Decadent (The Devil's Due Book 4)

by Eva Charles

  Gray’s breathing is shallow, and he slips in and out while I unstrap him from the table. I use the utmost care, but he grimaces as each strap loosens. “An ambulance is right outside. I know it hurts like a sonofabitch. They’ll give you medicine for the pain as soon as they get here. You’re going to be okay.” I murmur it over and over, as much for me as for him.

  “You—shouldn’t—be—here. Consequences,” he chokes out each word in a lucid moment. I smile softly at his threat.

  “I came to tell you I love you.” I rub the top of his hand. “And of course, I’m here. Where else would I be? The queen’s the most powerful player on the board—always in service to her king.”

  His hand tightens around mine, and he chokes up blood. He’s barely breathing, and I pray that both lungs aren’t damaged. If they are, he won’t be alive when they get here. “Stay with me, Gray.”

  Somehow I manage to keep the worst of the alarm out of my voice. “Don’t you dare go anywhere. Not before I get that ring you promised.” I hear Smith’s team in the building. “And the damn thing better be big enough to choke a chicken—screw that, a horse.”

  Smith barges in with the EMTs right behind him. A sob escapes that I can’t stop.

  Reluctantly, I let go of Gray’s hand and back away slowly from the table so they can work. I make a call, my eyes never leaving Gray’s face. “It’s done. Sinclair Industries is cleaning up.”

  “Gray?” Foxy asks.

  “Bad shape. But he’s fighting. The EMTs are working on him.”

  “I’ve known him since he was wet behind the ears,” she says with considerable distress. “I would have never done what you suggested.”

  “We don’t always get to choose our orders.”

  “No. But we always get to choose whether we follow them.”

  She’s loyal to Gray—to the bone. No one likes their loyalty questioned, and I feel a pang of regret. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “One more thing,” Foxy says in a stern tone. “Those grandchildren are real and entirely off-limits.”

  “Understood,” I agree mindlessly, my entire focus on Gray.

  I end the call with Smith beside me. “I told you not to go in,” he scolds. “That was a stupid, stupid thing to do.”

  “As stupid as handing a delirious woman your weapon?” That’s exactly what he did when Kate was in trouble. “I don’t think so,” I toss over my shoulder, blowing past him to get closer to Gray.

  They’re positioning him onto a stability board to get him on the stretcher. “Can we get a hand here?” one of the EMTs hollers.

  Smith and I are there before all the words are out of his mouth.

  The transfer is difficult. Gray isn’t conscious, but I feel every bump, every bounce, every anguished move, as a stab of pain I’m experiencing myself.

  “Is he going to survive?” I whisper to the medic once Gray is on the stretcher safely.

  “He’s young,” the dark-haired emergency technician says briskly. “That’s in his favor.”

  “Caucasian male, thirty-four, unconscious. Blood type unknown.” The younger EMT lists Gray’s vital signs and other pertinent information into a walkie-talkie on our way to the ambulance. “Multiple contusions, several broken ribs. A gunshot to the shoulder. High suspicion of internal bleeding, and a pneumothorax on the left side. We bagged him.”

  “We’ll prep the surgical trauma room,” a woman says calmly from the other end.

  “We’re on our way.”

  I clasp Gray’s cool hand until he’s lifted into the ambulance. A reel plays in my head. Motorcycle rides. Sitting in his lap with my eyes closed and a breeze blowing lightly. Gray teasing about the smell of catfish. The distress consuming him when he told me about his mother’s death. Supper at the beach house under millions of stars. I love you, Blue Eyes. Pack it away and take it with you.

  My brain is sluggish and my emotions are tangled, but my eyes are sharp, trained entirely on Gray. They don’t stray until the ambulance door closes, and it speeds away.

  I hug myself tight as the lights cut through the darkness and disappear. But it’s not until the wails of the siren grow faint that I give myself grace and let the tears fall freely.

  It can’t end this way. It just can’t.

  48

  Gray

  TWELVE WEEKS LATER

  A punctured lung, a shattered shoulder, a dozen broken ribs, an orbital fracture, a concussion, and countless contusions. It was ugly. But I survived.

  Early on, there were days when I longed for the peace death surely provides. But through the surgeries, the intubation, and the initial rehab, the bossy blonde—emphasis on bossy—was having none of it. And every time I opened my eyes and she was by my side, like an angel, I wanted none of it either. I needed to live—if not for me, for her.

  The initial four weeks were particularly rough. I couldn’t do a thing for myself. Nothing. When I was finally discharged from the hospital, we hired a live-in nurse. Delilah squawked a bit. She wanted to take care of me herself. But there was no fucking way I was letting that happen. My body might be broken, but my mind was sharp. Our relationship was too new, too fragile to take away all the mystery. And I had too much pride to subject either of us to the most unpleasant matters.

  There were two major breakthroughs during my recovery that propelled me forward.

  At the end of the first month, Delilah rushed into the bedroom where I was resting after a particularly rough rehab session. She was pale, and shaken. “You’re never going to believe this,” she said, placing my laptop where I could see the screen.

  Crown Prince Ahmad bin Khalid Dead in a Fiery Helicopter Crash in big bold letters splashed across the screen.

  Ahmad’s death didn’t shock me as much as it shocked Delilah. Political coups are messy, and I was still numb from a near-death experience. “I guess the crown prince didn’t want to go away quietly.”

  “What does this mean?” she asked, her face ashen and her voice laden with concern. “I’m glad he’s dead. But what does it mean for us?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. The king was going to remove him as heir to the throne. Ahmad would have had no qualms about killing his brother if it was necessary to consolidate his power. I doubt the king was willing to risk it. It has nothing to do with you or me.”

  The worry eased from her face, and I was happy to provide some small measure of comfort, because I’d been a worthless fuck since the attack.

  After Delilah left the room, I stared at the screen that day, and the next. I consumed every word of every news article about his death. Devoured every broadcast. I ordered a half dozen newspapers with the headline of his demise.

  I kept the newspaper clippings tucked into various places so I could look at them anytime it was hard to breathe or when the pain was particularly excruciating. It saw me through some of the rougher patches, driving me forward when I wanted to throw in the towel.

  I won’t apologize for reveling in his death.

  In a twisted way, it fueled my recovery. But while it buoyed me, it didn’t fully restore my spirit. That took a force of nature, beautifully packaged.

  As the weeks drag on, I’ve become such a miserable wretch that even my brothers and Gabby stop visiting.

  Mel still comes by three times a week. Not for me, but for Delilah. “Some people are worth the extra effort,” he told me one day. “You might want to take that to heart, son.”

  I’m making physical progress, albeit slower than I would like, but my mind is one big clusterfuck of emotion. Anger, resentment, pity, shame—it’s a huge party, and I’m the guest of honor with nothing to do but lick my wounds. And although I don’t care who watches, Delilah has had a front row seat to the misery. She nudges and nags, but she never complains. In some ways, it makes it easier for me to descend into the darkness.

  Despite my apathy, Wildflower is running smoothly. Delilah and Foxy fill me in daily, and try to enlist me in decision-making, but I have little in
terest in anything besides brooding.

  Although Delilah is never far from my most pressing thoughts.

  My brooding and moping are mostly about her. I toy with the idea of sending her away. Her mere presence makes me feel small, like I’ve lost my purpose in life.

  She saved me. And she risked her life to do it. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I should have been protecting her. I should be taking care of her now.

  It’s not misogyny or an outdated notion. It was my role in the relationship that we forged. I lead. She follows. But some days, I can’t walk from one end of the apartment to the other without getting winded. I’m of little use to anyone. Especially Delilah.

  But I can’t do it. I’m too selfish. I love her too much to send her away, like a decent man might do. I’m taking the coward’s way out instead. Acting so obnoxious that eventually she’s going to tell me to go fuck myself, and slam the door behind her. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Not at first. But when it became obvious, even to me, I didn’t stop the destructive behavior. I still haven’t stopped.

  There are footsteps approaching, and I glance up from my tablet to Delilah sashaying into the bedroom. Her beauty and resilience still slay me. She has a bounce in her step, even after working all day and evening. Even knowing that she’s coming home to a cranky bastard.

  “Everything’s closed up downstairs,” she says, handing me the remote to the bullet vibrator I’d made her wear in public that first night we had supper at Wildflower.

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s the remote to that evil little vibrator,” she says, with the throaty voice of a vixen. “I know the app’s on your phone, but I didn’t want to mess with it. I thought we’d use the remote instead.”

  “I know what it is,” I sneer. Sex had been an important part of our relationship. It had been a safe harbor for Delilah’s submission. The one time where she always let me lead, without argument. But we haven’t had sex since the plane on the way home from Amidane. I glare at the vibrator with disdain. “What exactly do you expect me to do with it?”

  She steps closer to where I’m resting, and straddles my legs with her feet on the floor and her hands on the arms of the chair. She’s in my face. “What I expect,” she declares in a clear, exacting voice, “is for you to show some interest in meeting my needs. That is, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself for the ten minutes it’ll take to give me an orgasm.”

  Shame washes over me, and I feel smaller and less like a man than I had already been feeling. I lash out without bothering to sugarcoat a single word. “Meet your own needs. Or have you gotten so spoiled you’ve forgotten how to take care of yourself?” I toss the remote across the room, but it doesn’t go far, because I’m still a weak sonofabitch.

  Without blinking, Delilah picks the damn thing up off the floor. “Fine,” she replies, in a voice that means things are far from fine.

  But I don’t give a shit.

  She doesn’t spare me even a small glance before she reaches under her skirt, pushes aside the lacy thong, and dips her fingers into that pussy I once worshiped. With great aplomb, she pulls out the small toy—all while I watch, captivated by her self-assurance.

  “Stand up, turn around, and bend over. Ass in the air,” she demands, grabbing a tube of lube from the nightstand.

  She’s never spoken to me in this way. No one has. They wouldn’t dare. Sure, she’s been insolent and argumentative, putting me in my place when the occasion called for it, but this is different. This is a direct challenge, aimed at the very heart of who I am. “What the hell are you talking about?” The bitterness curls around each syllable.

  “Since you don’t want to control the remote, I figure you must want me to shove this special Lush prototype up your ass, so I can control the remote. Works for me.”

  I gape at her. The vibrations inside are the equivalent to an earth-shattering seismic event, catapulting me from the bowels of hell, and unleashing a basic, primal drive that shakes me to the core.

  “It works for you, does it?” Her face tilts up, in a huffy little pout—a rebellion.

  You are not staging this kind of a rebellion against me, Blue Eyes. Not while I’m still breathing.

  “I’m the team leader. That kind of insolence won’t be tolerated.” My tone is firm, and unyielding. It invites no backtalk. “There will be consequences. Not just today, but ongoing.”

  Her brow is raised, as she continues to test me. It’s a silent, but unmistakable prodding.

  “Take your clothes off, Delilah, for me.”

  A ghost of a smile forms as she undresses slowly, shaking her gorgeous ass at me more than necessary. It awakens my cock from a slumber that’s lasted too damn long.

  When fully naked, she drops the vibrator and the remote into my lap, and stands waiting for instructions, with her hands behind her and her eyes lowered.

  “I won’t be needing these.” I place the toys on the table next to me. “Get the leather case from the bottom shelf of my closet.” I stand, and the pain claws at me with every movement, but I don’t wince. “But first, come here.”

  Delilah steps closer, so close I feel the heat emanating from her body.

  With the resolve of a dying man wanting to save himself, wanting to save us, I slide my fingers through her silky hair and press my mouth to hers, feeding off her lips, her tongue, exploring every crevice of her body with eager hands and probing fingers. I’ve missed this so damn much. Missed her so much.

  All I hear are the sounds of arousal. Pounding hearts, blood coursing, and Delilah’s sultry moans and purrs filling my soul until the need for more pulls us apart. “Go,” I murmur, but neither of us wants her to go. I sure as hell don’t.

  Eventually she turns toward the closet, rolling back a satchel of toys that she lays at my feet. I can’t bend to rifle through the bag. The realization rattles me, and the anxiety starts to build. Aside from a few unsatisfying attempts at jacking off in the shower, my dick has been largely dormant. What if—

  “Sir,” she whispers, jolting me from my fears.

  Dominance isn’t about sex. For some people, it doesn’t involve sex at all. I’ve repeated this countless times to Dominants and submissives just entering the lifestyle. For most of us, it’s who we are at our center. The roles are a state of mind, not a sexual missive.

  I gaze at the remarkable woman who threw me a lifeline tonight. “Take out the Hitachi.”

  Her eyes shimmer at the word. The flush creeps across her chest in a web pattern, making my dick throb.

  “Do you need to be bound?” It’s a challenge, because I know before I ask that she’s too damn proud to say yes.

  She lifts her chin, and shakes her head. “No, Sir.”

  I motion to the Tantra chair, steadying her while she drapes her prone body over the highest arch, where I can have easy access to everything that will give us both pleasure.

  “I want to see my pussy,” I demand.

  She spreads her legs for me, hooking her feet around the chair.

  My cock jumps at her glistening pink flesh, and I lower my mouth. It’s impulsive, and not what I had planned. But it’s what I need. It doesn’t matter that my chest aches to bend. I need to taste her more than I’ve ever needed anything.

  “I take care of you. It doesn’t matter if it’s with my mouth, my fingers, my cock, or a toy. I do the fucking. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she gasps. The word tumbles off her tongue with a breath.

  I lower my mouth, and lick, and suck, and nip, sliding my tongue into her wet little hole until she tightens and thrashes, with my name on her lips, and the tremors of her release on mine. Her orgasm, her needy little moans, her trembling body—it’s like a shot of energy that spurs me on.

  I want more. More of her. More of everything.

  “What’s your safe word?” I ask, plugging the wand into an outlet.

  “Red.” She’s panting, but she doesn’t hesitate.

  I slap
her exposed pussy twice before I hold the wand to her quivering flesh. Her back arches as she white-knuckles the sides of the chair. “Is this what you wanted?” I taunt, while I yank the first orgasm from her.

  “Yes,” she screams, as my cock grows thicker and harder. “Yes.”

  I ask the question over and over as I wrench one orgasm out after another. She stops answering after the third time I ask. But I’m a man possessed, and her trembling body is the only response I need.

  “Please. I can’t. No more,” she pleads. But she never uses her safe word.

  I run my hand over her inner thighs, enjoying the satiny skin against my fingers. “I decide when you’re done. And I don’t think you are.” I lower the wand and turn it higher.

  With her legs shaking as she writhes through the next climax, I let the toy drop and unbuckle my belt, tugging at the button and zipper, until my angry, fat cock is in my hand.

  I hover over her, pulling and jerking the swelling shaft while it weeps.

  My eyes never leave Delilah’s, but I don’t really see her. I don’t think of her softness, her sweet musky scent, or even how much I love her. I’m blinded by a desperate need for release—from my demons, my pain, and the fortress I built around my soul after the attack. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

  I’m so close. All I know is the force driving me over the edge in a gallop to bliss. I hear the roar of release detonating every cell. Every nerve. I shudder as it claws its way out of the pain.

  “This is what I wanted,” she cries, finally answering the question I repeatedly posed to her. Her voice is joyous, like a prayer for the rain that falls after a punishing drought. As I spray thick ropes of cum over her skin, I see the blurred edges of a jubilant smile.

  Now we’re done.

  Not just her, but me too. Done with the pity parties, and the sullenness that’s become a way of life. It’s done. Done.

  When I look back on tonight, I won’t remember anything about sex or consequences. It was so much more.