The Alpha Billionaire Club Trilogy

by Alexa Wilder

  He spit the last part out in a rush as if he were nervous. His brief lapse into uncertainty reassured me. Axel was always so in control. It made me feel better to know that he was a little at sea as well.

  "I want to be with you," I said, “and I'm not that attached to my apartment, but are you sure you're okay with me moving in? It's a big step. You might get sick of having me under your feet all the time."

  Axel's eyes heated and he gave me a lecherous grin. "You won't be under my feet, Emma," he said, pulling me in for a hot, slow kiss.

  I was moving in with Axel Sinclair. We've come a long way since I’d worried that I'd never seen Adam's apartment. Axel reached into his desk and opened the top drawer, pulling out a gun. At the sight of it, the dark black metal, so foreign in his hand, I stiffened.

  "Do you need that?” I asked. “I thought everything was fine now."

  "I carry a gun most of the time," Axel said. “Partly out of habit and partly because it’s my job. I wouldn't have brought you home if I wasn't sure you were safe, but with everything that’s happened, I'd rather be prepared."

  "Okay," I said, not willing to argue about it. I wasn't anti-gun, which was probably a good thing, considering who I was about to move in with. We took the elevator down to the garage, and Axel said, “We’ll go into the office tomorrow, and I'll get your prints and palm recorded so you can control the elevator."

  That was pretty cool. Axel pulled into the parking garage at my apartment building and circled twice before choosing a spot. Everything looked normal enough to me, and we went up to my apartment, me in front, Axel taking the rear.

  It was weird to be back at my place after a week. My house plants were a little wilted, but otherwise, everything looked normal, not as if my life had been turned upside down. Everything but the door to my bedroom. That was still torn from its hinges, on its side in the hallway. Looking at it, I said, “I don’t think I’m getting my security deposit back.”

  Axel’s eyes darkened at the sight of the damage. “I’ll have it taken care of. Just get as much of your stuff as you want, and I’ll have movers come in and take care of the rest. Do you want your furniture?”

  My things were on the shabby side of shabby chic. They’d look awful at Axel’s place. “I don’t think my furniture would look right in your place, Axel,” I said.

  He gave me a level look and said, “I don’t give a fuck. If you want it, we’ll redecorate.”

  Hmm, that gave me a lot to think about. I packed my clothes and make-up, considering what, if anything, I wanted to take with me. In the end, I said, “I don’t think any of this stuff is worth moving to your place. I’ve been carting it around since college, and most of it is ready to fall apart. But maybe we could redecorate a little.”

  Axel pressed a kiss to my forehead and said, “Whatever you want, Emma. Whatever you want.”

  I leaned into him, wondering if we had enough time to make out. For once, we didn’t have anything pressing to do. No work, no appointments with the FBI or running from the mob. Life was about to get blissfully boring. I couldn’t wait. I wound my arms around Axel’s neck, burying my fingers in his silky hair as I drew him down for a long, slow kiss. His hands dipped below my waist, cupping my ass and pulling me into his hard, thick length.

  We had plenty of time and nothing more important to do than to be together. With that in mind, my hands went to the buttons on Axel’s shirt and I got to work. I had most of them undone when I heard it—the distinctive squeak of the hinges on my front door. I’d always meant to take care of those, but I kept forgetting. Who would have guessed they might save my life?

  I stepped back to see who was at the door as Axel whirled and shoved me behind him, his gun raised. I caught a glimpse of a tall, distinguished looking older man at the door, and the flash of a gun in his hand, before the room exploded around me. Gunshots. I thought that’s what they were, though they sounded different than the shots I’d heard at the safe house. These were more like the attack in the parking garage. Three of them. One from Axel, two from the man at the door.

  “Get down. Take cover behind the bed,” Axel hissed at me, not taking his eyes off the threat down the hall. I dropped to my knees and scrambled to the side of the bed, drawing my knees to my chest to make myself the smallest target possible. Axel stood in the doorway, his eyes and gun trained on the intruder, leaning to the side to minimize his exposure. It took me a minute to spot the blood trickling down his left arm, staining the sleeve of his button-down a muddy red.

  “Axel,” I said, staring at his arm. He didn’t turn, but gestured at me with his free hand, telling me to be quiet. “He shot you,” I whispered.

  He waved his hand at me again, reminding me to be quiet. I pressed my lips together, telling myself to think. It had been a stupid thing to say. He shot you. Axel probably knew he’d been shot. Duh. But I was in shock, too overwhelmed at the shift from kissing to dodging bullets to come up with something more intelligent to say. Since I didn’t have anything useful to contribute, I’d huddle on the floor and keep my mouth shut.

  Digging his hand into his pocket, Axel tossed his phone to me and said, under his breath, “Text Evers and tell him Tsepov is here and shots have been fired. Then call 911 and tell them the same thing.”

  Relieved to have something useful to do, something that would take my mind off the fact that the man I loved was bleeding, had been shot and was holding off an armed gunman, I sent a quick text to Evers and called emergency services. I wondered if they’d been looking for Tsepov, because when I identified who had broken into my place, the operator became far more alert. She directed me to stay on the line and assured me that the police and an ambulance were on the way. The police had an ETA of five minutes, the ambulance a little longer. I knew that was a fast response time, but cowering on my floor, watching blood drip from Axel’s arm to stain my carpet, five minutes felt like an eternity.

  “The police are already on their way, Tsepov,” Axel said. “Drop the gun.”

  “Why?” Tsepov responded. “You betrayed me, sent the FBI to me, and let your whore sell me out. I said I didn’t want war, but you’ve forced my hand. I’ll kill you both and be gone before the law gets here. Then I’ll go after every Sinclair I can find until you’re all dead.”

  Axel fired his gun down the hall. I flinched at the sound, reporting what had happened to the frantic 911 operator. For a moment, I thought Axel could hold Tsepov off until the cavalry arrived. Then Tsepov fired, not down the hall, but through the wall of my bedroom. I stared at the little round hole that appeared in the wall, the puff of drywall dust, and watched in horror as Axel dropped to his knees, a red stain spreading rapidly across the right side of his chest. In slow motion, he hit the floor, his gun tumbling from his hand.

  I dropped the phone and lunged for Axel, grabbing the gun as I moved. I didn’t know how to shoot—not beyond pointing and pulling the trigger—but I wasn’t going to let Tsepov take us both without a fight. Not if I could help it. I scrambled behind Axel, cradling his head in my lap and lifting the gun to point it at the door. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “Good girl,” Axel whispered. I started to look down at him, but he said, “No, eyes on the door, Emma. I’m okay. Shot was high. Keep that gun on the door and shoot anything that moves. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I whispered back, my hand shaking from fear and the strain of holding the weapon up, aimed at the open doorway.

  “Fucking got both arms, the bastard,” Axel whispered. “You have most of a clip, Emma. Don’t be afraid to shoot.”

  “I’m not,” I lied, holding my breath, waiting for Tsepov to come for us. The apartment was silent except for the rasp of Axel’s breath. He’d said he was okay, but as the seconds passed, his breathing became louder, strained and thick as if he were breathing through water. I didn’t allow myself to think about what that might mean. All that mattered was staying alive until the police got here.

  I wanted to beg the 911 operator to tell th
e ambulance to hurry, that Axel needed help, but I stayed silent. The phone was a few feet away on the carpet, and I didn’t think it was a good idea to announce to Tsepov that Axel was hurt.

  My ears strained for the sound of movement. Nothing. Either Tsepov was waiting for us to come out, or he was really good at sneaking around. A few seconds later, I spotted the edge of his sleeve at the doorway. My finger tightened on the trigger, but I didn’t fire. Not yet. I didn’t want him to know I was ready while he still had time to duck out of the way.

  With my whole arm shaking from the strain of holding up the gun, I eased my other hand away from Axel’s head and used it to brace the hand holding the gun like I’d seen on the cop shows I watched on TV. Instantly, the gun steadied and I felt more in control. When Tsepov took a step into the doorway, I fired. The gun lurched back at me and I almost dropped it. I didn’t remember seeing that on TV.

  Tsepov stumbled to the side, but he caught himself and raised his gun again, pointing it right at me. I thought that I’d hit him, but if I had, it wasn’t enough to stop him. Remembering what Axel had said, I braced my arms to shoot and pulled the trigger again. And again. I pulled it over and over, unloading the whole clip into Tsepov, numbly watching the bullets slam into his body—and the wall behind him—until the gun stopped firing and made useless clicking sounds.

  I dropped it on the floor beside me, looking at Tsepov only long enough to be sure that he wasn’t moving. Crawling to the phone, I snatched it up and shouted to the operator that we needed an ambulance before I went back to Axel. His eyes were closed, but he said, his voice almost inaudible, “Did you get him?”

  “I think he’s dead,” I said, afraid to ask Axel if he was going to follow Tsepov into the dark. Axel’s shirt was red with blood, his breath a hollow rattle in his chest.

  “That’s my girl,” Axel said, closing his eyes, a tiny smile stretching across his lips. “Love you, Emma.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, my voice wobbly with tears, as I pressed a wad of blanket into his wound, trying to stop the bleeding while we waited for the ambulance. “If you die on me, I’m going to kick your ass, Axel Sinclair,” I muttered, knowing I wasn’t making any sense.

  By that point, I was more than a little hysterical. Axel’s eyes remained shut, and he didn’t say anything, but the little smile remained on his face, and he turned his head into my open hand as if to reassure me that everything was going to be all right.

  Despite the blood and his labored breathing, his skin was warm against my palm. Something eased in my chest and I knew he’d be okay. He had to be. I’d finally found my true love, and I would fight death itself to keep him. Axel was mine, and I wasn’t going to let him go. Ever.

  Epilogue

  Axel

  Getting shot sucks. Big time. A collapsed lung is no picnic either. Between two bullet wounds and the lung, I was stuck in the hospital for almost a week. Emma refused to leave my side the entire time. My girl was amazing, first shooting Tsepov, then putting pressure on the worst of my wounds while she calmly waited for help to arrive. She told me later she’d been so scared that most of it was a blur, a normal response for a civilian with no experience in combat. The important part was that she’d held it together under pressure and saved both of our lives. If I hadn’t already been in love with her, that would have done it.

  Sergey Tsepov had walked out of FBI custody over something as mundane as a paperwork error and a clerk too new to know that he should have double checked the release order. Tsepov’s lawyer had taken quick advantage of the mistake, and Tsepov had come straight for Emma, knowing he was operating on borrowed time. We still didn’t know why no one had thought to warn either of us that Tsepov was free.

  Emma had killed Sergey Tsepov. Of the thirteen shots she’d fired, three had struck Tsepov and ten had buried themselves in her drywall. She was many things, but my girl was not a crack shot. I was going to remedy that. Hopefully, she’d never again have cause to fire a weapon, but if she did, I would make sure she could do it well. If she agreed to pick up a gun again.

  She’d said she was okay with Tsepov’s death, but I’d urged her to see a counselor anyway. Taking a life, even when you had no other choice, wasn’t a simple matter. She would suffer for it. It burned, knowing she’d had to shoot my gun for me. I should have been the one to kill him. But he’d nailed me in the left shoulder, making my arm go numb, then he hit my right side, the bullet going through the top of my lung and my bicep. He’d shot me right through the wall—fucking lucky bastard—though it helped that the walls in Emma’s apartment were paper thin. Maybe I could have held up my gun long enough to shoot him, but it wasn’t likely. Without Emma’s bravery, we both would have been killed.

  My girl was a tiger. The ICU nurses tried to throw her out more than once, but she’d refused to be moved, telling them she was my fiancée and she wasn’t leaving. By the third day, most of them had given up on arguing with her. Evers never left the airport in Atlanta. He'd gotten back on a plane and arrived in Vegas less than twenty-four hours after he’d left. His presence had gone a long way toward helping Emma make her stand.

  He’d brought her clean clothes and stood guard while she’d snuck a shower or some food, going above and beyond to make sure she never had to leave me. By the end of my hospital stay, the nurses loved her. It would be an understatement to say that I was a terrible patient. Emma ran interference, cajoling me into the ten thousandth blood test or vitals check when I would have snarled at the nurses on my own.

  My other brothers came as well, Cooper and Gage, along with my mother. By the time they brought me home, Emma had been securely adopted into the Sinclair fold. It was a good thing, since she’d be marrying me as soon as I could manage a wedding. She’d told the nurses she was my fiancée, thinking it was an expedient lie. When I’d called her on it, she’d turned a deep red and apologized, but I’d assured her I wasn’t bothered. She’d let the subject drop, probably thinking that was the end of it.

  Not for me. The first full day I was out of the hospital, I’d had Gage sneak me out of my place so I could pick out a ring while my mother kept Emma occupied with moving her things. I’d worried I wouldn’t find the right one. It had to be perfect—unique, special, and exactly right. Vegas had a ton of jewelry stores, but there was only one Emma Wright, soon to be Emma Sinclair. It must have been fate, because I found it at the second store, a two and a half karat, pear-shaped diamond surrounded by smaller bead diamonds. The ring sparkled, its curved shape and brilliant fire warm instead of cold. The perfect ring for my Emma.

  I didn’t wait to give it to her. Before Tsepov and my stay in the hospital, I’d toyed with half-formed plans for an elaborate proposal and a big wedding. Instead, I kicked my family out, sending them to bug Dylan and Leigha at the Delecta. I took Emma to bed, though she’d refused to have sex with me—some bullshit about the doctor recommending we wait another week—but I’d managed to kiss her senseless, making her come with my mouth and my hands after promising not to pull any of my stitches. I’d emerged unscathed—barely—and slid the ring on her finger while she was still gasping for breath after her second orgasm. Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but watching her passion-dazed eyes register the sparkle of the ring, her pale skin still flushed with pleasure, was one of the best moments of my life.

  “Marry me,” I’d said, a clutch in my stomach as I waited for her answer. I knew she was going to say yes. Of course, she’d say yes. Instead, she said,

  “Really?”

  I shook my head in half-frustrated amusement. Could she still question how much I loved her? “Yes, really,” I said. “Forever. Be mine forever, Emma.”

  “Yes,” she finally said, with tears spilling over her cheeks and her blue eyes shining with love as they went from the ring to my face and back again. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  I married her two days later. I didn’t want to wait, and fortunately, Emma didn’t put up a fight. I hadn’t come close to dying, but knowi
ng that Tsepov’s loaded gun had been aimed at Emma had changed things for me. I’d already known I loved her, already planned to marry her, but before she’d had to kill Tsepov, I’d been content to wait. No more. After I got out of the hospital, all I wanted was to make Emma mine.

  With my family already in town and hers only a plane ride away, I got the ball rolling as soon as she agreed. Lola sent over a selection of wedding gowns, and Emma chose the right one with Summer, her younger sister and both of our mothers at her side. We had the wedding—family only except for Dylan, Leigha, Sam, Chloe, and Summer—at my lake house, then we kicked everyone out for the honeymoon.

  Two glorious weeks of just Emma and me, alone in a house with five bedrooms. Though the weather was good, we only made it out on the boat twice. The rest of the time we spent in various states of undress, rarely more than a few inches apart. The outside world threatened to interfere a few times in the form of annoyed calls from Summer about something Evers had said or done at the wedding, and oddly, the same complaints from Evers about Summer. After the fourth such call, I’d confiscated Emma’s phone and told the two of them to work out their issues on their own time. As long as we were on our honeymoon, Emma was all mine.

  Watching her lounge on the couch, her blue eyes fixed on the view of the lake and her luscious curves wrapped in a creamy silk robe, I knew Emma had been right. I couldn’t regret a single moment that had led to this one. We hadn’t needed to start over. Every step we’d taken, the good and the bad, had brought us to this, the first moment of the rest of our lives. I joined her on the couch and pulled her into my arms, holding her close. I’d told her the truth at Jacob’s. I’d never been a one-woman man before, but I’d always hoped that someday I would be. I’d just been waiting for the right woman.