie’s hands clung to his biceps, but he felt her relax—just fractionally—at his words, nuzzling against his chest slightly as his fingers caressed her skin at the top of her neck where she’d always carried her tension.
‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he whispered, closing his eyes and trying to forget it all; why he was there, why she was with him, and simply revel in the fact that they were together again. His whole being ached with her so close, knowing this wasn’t going to last. He pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling deeply, expecting the scent he remembered so vividly, the one that haunted him each Christmas; apples and cinnamon. Instead, the acrid stench of fire and… petrol? Oil? Definitely an accelerant of some sort. It hit him hard, making him pull back and cough.
He frowned deeply as she lifted her head to look at him. The soot on the left side of her face had been smudged along his crisp white shirt, revealing her skin to be red and tender underneath. What the hell had she and Jensen been up to for her to smell as if a bomb had gone off?
‘Roman, how is everything going to be okay? Jensen, he’s- He- I saw him, I watched as—’ She stumbled backwards, wrenching herself from his embrace as she raised her bandaged hand to her face, covering her nose and mouth as if trying to hide the look of horror from him. She reached back for the bench with her other hand and all but fell onto the padded seat.
‘Shit,’ he breathed as he watched her fall apart, her shoulders shaking as large, fat tears rolled down her cheeks unimpeded. She hiccupped and coughed, as he slowly took the seat next to her, gently taking her injured hand in his. He looked down at the dressing wrapped between her thumb and fingers, how it cut across the back of her hand. He traced the edge of it with his thumb, the gauze texture rough against the top of the pad, a strong contrast to her soft skin along the rest of his digit.
‘What happened, Henrietta?’ he asked again, gently pulling her hand into his lap to hold it in both of his. She turned her brown eyes to his, her lip still trembling as the tears fell freely over her cheeks. ‘Where’s Jensen? Why are you part mummy?’ He tried to offer a small smile, the right side of his mouth curving ever so slightly to show he wasn’t here as her enemy.
She blinked a few times as she stared at him; trying to pull herself together to answer his questions. Her eyes shifted to her hand within his, and he squeezed her fingers ever so gently, barely a press so he wouldn’t hurt her, but letting her know he was here for her.
‘Ro—’ She hiccupped. She took a deep breath and composed herself before slowly meeting his eyes and trying again. ‘Roman, Jensen’s… Fuck, they didn’t tell you.’
He let her hand go the moment she pulled and watched perturbed as she rubbed them over her face, dragging them down her cheeks just enough to peer at him. ‘Roman,’ she said, her words muffled by her bandaged hand. ‘Jensen’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘He’s… he’s dead.’
His brows drew together. Her words were muffled, there was no way she’d said what he thought. It was that damn mummified hand of hers, making it sound like the worst thing in the world.
Jensen’s in bed, that’s what she’d told him. He was down one of the two corridors, sitting in a bed in one of the rooms waiting for Roman to go in and scream at him for being a dumb shit again, and once more threatening to have their father disinherit him. As was their routine. Every few years something insane like this would happen, and Roman would track down his twin, remind him of their family, their responsibilities, and tell him that if Jensen didn’t buck up he’d get father to cut him off completely.
But this time, Roman would mean it when he took his brother to task. This was the limit, and having Hattie of all people involved… This was too far, even for his brother.
‘There was…’ She dropped her hands to her lap and took a deep breath. ‘There was an explosion, Roman. The car he was in, it- it exploded.’ She said the word exploded as if she didn’t believe it herself. She shook her head as if trying to come to terms with it still, while he stared and watched, trying to see the falsehood, the lie she was spinning.
‘No.’
Hattie closed her eyes at his denial. Was she in on Jensen’s cruel prank? Or was his brother making her another casualty to it, as she always was. When was she going to stop falling for Jensen’s—
‘He’d- We spent the night together,’ she told him. ‘He was leaving and—’
Roman’s mind shorted out. Hattie, his Henrietta had slept with Jensen? His twin had known the woman he desired above all others the way he’d known her? He wanted to be sick at the idea; images of the two entwined together, their cries of passion calling out into the night, assaulted his mind.
The idea of his Henrietta under his brother, staring up at him and calling Jensen’s name instead of his—
‘You slept with my brother?’ His words were quiet, laboured as he held back the burst of fury he wanted to explode with. To demand to know where Jensen was so he could drag her to the bastard and make her watch him punch his brother out. To tell the ingrate that Roman was finally done with him and he was no longer welcome in the family home.
Hattie didn’t even open her eyes as she flinched away from his words. Her tongue curled out over her upper lip as she breathed in deeply through her nose, trying to keep her composure.
‘He was leaving,’ she continued, ignoring his question. ‘He was waving to me out the back of one of the cars you prefer to—’
‘From the back? He was being chauffeured?’ That didn’t make any sense, Jensen hated being driven around. He’d driven himself from the moment he passed his test, when their father had handed him the keys to his first bright red Ferrari.
‘He was joking, as always,’ she continued, finally opening her eyes. But she refused to meet his gaze, instead she rolled her lips between her teeth and clamped down on the words she wanted to say next. The furrow of her brow, the way her eyes narrowed, he could tell she was going over that exact moment again. It was how she looked whenever she had to analyse a piece of text or the results of an experiment. T
he fact she was doing it now, spoke volumes; she was trying to work out if whatever it was Jensen had been doing at that moment was actually a joke or not.
‘Henrietta, I don’t care what he was joking about, I want to know where my brother is.’ He stood up and began to pace the small waiting area. Why the hell were no doctors around? He stopped to stare down the corridor before he turned and tried the nearest door handle. Locked.
‘Roman, I told you.’ Her tone was careful, hesitant. ‘Jensen’s dead.’
Roman’s head snapped around and Hattie jerked back in her chair, his furious gaze pinning her in place.
‘Stop it.’
‘Roman, I’m telling you the truth,’ she tried again as she struggled to her feet once more. ‘I waved him off, I was closing the door and then I was thrown back into the house—’
‘This is a sick joke. I can’t believe you’d play along with him on this, Hattie.’
‘Why do you think we’re in the mortuary, Roman?’
The morgue? He glanced around again, trying to see a sign, but once more failing. This had to be one of Jensen’s games, the sick bastard.
‘He’s in one of these rooms’—he tried another door but it was also locked—‘just waiting to jump out on me.’
‘Roman, no,’ Hattie said, shaking her head as she struggled towards him in a strange limping shuffle. ‘They were supposed to send someone to tell you…’
He stared at her. ‘I can’t believe you’re playing along, Henrietta. I know I hurt you all those years ago,’ he said, trying to choke back the feeling of dread attempting to claw its way up his throat at her pleading eyes. ‘But this is just- Look, I’m sorry I upset you, I’m sorry I called you a… Well, what I did,’ he said dropping his eyes from her, still unable to voice the things he’d said. Still ashamed, even if what she and Jensen were doing was abhorrent. ‘But to do something like this, to play along with my brother—’
‘Roman.’ Hattie’s hands clenched his shoulders and gently shook him, making him look at her once more. ‘Roman, this isn’t a game,’ she begged him to believe her. She swallowed before continuing, ‘The force threw me through my door, but I got up and ran through the debris and glass.’
