by P. Dangelico
“The cock sucking paparazzi are out front,” he grumbled. I let that one slide, suddenly too preoccupied to admonish him for the salty language.
Once we reached the underground garage of the hospital, I gazed in astonishment at the convoy of black SUVs idling. “What’s all this?”
“This––” he said, stabbing his index finger at the SUVs, “is the price we pay for your actions.”
He wasn’t mincing words. They hit me like a brick and left a bruise. It was a whole new level of control freak, completely out of hand––even for him. But if I was now a prisoner, the cage had been fashioned by my own hands. This was the price for lying to him. And I couldn’t make a stink about it when he was in such a state. I knew him too well for that. It would only cause him to entrench more firmly. All I could do was be patient and pray he would come to his senses as soon as possible. Blindly, I reached up in an instinctive move to rub my tiny, gold cross and remembered it had been lost. My mother’s cross…another piece of her gone.
“Stay,” he ordered, and walked away to discuss something with Gideon.
As we pulled out of the underground lot, insect like creatures swarmed the SUVs, snapping pictures and hurling inaudible questions at us. My careful house of cards was quickly collapsing. Sooner or later, the paparazzi would get what they wanted and my face would be plastered on every Internet site and tabloid newspaper in the world. The Albanian authorities wouldn’t have to look too hard to find me.
The drive back to the estate was tense, the silence in the car suffocating, an unquantifiable distance separating us. I noticed that he’d shaved and his hair was perfect, his clothing immaculate. His literal and metaphorical armor was back on. Remote, unreachable, this was the same man I met all those months ago––a part he played a little too well.
He stared out the window without making any contact, eye or otherwise. If it was meant to be a punishment, then he succeeded spectacularly. I’d never felt more alone. My muscles, what was left of them that is, trembled uncontrollably even though it was the middle of August and well in the eighties.
“What happened to Sergio and Etienne?”
Sebastian gaze flickered over me in an impersonal study before it swung back out to the passing scenery. “Arrested on drug trafficking charges. The boy pled down. It was his first offense. The older one is going away for a long time.” I was glad to hear that Sergio had been spared, and prayed he would use it as an opportunity to take a different path in life. He wasn’t cut out for a life of crime.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found you,” he stated. It was pretty clear it was a rhetorical question. “You could’ve spent the rest of your natural life as someone’s personal fuckpet.”
His crudeness achieved the desired effect. I cringed, cowed by the truth of his words. Human trafficking had risen exponentially in recent years. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Yuri had a hand in that as well.
“You said not to worry about Paisley, but you never explained why.”
A slight smile lifted one corner of his mouth while his gaze remained out the window. “She’s busy putting out her own dumpster fire. She doesn’t have time to fuck with my life anymore.” He sounded bored, his bloodlust quenched. I didn’t like it one bit. There was an undercurrent of maliciousness I’d never sensed in him before. Then again, I’d never seen anyone threatened him, either.
“You’re being purposely vague,” I grumbled in frustration.
Shooting me an examining glance, he reached into his computer bag and pulled out a tabloid magazine, the last thing on earth I would ever have expect Sebastian to be carrying around. I was about to tease him when his expression checked me. He handed me the magazine and steered his gaze out the window again.
On the front cover was a picture of Sebastian. The caption over his head kicked me in the stomach. In Love With His Very Own Cinderella. Good Lord, how cheesy. I quickly flipped to the article and devoured every word. The story was completely airbrushed, Photoshopped until only the barest resemblance to the real story remained. How we’d fallen in love when I was working for him as a lowly housekeeper…how we were getting married in some exotic location like Fiji.
“Where did they get this nonsenses?”
“From me,” he calmly admitted. His eyes connected with mine, bright with shock. “Let’s just say the best defense is a good offense. That reminds me, I don’t want you seeing your friend anymore. It’s too dangerous. She’s living with a hardened criminal.”
My gaze jerked towards him in shock. The casual tone he used did nothing to diminish the significance of what he had just demanded of me. Because it was abundantly clear there was no room for discussion on it.
“What?” I blurted out.
“You heard me,” he warned, aiming a heated glare in my direction. I searched his face for a sign of weakness, something that told me that there was a way to reason with him, but there was none. His Highness was back, firmly standing on the other side of the fortress walls.
There was once a time when I would’ve laughed in his face at merely suggesting such a thing, much less commanding me. I’d prided myself on my independence, on the power I possessed to walk away from anything and anyone at will. Self-preservation had trumped everything else. But the ugly truth was that with him, I had failed miserably. Because I knew that I could never leave him again. Walking away from him had taught me a harsh lesson, that my love for him was my greatest weakness––and that he knew it terrified me.
Steeped in silence, the rest of the car ride was excruciating, my nerves pulled tight. I only began to relax when the driveway came into view. Sebastian ignored every attempt I made to assure him that I indeed still possessed the ability to walk. Without a word he lifted me out of the car and carried me into the house.
The staff congregated in the foyer as if they were expecting the arrival of the Duchess of Cambridge. Mortified, all the attention made me shrink and press myself closer to Sebastian’s chest, wishing I could melt into him and fade away. With an entourage of the staff trailing after us, I was taken to his bedroom. Mrs. Arnaud caught my expression and, to my great relief, rounded everyone up and ushered them down the hall.
“I have a wonderful consommé with vegetables and rice if you’re hungry,” Mrs. Arnaud suggested with a sweet smile.
“Can you throw in a cow as well?” I joked because I could have eaten a cow; my appetite was storming back with a vengeance.
Her deep blue eyes instantly lit up. “Bien sûr! I’ll bring up lunch for two,” she exclaimed. Then she fired off a list of dishes that made my stomach gurgle in anticipation.
“Not for me.”
“Yes––you must eat. You’ve lost too much weight,” Mrs. Arnaud insisted gently.
“At least a stone,” I added. When Sebastian stared back blankly, I clarified, “Over fifteen pounds.”
He didn’t argue. His gaze fell on the counterpane, glaring at it as if it had offended him in some way. Mrs. Arnaud hurried out of the bedroom before she gave Sebastian the opportunity to change his mind. As soon as we were alone, he began tucking the sheets around me.
“Sebastian…” Nothing. He didn’t spare me a glance as he worked with a single-minded focus usually reserved for balancing the national budget and performing brain surgery. “Darling, I’m not an infant, stop swaddling me.”
He stood straight, his hands on his hips and those once imposing swimmer’s shoulders curving in exhaustion. A loud sigh slipped out of him. Although the tension left him, the sadness remained. He raked his fingers through his hair impatiently. He brushed his palm roughly over his face before his amber eyes met mine again.
“I’d like to bubble wrap you and lock you away.” His lips pressed together in a sullen pout.
“But you can’t. So instead you will crawl into bed next to me and let me hold you.” I knew that if I showed any sign of relenting, it would only embolden him. This need to hoard and protect me could easily consume him if I allow
ed it.
Holding my gaze, he slowly lifted his hand to cup my face, ran his thumb over my jaw and bottom lip before he kissed me tenderly. “I have work to do.” His eyes moved away in a guilty expression. I reached out for him but he caught my wrist and held it between us.
“Sebastian, please.” I couldn’t hide the ache in my voice.
Without glancing my way again, he said, “I’ll come up later to check on you. Try to get some rest,” and walked out.
He wasn’t simply leaving, he was walking away from me.
In spite of my vehement avowal that I was feeling much stronger, after a fortifying meal I passed out early and slept like the dead through the night. The following morning I awoke to the sound of the shower running.
Next to me the pillow was perfectly smooth. My breath caught and a sharp pain suddenly gripped my chest, the first crack in the bubble of numbness surrounding me.
He was pulling away from me. And if I let him, how long would it take before there was nothing left to salvage?
I walked into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, next to the shower. If he wasn’t going to talk to me willingly, I figured an ambush was the best course of action. So I waited, watching quietly, riveted on the naked standard of masculine perfection behind the glass door. He hadn’t noticed me sitting there.
Steam clung to the glass, condensing into a halo around him. He was a vision, a dream I once had of an archangel falling to earth to seduce me. His head was tipped down, his eyes closed as the water poured down his neck and followed the long curve of his elegant back, over and in between his rear end. Quintessentially male. There wasn’t a bit of softness anywhere on him––including his expression.
He squirted shower gel in his palm and ran his hands across his chest, up and down his arms, in between his legs. Eyelids heavy, water drops clinging to his long lashes like rain on a spider’s web––his eyes fluttered closed. Enthralled, I lost track of time and place as all my senses converged onto him, mesmerized by the utterly sensual picture he painted.
That’s when a pang of shame hit me. I was about to leave, to give him some privacy, when he grabbed his penis and exhaled harshly. He stroked himself from root to tip and his body hardened instantly. Prickling heat blazed up my neck. My heart was a percussion instrument pounding inside my chest. Below my waist everything came back to life, an aching emptiness I hadn’t felt in ages growing stronger by the second. He tugged on his erection roughly and cupped his sac. Moaning, his head fell forward. I was paralyzed by the sight of him pleasuring himself, torn between announcing my presence and watching.
Faster now. His hand kept pumping. He was getting close, his breathing harsh. Primal sounds erupted out of him. He let go of his sac and slapped the hand onto the shower wall. The muscles of his back and arms were bulging and rigid, in the way that comes right before release. A loud, almost pained groan broke loose. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. He exhaled harshly as he climaxed, the evidence of his orgasm splashing onto the marble wall. So beautiful lost in passion.
Seconds later, his eyes blinked open and instantly connected with my wide-open stare. His gaze fathomless. His thoughts inaccessible. There wasn’t a bit of surprise, joy, or mischief to be found anywhere––his expression gave nothing away.
Mine, on the other hand, gave everything away. I could feel two hot circles burning on my cheeks. Never breaking eye contact, he turned the water off and grabbed the towel I held out for him.
“Thanks,” is all he said as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped it around his waist.
Huh? “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Walking past me, he headed for the closet. “Library… I was up late and fell asleep on the couch.”
“Sebastian––”
“I’m late for a meeting.” His tone made it abundantly clear that the discussion was over. I knew it was my turn to practice patience––he deserved a hell of a lot more than that from me––but his cool demeanor was really starting to get on my nerves.
I followed him into the closet, trailing after him as he walked around naked. He took his sweet time picking out what shirt and suit to wear while I waited for him to deign me with a moment of his attention, my irritation growing with every second that ticked by. Though I used the time productively. I was busy studying the muscular globes of his gorgeous backside when he glanced over his shoulder and caught me.
“Do you need anything?”
Do I need anything? Hmmm, let me think…
I needed to conk some sense into him. His indifference kindled my anger. Irritation quickly descended to out and out fury. “As a matter of fact, your Highness, I do. I need you to talk to me. You always do this when you’re stewing.”
“I told you, I’m late for a meeting.”
Right.
He yanked on his boxer briefs, snapping the elastic of the waistband aggressively.
“What time will you be home tonight?”
He pulled on his trousers and tucked his shirt in. “Late. Don’t wait up for me.”
I breathed out a heavy sigh. It was impossible to get through to him when he was like this. He draped a tie around his neck and grabbed a pair of handmade Stefano Bemer shoes from a collection of hundreds, purposely avoiding my pointed gaze.
As he walked past me, I laid my hand on his forearm. “Darling,” I pleaded. Before I could get another word in he pried my hand off his arm, placed a kiss on it, and dropped it, walking out without another glance in my direction.
The sting of his brush-off quickly morphed into something darker. An indescribable rage began to fester, an abscess deep within me waiting to explode and spew its venom. I stood there for a full hour calming myself down.
I’d prayed for the numbness plaguing me since I’d learned about the miscarriage to lift. What I couldn’t have foreseen was that it had been replaced by a deep-seated anger that I didn’t know how to handle. And I wasn’t certain if it was directed at him, or at myself.
Chapter Four
By early afternoon I was desperate for a distraction. Had I read every book in library? It certainly felt that way. Bored to tears, I couldn’t sit in bed for one more Godforsaken minute. A collection of clothing had magically found their way into the master closet in my absence. Boxes and bags from every store imaginable––from Galerie Lafayette to Valentino––were stacked to the roof. When I mentioned it to Sebastian, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and said, “Send it back and get what you want.” I had to admit that I loved every single thing he chose. The man had taste.
Grabbing a pair of black leggings and one of Sebastian’s white oxfords, I dressed quickly and headed down to the kitchen to see if I could help Mrs. Arnaud with any of the chores.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Mrs. Arnaud asked, her expression a combination of concern and understanding. Whisk in hand, mixing bowl cradled against her body, she beat the batter for the madeleines with brisk, efficient strokes.
“If I have to stay there another minute, I will need to be committed to an insane asylum. I beg you, give me something to do.” Slipping onto a stool, I placed my elbows on the counter and my head in my hands, gripping the roots of my short hair.
“I’ll do the toilettes for God’s sake, anything,” I whined.
A wide smile swept across her face. Taking mercy on me, she handed me the mixing bowl and let me pour the batter into the madeleine shell forms while she dressed the chicken she was preparing for dinner. Her eyes were still trained on the task at hand when she spoke. “How do you feel?”
“Depends on what you’re referring to. Physically, I feel fine, getting stronger every day. Mentally, I’m not certain.”
A meaningful silence unfurled between us.
“I had an abortion when I was twenty-five,” she announced in her usual blunt, no-nonsense fashion. I sat up straighter, my attention captivated. “I told myself it was an act o
f mercy. Xavier would get violent when he drank…” Her voice faded while a shade of sadness remained on her face. “The doctor was young, inexperienced. I almost bled out after he…a vein ruptured.” I was on the edge on my seat, my attention glued to her while she continued to baste the chicken with olive oil and rosemary as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “I never conceived after that.”
Her casual admission was all the permission I needed to unburden my soul. “I wasn’t happy about the pregnancy,” I blurted out, hiding my mouth behind my steepled fingers, as if the confession could somehow absolve me of the responsibility of what had happened, wipe away the shame and guilt I was drowning in. She glanced up then. And what I found in her warm blue eyes was a bottomless supply of understanding staring back at me. “Not at first,” I added quietly.
“You think that has something to do with the miscarriage?”
Instinctively, I reached up to rub my cross, a phantom limb I desperately missed. It took me a moment to remember it had been lost. “I don’t know…it feels that way.” Tears collected in the corners of my eyes. Fighting them, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I could taste blood.
“Because you are grieving, and you want to find a reason for why it happened where there is none.”
Those words hit home. Was I looking for reason in it? I guess I was. My analytical self needed a reason. If I could take the blame for losing the baby, then maybe somehow I had control over what happened next. “How did you deal with it?”
She shrugged. “I lived my life one day at a time. Some were better than others…then I met Olivier. Did you know he has a son?” The love and pride living on her face told me everything I needed to know. The surprise was plain on mine. Shame followed in its wake. I’d been so wrapped up in my own misery that I hadn’t even known Olivier had a son.
“Jean Pierre was twelve when we met.” Marianne spoke over her shoulder while she placed the chicken inside the oven.
“Does he not live in Switzerland? He’s never been over.”
