by Jane Henry
She loves me anyway.
She moans while I thrust in and out, her pleasure building on mine until she screams her release. I’m on her heels, and with a grunt and final savage tug of her hair, I come. It’s utter fucking perfection when she comes a second time, harder and longer this time.
“Christ, I love you,” I tell her, rolling over and panting, sweaty and riding the high.
“Christ, I love you, too,” she teases. “I have for a very long time, you know,” she says, rolling over and laying her head on my chest.
“How long?” I ask.
“Long enough that it wasn’t proper,” she admits.
“Honey, this still isn’t proper. You know that, right?”
She grins. “I do. And I kinda love it.”
That makes me laugh, then sigh.
“Nothing really changes, you know,” I tell her.
“Oh? How so?”
“I’m still going to be in charge as leader. I’m not turning away from the brotherhood now, not when we’ve forged so much together and I’m teaching Nicolai.”
“Of course not,” she says. “But actually, daddy…” She reaches for my hand and weaves her pretty fingers through my bigger, rougher ones. “Everything’s changed.” She smiles. “But for the better.”
I think about it. She’s right. I’m still the leader and we still have our friends and enemies. Now I don’t face this alone. I face this with the most beautiful, loyal woman by my side.
The brotherhood will not die, and never will. But I’ve paid the king’s ransom. And she was worth every damn penny.
Epilogue
One year later
“Stefan.”
Taara is standing in our living room, her hand on the piano. My entire home is different now because of her, and I love it. She’s added her domestic touch to everything. She’s gifted in that way, and this room is no exception. A gleaming black baby grand is the focal point of this room, complete with cream-colored walls and a comfortable sectional, her framed photographs both breathaking and eye-catching. My men love to drop in and visit with us, and Taara welcomes them all with open arms.
I never knew I needed her until I had her. Now that I do, my life feels complete in a way I never anticipated, as if she’s the final piece to a puzzle.
But today, something’s wrong. She’s trembling, her back to me, holding a piece of paper in one hand and something I can’t quite see in the other. I walk to her, my heartbeat accelerating.
Did she get into the grad school she applied for?
“What is it, baby?”
She turns to me and literally collapses on my chest, breaking into sobs.
“Taara, baby, what?”
First, she hands me the piece of paper, sobbing away on my chest, but I can’t tell if these are sad or happy tears. I quickly scan the paper, my own eyes misting over when I read what’s written.
Our application for adoption’s been accepted. I knew it would be. I have friends in high places, and one phone call was all it took. Our lawyer assured me we’d be approved, but Taara didn’t know that.
Two weeks after our quiet marriage ceremony on the front lawn of the compound, she came to me. She wanted to adopt a child, specifically one of the Afghani refugees. And how could I tell my wife no? I think it had something to do with her holding Nicolai and Marissa’s new baby. She got this gleam in her eye…
I’m not a twenty-something year old anymore, but hell. I’m an experienced father. And I’ll give our child the safest, most normal life he or she could imagine.
So I hold her to me and rock her in my arms. “Baby,” I tell her. “This is amazing.”
“But look,” she sniffs, holding up her second hand. I look down, and when it finally dawns on me what I’m seeing, I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry myself.
It’s a white pregnancy test with two pink lines.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
That makes her smile, and now she’s laughing and crying at once, so I just hold her, because one of us losing their shit’s good enough.
“So… we need to talk timing,” I tell her.
“And school...”
“And a nanny…”
“No.” She shakes her head and looks up at me. “I’m the one who will mother them.”
Mother them. She’s so cute.
“Yeah, baby,” I tell her. “You will.”
“I hope one of them is a girl,” she whispers. “We’ll name her Hesther.”
I pull her to my chest and embrace her, suddenly overcome with inexplicable emotion.
“Yes,” I tell her. “We will.” I hold her to me, and give thanks for all that’s happened. I made mistakes. Hell, we all have. But as the seasons of life come and go, an ever-changing landscape, new life comes in the spring. And with it, a new beginning.
Previews
The Bratva’s Baby (Wicked Doms)
Chapter one
Kazimir
The wrought iron park bench I sit on is ice cold, but I hardly feel it. I’m too intent on waiting for the girl to arrive. The Americans think this weather is freezing, but I grew up in the bitter cold of northern Russia. The cold doesn’t touch me. The ill-prepared people around me pull their coats tighter around their bodies and tighten their scarves around their necks. For a minute, I wonder if they’re shielding themselves from me, and not the icy wind.
If they knew what I’ve done… what I’m capable of… what I’m planning to do… they’d do more than cover their necks with scarves.
I scowl into the wind. I hate cowardice.
But this girl… this girl I’ve been commissioned to take as mine. Despite outward appearances, she’s no coward. And that intrigues me.
Sadie Ann Warren. Twenty-one years old. Fine brown hair, plain and mousy but fetching in the way it hangs in haphazard waves around her round face. Light brown eyes, pink cheeks, and full lips.
I wonder what she looks like when she cries. When she smiles. I’ve never seen her smile.
She’s five-foot-one and curvy, though you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses in thick, bulky, black and gray muted clothing. I know her dress size, her shoe size, her bra size, and I’ve already ordered the type of clothing she’ll wear for me. I smile to myself, and a woman passing by catches the smile. It must look predatory, for her step quickens.
Sadie’s nondescript appearance makes her easily meld into the masses as a nobody, which is perhaps exactly what she wants.
She has no friends. No relatives. And she has no idea that she’s worth millions.
Her boss, the ancient and somewhat senile head librarian of the small-town library where she works won’t even realize she hasn’t shown up for work for several days. My men will make sure her boss is well distracted yet unharmed. Sadie’s abduction, unlike the ones I’ve orchestrated in the past, will be an easy one. If trouble arises eventually, we’ll fake her death.
It’s almost as if it was meant to be. No one will know she’s gone. No one will miss her. She’s the perfect target.
I sip my bitter, steaming black coffee and watch as she makes her way up to the entrance of the library. It’s eight-thirty a.m. precisely, as it is every other day she goes to work. She arrives half an hour early, prepares for the day, then opens the doors at nine. Sadie is predictable and routinized, and I like that. The trademark of a woman who responds well to structure and expectations. She’ll easily conform to my standards… eventually.
To my left, a small cluster of girls giggles but quiets when they draw closer to me. They’re college-aged, or so. I normally like women much younger than I am. They’re more easily influenced, less jaded to the ways of men. These women, though, are barely women. Compared to Sadie’s maturity, they’re barely more than girls. I look away, but can feel their eyes taking me in, as if they think I’m stupid enough to not know they’re staring. I’m wearing a tan work jacket, worn jeans, and boots, the ones I let stay scuffed and marked as if I’m a construction worker
taking a break. With my large stature, I attract attention of the female variety wherever I go. It’s better I look like a worker, an easy role to assume. No one would ever suspect what my real work entails.
The girls pass me and it grates on my nerves how they resume their giggling. Brats. Their fathers shouldn’t let them out of the house dressed the way they are, especially with the likes of me and my brothers prowling the streets. It’s freezing cold and yet they’re dressed in thin skirts, their legs bare, open jackets revealing cleavage and tight little nipples showing straight through the thin fabric of their slutty tops. My palm itches to spank some sense into their little asses. I flex my hand.
It’s been way, way too long since I’ve had a woman to punish.
Control.
Master.
These girls are too young and silly for a man like me.
Sadie is perfect.
My cock hardens with anticipation, and I shift on my seat.
I know everything about her. She pays her meager bills on time, and despite her paltry wage, contributes to the local food pantry with items bought with coupons she clips and sale items she purchases. Money will never be a concern for her again, but I like that she’s fastidious. She reads books during every free moment of time she has, some non-fiction, but most historical romance books. That amuses me about her. She dresses like an amateur nun, but her heroines dress in swaths of silk and jewels. She carries a hard-covered book with her in the bag she holds by her side, and guards it with her life. During her break time, before bed, and when she first wakes up in the morning, she writes in it. I don’t know yet what she writes, but I will. She does something with needles and yarn, knitting or something. I enjoy watching her weave fabric with the vibrant threads.
She fidgets when she’s near a man, especially attractive, powerful men. Men like me.
I’ve never seen her pick up a cell phone or talk to a friend. She’s a loner in every sense of the word.
I went over the plan again this morning with Dimitri.
Capture the girl.
Marry her.
Take her inheritance.
Get rid of her.
I swallow another sip of coffee and watch Sadie through the sliding glass doors of the library.Today she’s wearing an ankle-length navy skirt that hits the tops of her shoes, and she’s wrapped in a bulky gray cardigan the color of dirty dishwater. I imagine stripping the clothes off of her and revealing her creamy, bare, unblemished skin. My dick gets hard when I imagine marking her pretty pale skin. Teeth marks. Rope marks. Reddened skin and puckered flesh, christened with hot wax and my palm. I’ll punish her for the sin of hiding a body like hers. She won’t be allowed to with me.
She’s so little. So virginal. An unsullied canvas.
“Enjoy your last taste of freedom, little girl,” I whisper to myself before I finish my coffee. I push myself to my feet and cross the street.
It’s time she met her future master.
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PREVIEWS
Keenan: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance
CHAPTER ONE
Keenan
I watch from where I sit on the craggy cliffs of Ballyhock to the waves crashing on the beach. Strong. Powerful. Deadly. A combination so familiar to me it brings me comfort. It’s two hours before my alarm goes off, but when Seamus McCarthy calls a meeting, it doesn’t matter where you are or what you’re doing, the men of The Clan answer.
I suspect I know why he’s calling a meeting today, but I also know my father well enough not to presume. One of our largest shipments of illegal arms will arrive in our secured port next week, and over the next month, we’ll oversee distribution from the home that sits on the cliff behind me. Last week, we also sealed a multi-million-dollar deal that will put us in good stead until my father retires, when I assume the throne. But something isn’t right with our upcoming transactions. Then again, when dealing with the illicit trade we orchestrate, it rarely is. As a high-ranking man of The Clan, I’ve learned to pivot and react. My instincts are primed.
The sun rises in early May at precisely 5:52 a.m., and it’s rare I get to watch it. So this morning, in the small quiet interim before daybreak and our meeting, I came to the cliff’s edge. I’ve traveled the world for my family’s business, from the highest ranges of the Alps to the depths of the shores of the Dead Sea, the vast expanse of the Serengeti, and the top of the Eiffel Tower. But here, right here atop the cliffs of Ballyhock, paces from the door to my childhood home, overlooking the Irish Sea, is where I like to be. They say the souls of our ancestors pace these shores, and sometimes, early in the morning, I almost imagine I can see them, the beautiful, brutal Celts and Vikings, fearless and brave.
A brisk wind picks up, and I wrap my jacket closer to my body. I’ve put on my gym clothes to hit the workout room after our meeting if time permits. We’ll see. My father may have other ideas.
I hear footsteps approach before I see the owner.
“What’s the story, Keenan?”
Boner sits on the flat rock beside me, rests his arms on his bent knees, and takes a swig from a flask. Tall and lanky, his lean body never stills, even in sleep. Always tapping, rocking, moving from side to side, Boner has the energy of an eight-week-old golden retriever. My younger cousin, we’ve known each other since birth, both raised in The Clan. He’s like a brother to me.
“Eh, nothing,” I tell him, waving off an offer from the flask. “You out of your mind? He’ll knock you upside the head, and you know it.”
If my father catches him drinking this early in the day, when he’s got a full day of work ahead of him, heads will roll.
“Ah, that’s right,” he says, grinning at me and flashing perfect white teeth, his words exaggerated and barely intelligible. “You drink that energy shite before you go work on yer manly physique. And anyway, get off your high horse. Nolan’s more banjaxed than I am.”
I clench my jaw and grunt to myself. Fuck. Nolan, the youngest in The Clan and my baby brother, bewitched my mother with his blond hair and green eyes straight outta the womb. Shielded by my mother’s protective arms, the boy’s never felt my father’s belt nor mine, and it shows. I regret not making him toe the line more when he was younger.
“Course he is,” I mutter. “Both of you ought to know better.”
“Ah, come off it, Keenan,” Boner says good-naturedly. “You know better than I the Irish do best with a bit of drink no matter the time of day.”
I can toss them back with the best of them, but there’s a time and place to get plastered, and minutes before we find out the latest update of the status of our very livelihood, isn’t it. I get to my feet, scowling. “Let’s go.”
Though he’s my cousin, and I’m only a little older than I am, Boner nods and gets to his feet. As heir to the throne and Clan Captain, I’m above him in rank. He and the others defer to me.
He mutters something that sounds a lot like “needs to get laid” under his breath as we walk up the stone pathway to the house.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Eh, nothing,” he says, grinning at me.
“Wasn’t nothing.”
“You heard me.”
“Say it to my face, motherfucker,” I suggest good-naturedly. He’s a pain in the arse, but I love the son of a bitch.
“I said,” he says loudly. “You need to get fuckin’ laid. How long’s it been since the bitch left you?”
I feel my eyes narrow as we continue to walk to the house. “Left me? You know’s well as I do, I broke up with her.” I won’t even say her name. She’s dead to me. I can abide many things, but lying and cheating are two things I won’t.
“How long?” he presses.
It’s been three months, two weeks, and five fucking days.
“Few months,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Christ, Keenan,” he mutters. “Come with me to the club tonight, and we’ll get you right fixed.”
I snort. “All set there.”
I�
��ve no interest in visiting the seedy club Nolan and Boner frequent. I went once, and it was enough for me.
Boner shakes his head. “You’ve only been to the anteroom, Keenan,” he says with a knowing waggle of his eyebrows. “You’ve never been past there. Not to where the real crowd gathers.”
“All set,” I repeat, though I don’t admit my curiosity’s piqued.
The rocky pathway leading to the family estate is paved with large, roughly hewn granite, the steep incline part of our design to keep our home and headquarters private. Thirty-five stones in the pathway, which I count every time I walk to the cliffs that overlook the bay, lead to a thick, wrought-iron gate, the entrance to our house. With twelve bedrooms, five reception rooms, one massive kitchen, a finished basement with our workout rooms, library, and private interrogation rooms, the estate my father inherited from his father is worth an estimated eleven million euros. The men in The Clan outside our family tree live within a mile of our estate, all property owned by the brotherhood, but my brothers and I reside here.
When I marry—a requirement before I assume the throne as Clan Chief—I’ll inherit the entire third floor, and my mother and father will retire to the east wing, as my father’s parents did before them.
When I marry. For fuck’s sake. The requirement hangs over my head like the sharpened edge of an executioner’s blade. No wedding, no rightful inheritance. And I can’t even think of such a thing, not when my ex-girlfriend’s betrayal’s still fresh on my mind.
I wave my I.D. at the large, heavy black gate that borders our house, and with a click and whirr, the gates open. When my great grandfather bought this house, he kept the original Tuscan structure in place. The millionaire who had it built hailed from Tuscany, Italy, and to this day, the original Tuscan-inspired garden is kept in perfect shape. Lined with willow trees and bordered with well-trimmed hedges, benches and archways made from stone lend a majestic, age-old air. In May, the flowers are in full bloom, lilacs, irises, and the exotic violet hawthorn, the combined fragrances enchanting. The low murmur of the fountain my mother had built soothes me when I’m riled up or troubled. I’ve washed blood-soaked hands in that fountain, and I laid my head on the cold stones that surround it when Riley, my father’s youngest brother and my favorite uncle, was buried.
