by An Latro
She hears footsteps and she forces her eyes open.
The room comes slowly into focus. She's on a hard concrete ground, barefoot, with her hands bound in front of her. Her ass feels wet and she's shivering.
"You’re awake."
"Where are we?" Emma croaks, pushing herself up awkwardly.
Beth looks around and Emma takes a moment to take in her surroundings.
They're in a small pool house, the weak winter light coming through the glass. It's dirty, long since abandoned, a door open to the elements, and she knows exactly where they are.
“Why are we here?” she asks, her eyes wide and scared.
Beth crouches, kneeling on the edge of the yawning, empty pool, her back to her daughter. "Because this is where it happened. Where his birthright was stolen."
Emma shivers convulsively. She's scared suddenly. Beth has never been rational when it comes to the son she lost, but this…
“Mom, that’s not true. No one stole anything from Isaac. It was an accident.””
Beth stiffens. “They killed him.”
“Why would they do that? Uncle Gabe loved him. Caleb worshipped him. Why the hell would anyone want to hurt Isaac?” Emma demands, jerking on her handcuffs.
“Gabriel didn't trust him,” Beth murmurs. “He refused to trust me, and without knowing his father, Gabe always suspected him.”
“That's not true,” Emma whispers. “Uncle Gabe loved Isaac. He was the heir to everything.”
“Then why is he dead?” Beth snaps suddenly. “He's dead and I have nothing. And that pompous little shit took it all.”
“Mother, it was an accident. Even in our family, accidents happen!” Emma shouts.
Beth scrambles to her feet, and Emma flinches back, stunned. She has never seen her mother like this, all fury and frantic motion. Beth has always been cool and calm, with a cold dignity——it only ever slipped with her oldest brother and Gabriel's sons.
“Not to him. Isaac didn't die in some freak fucking accident. It was an assassination. Gabe killed him.”
“You’re insane,” Emma says clearly. “Does Remi Oliver know that you’re doing this? We have a truce with him.”
Rage twists Beth features, and she draws back, kicking Emma hard in the stomach. Once. Twice. The third time, Emma feels something snap and she screams, a high, pained noise. Beth pauses. “He was supposed to kill Seth. He swore it when you murdered Nic.” Fury twists her classically beautiful face. “But he lied. He fucking took blood money.”
It makes sense suddenly—the rage and the reckless behavior. Emma laughs weakly. “He doesn't know you're doing this. You're dead, Beth. If Seth doesn't kill you, Remi will for violating the truce.”
Beth shrugs. “Or I kill Seth and renegotiate.”
She turns abruptly and stalks away, leaving Emma alone in the empty pool house.
She's always known that Beth put Isaac in a special place. Growing up with the ghost of her dead brother, it was impossible to miss. And she never questioned that, because in a family that dealt in death and violence, Isaac was an anomaly. A freak accident during a weekend at the family's beach home.
Morgans don’t die by drowning. Even when the newspapers report that—they die by bullets, as grandiose and brilliant as they live.
Isaac drowning in a pool while his girlfriend slept upstairs never made sense.
Emma takes a deep breath, shuddering at the sharp, stabbing sensation. She knows her rib is broken. It occurs to her that she could die here, in the same place as the brother she never had the chance to know.
It hurts to think about. Seth will be devastated—but Rama. Tears sting her eyes.
It isn't fair to die. He has already lost one Morgan he loves. None of what she's done with Rama is fair. She grits her teeth and pushes herself upright, gasping as pain in her side shifts, stabbing furiously. She slumps against the cold ground and stares at the pool, hoping like hell that she lives long enough to fix the relationship she ruined.
Chapter 43. Morgan Estates. New York City. December 19th
Aleja Is Curled In One of the freestanding chairs, her eyes closed, fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. Rama is pacing, his quiet zen long since shattered. Tinney stands in the shadows, almost trembling with quiet tension.
Seth is talking softly into the phone and he rubs his eyes as he says goodbye and hangs up. Aleja lifts her head and eyes him. Seth ignores the stare as he pushes away from the desk. It’s been twelve hours since the phone call from Rama, and morning is starting to break over the city.
He’s kept calm, because anger won’t help here. Retained his cool in the face of Rama’s fury and Tinney’s stoic rage. Stayed quiet, because there is nothing to say—not right now. Not until Beth makes her move.
His hands shake as he pours a glass of water, and behind him, he hears Aleja moving. He glances at her and see the coke in a neat pile in front of her.
For a moment, he sees Emma, dressed in a white suit, her hair hanging over her shoulder as she cut lines before the dinner party where everything changed. It’s all too similar—except that night, Emma had been the furious bundle of energy, Rama the quiet counterbalance for her and Seth’s quiet fury.
The stakes are higher this time—because losing Emma will mean losing everything. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and shakes his head. “None of that,” he says softly. Aleja pauses in the middle of cutting lines, her eyes wide and startled.
The phone rings, jarring all of them. Rama breathes out a curse, but it barely registers as Seth moves, scooping the phone up and hitting speaker.
“Hello?” he growls.
“You never did learn how to politely answer a phone, Seth.”
His grip tightens on the phone until the plastic casing creaks. “Where the fuck is Emma, Beth?”
“Language,” she snaps. “She’s fine. She isn’t yours—she can see her mother.”
“Her mother is a traitorous bitch that she hates. Where?”
All the false warmth and chiding seeps out of her tone, leaving her brisk and businesslike.
“You come alone. Leave the Asian whore and your assassin in the city. Understand?”
Seth’s gaze flicks to Rama and then to Tinney. He can see the protests beginning on their faces—but none of that matters. Not until she’s safe. “Fine. Where is she?”
“Where Isaac died,” Beth says, and her voice shakes a little. Seth’s eyes close. “If I think you’re bringing anyone with you, I’ll kill her. Do you understand?”
“I want to talk to her,” Seth says sharply. “I want to hear for myself that she’s alive.”
There is a moment of hesitation and then, “I suppose that’s fair.”
Seth waits, listening as Beth walks. Aleja shifts as a door opens and her steps seem to echo. There’s a cough, and then, weakly, “What do you want?”
His hands shake and he drops into the desk chair as Tinney takes a single step forward.
“Emma?” Seth whispers.
There’s a moment of silence, and then Beth snaps, “Talk to him.”
“Seth, don’t come here,” she blurts out quickly. There’s a sharp crack of skin hitting skin, and Rama spits a foreign curse. For a moment, there is tense silence. “Is he there?” she asks, and he can hear the emotion she’s fighting.
“Yeah, Em,” Seth says, his voice low. “Rama and Aleja are both here. Are you ok?”
She manages a weak laugh. “Sure. Just having a heart-to-heart with Mother. I might have a concussion. Maybe a broken rib. Nothing major.”
“Mali,” Rama breathes, and she makes a strange, half-aborted noise. It hurts to hear her sound like that, physically hurts. He gives the Thai prince a sharp look, and Seth clicks speaker off and pulls the phone to his ear.
“Can you hang in there a little longer, sweetheart?” he asks, worry leaking into his tone.
“Seth, don’t come here. She wants you dead,” Emma says, and her voice is steel, an order. She has never given him an
order.
There’s another flurry of motion, and Emma screams, loud and painful.
“Sorry,” Beth says pleasantly. “She’s done talking.”
“You fucking bitch,” Seth snarls.
Beth tsks. “You were never good at talking to your elders. Be here by noon or I’ll kill her.”
Beth hangs up before he can respond, and Seth lowers the phone slowly. Aleja is sitting up, all of them staring at him expectantly. His hands start to shake, and the quakes are enough to work the thread of his self-control from its seams.
He lets loose a half-strangled roar as he chucks his phone against the door of his office. He is tornado, a force of nature as he whirls on one of his office chairs, swipes it up, and hurls it into his minibar. Glass goes flying, along with all his expensive liquor. The chair loses a leg and bounces across the room.
Aleja jumps to her feet, scrambling toward Tinney and Rama. She doesn't quite believe that Seth would hurt her, but she also doesn't believe he's exactly cognizant at the moment. Her wide eyes find Rama, who's watching the scene with a pained expression. The Thai has heard of Seth's wreckage, but he's never seen the breaking point before. He watches Seth launch a lamp into the wall with a pang of envy. If only he could let himself go like that, maybe he'd feel a bit better for it. Tinney just sighs.
In a matter of about sixty seconds, Seth is surrounded by a radius of destruction. Somehow, he looks as natural there as in any upscale setting. His back is to the others, and his shoulders heave. His hands have stopped shaking.
Finally, he says, “We need to leave if we're going to make it by noon.” His words are low, strung just above a whisper, but they're steady.
“She’ll kill you both if you go,” Tinney says.
Seth turns to the others, his expression a chilling portrait of determination. He says, “Which is why we kill the bitch first.”
Chapter 44. Upstate New York. December 19th
The Paved Path Winds through the heavily wooded estate. As Seth eases the car along, his thoughts play over the last conversation he had with Vera, and how she cried when he said he didn't know if he'd be back. The way she whispered, “I love you, Seth.” The first time she's ever said it.
Hasn't he always known that he would break her heart somehow?
He doesn't want to think about the way she makes him feel emotions that he thought had died forever. He doesn't want to admit that her touch comforts him, quells the tempest of distrust that constantly rages at his center. He doesn't want to break her heart. But as the hibernating trees pass silently by, he can think of nothing else.
They have always played against the safety that they could never be more than occasional fuck buddies. They have been each other's danger, and fantasy, something forbidden. Then everything changed, and the bonds that kept them at a distance were suddenly gone. In the wake of Seth's devastation, she waited as the dust settled, content to help him when he had nowhere else to turn. Now, on the eve of another tragedy, he has no other choice but to admit that if he could have given Vera up, he would have done it the first time it threatened his relationship with Nic. The truth is that he has always wanted more of her.
Is it better to have woken up beside her, the city sun dancing in her hair, or to have never known the fire in her kiss, and the passion by which she lives? It may cease to matter very soon.
He hasn't been to this property since he was a boy, not since the original heir to the family died here. After Isaac drowned, the family quit coming here, but of course Bethania—the crazy bitch—insisted it be kept in good repair. It was a financial loss for the family that Gabe, and then Mikie, had allowed her. And now, it has become a family curse. He chokes back a string of aggravated profanities. Emma won’t die here. He refuses to allow this place to claim another cousin.
He feels naked without his guns, or the phone he so unceremoniously destroyed. He'll be damned before that shrew gets her claws on his steel. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and his heartbeat resounds in his ears. Before he dropped Tinney, Rama, and Aleja off at the edge of the property, Tinney had reminded him of a certain conversation.
“Well then I know he relied on his faith, because right now, it's all I have to convince me that I'm not about to make myself a martyr,” Seth had said.
“You're just like him,” was Tinney's answer.
Faith. It comes down to that. He has to believe that his alliance will find a way to help him rescue his favorite cousin, his best friend. He must cling to that glimmer of hope that he can buy enough time for his cohorts to creep through the woods, and do what they do best: rise to the occasion.
It seems like forever, and perhaps not quite long enough, before the house looms into view. It grows like a disoriented memory, until he follows a circle to the front door. He takes a long, shaky breath.
He has to believe he's not going to die either.
He steps out of the car. The sky is cloudless, and the sunlight—like the air—is cold. He leaves his jacket in the car and leaves his sunglasses in place. He's all slacks, and a pale green button-down, the wrists fastened in place, and his tie is, improbably, straight. And then he does something he has never done: he raises his hands in the air, a surrender that crushes any pride that may have managed to survive.
He leaves them that way as he climbs the front stairs. The door opens as he approaches. The shades are all drawn, and the switch from brightness to dark catches him off guard. A stupid mistake, so simple, and missed in the mass of his rioting nerves.
A few steps inside, he catches the slightest movement to his right, and then something solid smacks into his back, across both shoulder blades. Pain explodes from the contact point, and his breath leaves him in one rush. The force knocks him forward, onto his hands and knees. The pain doubles in his left shoulder and he collapses. As he struggles for a breath, the same shadowy figure kicks his sunglasses off his face. The contact isn’t’ hard enough to break anything, but it sends the glasses skidding across the floor and knocks heavy dust into his eyes and mouth.
Seth chokes, tries to spit out as much shit as he can, growling in pain. A feral instinct claws at his composure. He could devastate any motherfucker in a fair fight. He could most likely make a comeback and obliterate this bastard.
That would sign Emma's death warrant. He can't fight back. He can't lose his temper.
This is beyond any trial he had to endure in Cuba.
Someone grabs him by the back of his collar and jerks him backward. A disembodied voice says, “Get up,” in a gruff bass.
The man tugs again as Seth puts his weight on his right arm to stand. Then, the thug pushes him forward so hard he stumbles, nearly loses to the ground. Figures. He spits bitterly.
Bethania would tell him to come alone, and not face him the same way. Fucking cunt.
His eyes have begun to itch and water, and he does his best to wipe them on his sleeve. He had thought he could mentally prepare for this, that the zen he found on the beach in Santa Lucia could somehow help him. But he never could have imagined this new kind of hell, this raging storm of hatred. He wants nothing more than to whip around with his signature speed, and disable the creep who dared lay his hands on the king. His movements are less than graceful as he forces himself to walk through the abandoned house. As punctuation, the dick pushes him again. His teeth grit.
They pass by sheets over furniture, disused appliances and the musty smell of a forgotten place, all the way to the back door. The tsunami of anger turns to cold dread. He remembers well enough to know where they're going. Where Isaac died, Bethania had said. Isaac drowned in the pool. He had been drunk, slipped, cracked open his skull, which knocked him out as he bled into the water. For a moment, Seth is sure he's going to vomit, though there's nothing in his stomach. He grimaces at the taste that rises in the back of his throat, and the goon shoves him out the door, into the cold and blinding light.
The sun beats down on the scene, but rather than give warmth, it seems to ch
ill his bones. Bethania is waiting for him near the edge of the pool with the most self-satisfied smirk she can manage. Two more goons lurk on either side of her, guns ready. Seth recognizes them, ranks of the family who have apparently stayed loyal to Mikie despite the clean slate Seth offered in the name of peace.
It's not surprising. Not really. Just as so many had, they saw Seth's move as weak. Maybe they were right.
“No.”
Seth hears her voice choke the word before he sees her. His eyes fly to the pool. It's January, but there's water in it. And there, standing on the diving board with a rope wrapped around the entirety of her upper body, is Emma. Fuck.
Bethania, so twisted and deranged, has positioned her only living child so that if she slips off the diving board, Emma will drown just like her dead child. Never mind that it's damn close to being cold enough to snow. The water is frigid.
Emma stares at him with huge eyes, so blue, now spilling tears down her cheeks as she sways unsteadily. There are ugly bruises on her face, a sight that incites him a hundreds time more than the thug who has taken a cheap shot at him. The emotion that boils up to the surface is guilt. After all his righteous words and attempts to keep her safe, he has failed her. Again. Why shouldn't he be willing to take degradation and physical pain if it means she will live? “Seth, what have you done?” she demands, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. “Shut up,” Beth drawls in an impressive mockery of Seth's indolence, and she rolls her eyes. She lifts a chunky .45 from her side and levels it on Seth.
“Mother, stop!” Emma cries, her breath wheezing.
“I said shut up, goddammit,” Beth snaps. “If you don't, I swear I’ll aim for his head.”
Emma's mouth snaps shut and her tears double, making it harder to breathe. In the corner of his eye, Seth can see her swaying on the diving board.
Beth holds her aim and says, so bitterly, “You killed my brother.”
Seth swallows the rage and fear, says, “And you killed my mother.”
