Billionaire’s Captive: A Beauty and the Rose Box Set

by Black, Stasia

  “You’ve got a mouth on you this morning. Is somebody feeling frisky? Want to play?”

  He reaches around and gives me a swift, sharp smack on the ass and I yelp, then giggle. I squirm for a second to try to get away from him but I don’t have much energy and I don’t really want to get away from him anyway so I tap out with my palm and call, “Uncle, uncle! I give in.”

  But Logan doesn’t roll off of me immediately. Instead he clutches me tighter and buries his nose in the crook of my neck and inhales.

  “I love the way you smell,” he says in a low rumble.

  I giggle and try to push him away, to no avail. “You’re weird.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  Full body happy sigh. Then I remember I’m sick and the shifting back and forth flood of emotions makes me feel a little tipsy. Blinding happiness. Followed by gut-clenching anxiety at the thought of losing it all and sadness at my day-to-day limitations. But then Logan touches me and all that fades away, and the joy is all I can see and feel.

  Sometimes I think I’d pay any price, even Battleman’s, if it means I get this time with him. And that makes me glad that life doesn’t work like that. That there are no cosmic bargains to be made, no matter how many hours our puny little human brains waste coming up with scenario after scenario we’d prefer to our own.

  “Okay, okay.” I try to slide out from under Logan, putting my hands on his chest to show him I mean business. “I really do want to get some work done today.”

  His eyes are dark and hungry but like always, he accommodates my wishes and rolls off. Though not without one last lingering look and a growled promise of, “We’ll pick this up later.”

  He starts to pick up the scattered papers but I wave a hand.

  “What if we’re too mired down in our thinking? Let’s go back to basics. We’re trying to create a living drug, right?”

  Logan nods, sitting at the edge of the bed again while I scoot up into a sitting position. He helps arrange pillows behind my head so that I’m comfortable.

  “Okay, so let’s think it through. What are we trying to accomplish, at the core?”

  “We need to create a modified T cell that’s able to recognize the target,” Logan says. “To recognize the diseased cells.”

  “Yes. And second, our drug needs to modify that cell in such a way that it replicates the superhero cell into a clone army.”

  Logan nods and starts ticking them off on his fingers. “Recognize, replicate. Third, it and its clones need to actually work, so it can kill the sick cells and not just be duds once they’re actually injected in the body.”

  “And fourth and finally,” I breathe out, “these magical cells we’ve treated to become super cells have to live for the lifetime of the person, so that it’s a forever cure.”

  Logan waves a hand. “No big deal. We got this.”

  I laugh out loud, but there’s a heavy dose of despair in it. “You know we’ve always had trouble with steps three and four. Belladonna’s anti-aging cream work so well because we mastered the first two, targeting aged and diseased tissue and cloning regenerative cells.”

  “But we’ve yet to figure out a solution for delivering the super cells into the bloodstream in a way that allows them to live for the life of the patient, curing a disease like Battleman’s long-term. I know, I know.”

  “I’m just trying to establish the basics. I can’t help but think we need some new perspective. We need to think outside the box.”

  “Okaaaaaay,” Logan says slowly. “Like what?”

  I look towards the window in the sun and the bright sky. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to read and research and think until I figure it out.”

  Because one thing I have already figured out, with Logan’s help?

  There are two choices when faced with a life disaster like this: give into anger and despair or take the express train to acceptance and start fighting the hell back.

  This is my life, dammit, and I will fight for every inch of ground I can get—and believe I deserve it.

  Seven

  Daphne

  “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Logan asks.

  He’s hovering again, a hulking shape in a custom-made tuxedo. The gold cufflinks, paisley bow tie and emerald green cummerbund at his waist does nothing to civilize him. He looks seconds away from brandishing a sword and rushing out to single-handedly defend the castle from raiders.

  In a sense, the castle has been raided. By makeup artists and hairstylists, courtesy of Armand. He owns Metamorphoses, the top spa in New Olympus.

  “I’m ready.” I answer as soon as the eye makeup expert finishes my mascara. It’s been a month and a half since I first relapsed and tonight is the opening event for The Healing Garden. The finishing touches have just been put on it and I can’t wait to see. Adjacent to New Olympus General, and designed so hospital staff, patients, and guests can have a place to enjoy the fresh air and beauty of nature.

  I feel giddy at the thought of finally getting out of the castle, even if it’s still in a wheelchair.

  I didn’t know there were artists who specialized in just the eye area, but apparently there are. An hour with her and my thinning eyebrows are painted in. That was after she applied some sort of fast-acting growth serum to my lashes.

  The make up artist shows me a mirror and my mouth falls open. My eyelashes look twice as long.

  Logan isn’t impressed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “You can’t hide me away in the castle forever.”

  “Yes, I can,” Logan growls.

  The makeup artist’s eyes grow round. I thank her and she nods and backs away.

  “Logan.” I hold out my hand.

  He’s at my side in an instant, his big hand swallowing mine.

  “You can’t keep me here,” I tell him. “It’s not healthy.”

  “As your doctor, I disagree.”

  “I know. You’ve made that quite clear.” I give a slight tug and he sinks into a chair beside me. I struggle with what I’m going to say next, but Logan waits patiently. “My father always wanted to hide my illness. It was important to him for me to hold up appearances, especially when investors started taking interest in Belladonna. He thought a sick daughter would tarnish Belladonna’s image.”

  “Fuck that,” Logan explodes. Rage ripples through his big body, but he keeps his grip gentle.

  “Fuck him,” he adds in a harsh whisper. “I’m not your father. I’m not hiding you away. I just want to keep you safe, make sure you don’t relapse and… Fuck!”

  He half turns away, his chest rising and falling so rapidly I fear for the seams of his bespoke suit.

  “I know, I know,” I soothe. I squeeze his hand, my grip fragile as a newborn’s. “I know you’re not my father. And I’m no longer following that old script.” The words are ashes on my tongue.

  Every day I wonder if I’m going to fall back into the patterns I’ve lived out my whole life. Can I fight the disease and keep my new identity? Only time will tell.

  I grab Logan’s hand with both of mine. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  Logan brings my hands to his face, pressing his lips to my fingers. His answer is muffled. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  My heart squeezes at his vulnerable tone. “My numbers are better, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So much so that when Cora called, asking if I could help with the Healing Garden, you said it would be okay.”

  “Yes.” He’s still not raised his head to meet my gaze.

  “And I’ve been practicing. Going out to the greenhouse, going down to the gardens.” Not that I’ve done so much as lift a spade or a hand trowel.

  When Cora first called, she only wanted my advice on garden design. I poured over my mother’s journals and crafted a proposal, excited for the distraction. I even donated several of my mother’s hybrids to the cause. Planning a garden in my mother's memory gave my restless mind some
thing to focus on.

  And my numbers steadily improved each week, otherwise Logan would’ve ordered me to stop.

  Tonight is the opening event.

  “It’s important for me to do this.” I free my left hand so I can stroke his dark hair. “It’s just a ribbon cutting. No heavy lifting required. I promise to let you know when I’m starting to get tired.” I slide my fingers around his freshly-shaven jaw and lift his head. “This is important to me,” I whisper.

  “You’re so brave.” He’s still not looking at me. “You amaze me.”

  “I amaze myself,” I joke.

  Despite my declarations, I fall asleep in the limo, waking only when the car stops. When I look out the tinted window at the crowds, I feel the first pang of dismay. Cora Ubeli knows how to attract free publicity. She’s probably invited a bunch of movie stars and famous billionaires to ensure the garden gets as much press as possible.

  Sure enough, there’s a red carpet lined with paparazzi. Logan and I will have to run that gauntlet. My stomach flips.

  Logan glowers at them. “Say the word, and we’ll go right back home.”

  “No. I want to do this.”

  If not for me, then for all the Battleman’s patients watching the news while waiting for their infusions. For the first time, they’ll watch all the VIPs gliding down the red carpet and see one of their own.

  Logan gets out first to assist the driver in getting my chair ready.

  I smooth my skirt and straighten my silk blouse. The neckline is a little lower than I’m comfortable with, but the stylist assured me it was in vogue. The outfit is elegant and classy.

  Even my wheelchair is fancy, a sleek, state of the art machine with heated seats, mecanum wheels and a rose gold finish. The control pad at my fingertips looks like it was designed by NASA. My wheelchair can’t hover or shoot rockets, but I’m sure those features will be in the next upgrade.

  It’s important to me to be seen in public. I may be sick, but I’m still alive and fighting.

  Logan parks my chair close by and opens my door. “Are you ready? We can still go back home.”

  “I’m doing this,” I reply firmly. A reluctant grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  “I thought you might say that.” He lifts me easily and sets me in the chair. I fuss with my skirt as he dismisses the driver. A few photographers turned to investigate when Logan appeared. Now that I’m in my wheelchair, they raise their cameras.

  I jerk up my chin. Logan’s hand settles on my shoulder for a second. A reassuring squeeze, and he starts pushing me up the red carpet. I almost protest that I can wheel myself, but my arms are weak and wobbly.

  I flinch at the first camera flash, but I don’t look away. The red carpet stretches on forever, a gauntlet of glaring lights and black lenses. I force myself to curve my red lips and pretend to preen in the attention. I raise my hand and wave like a queen.

  “Daphne Laurel—” a few reporters shout, waving for my attention. They shove microphones in my direction.

  “It’s Doctor Laurel. And no comment,” Logan rumbles, and pushes me faster.

  As soon as we get to the end of the red carpet and inside, my spine wilts. My forehead is sweaty from the heat of the lights. People are rushing to greet us. Above my head, Logan is rapping out orders, while I concentrate on staying upright and continuing to breathe.

  After a moment, Logan quickly wheels me to the right, where an aide in a black suit leads us down a side hall to a set of elevators. I don’t relax until Logan wheels me in and the doors shut. For a few seconds, we can hide.

  Logan crouches before me and hands me an open bottle of water. I let the cool stream wet my throat, being careful not to rinse off any makeup. As much as I want to wash my face and admit defeat.

  “My makeup is probably ruined.”

  “It’s fine,” Logan says curtly. His big form practically vibrates with tension. I know he’s wishing he could go back and punch some of the reporters in the face.

  My fingers find his. “Logan, I’m fine.”

  “You did good. My brave girl.”

  “Now I just have to get through the ribbon cutting.” I stare at the lighted numbers signaling our climb to the rooftop garden.

  Logan paces to the panel. He considers it a moment before he punches a button.

  The elevator shudders to a stop.

  “Logan! What are you doing?”

  Logan turns and eyes me as if he didn’t do something crazy, like stop a moving elevator. “Who did Cora invite to this?”

  “You didn’t check the guest list?”

  “I’ve been preoccupied,” he admits. And of course he has.

  “Just a bunch of donor types,” I answer. “Cora’s friends. Why?”

  “Not the Belladonna board?”

  My heart melts. Logan’s afraid for me. My self-appointed guardian. “Probably not. Even if she did invite them, it’s fine.”

  “I won’t let them bother you,” he vows.

  “I know.” I force a smile. “Now come on. One hour, and we can go home. We can get through this.”

  He gives an unhappy grunt. “But do we have to?”

  “It’s important to Cora. She’s a friend now. So it’s important to me. Just grin and bear it. Or… lie back and think of roses.”

  He studies me a moment. “I won’t be thinking of roses,” he says softly. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

  He paces in front of me, hands in his pockets. The way he looks at me makes my pussy clench.

  “Um, Logan?” I tilt my head towards the door.

  “That’s not what you call me,” his deep voice rolls over me. My body quivers, attuning itself to Logan the Master. Just the sound of his commanding voice is enough to prime me.

  “This is a scene?”

  “It is now.” He circles me, then crouches in front of me. He’s so big, even kneeling before me he’s still taller than me. “Part your legs, baby.”

  Yes! “Now?” My voice comes out breathy.

  He raises a dark brow.

  I slide my legs open. My skirt is so tight, they can’t go far.

  “Wider,” he commands and I wriggle to pull the sheath skirt up. Logan watches me fight to obey him. I get the fabric bunched around my hips and push my knees wider.

  He plants his hands on my knees, touching me like he owns me. Which he does.

  Casually, he slides his right hand up my bare thigh. Eyes locked on mine, he reaches between my legs to stroke the gusset of my panties. I squirm.

  “Be still,” he orders. I grab the arm rests of my wheelchair, my knuckles whitening as I fight to obey his commands. My heart thumps like I'm running a race.

  “You’ve been such a good girl,” he croons, still caressing me. And suddenly I’m on the edge of orgasm. My pussy is purring, as if all these months of illness, she’s been waiting, desperate for stimulation.

  I half twist, rising up in the chair in an automatic attempt to avoid his touch. My arousal is on a hair-trigger. And Logan knows just where to pet me.

  “Logan,” I pant.

  He stills his hand. No! So close! “That’s not what you call me.”

  “Master, Master, please please please—”

  “Come, sweetheart.” His finger resumes brushing my pussy, butterfly light. Sensation knifes through me, snapping me in half. I bow over his arm, shaking as pleasure burns white hot.

  I can barely whimper as Logan strokes me through the aftershocks, then takes out a crisp white handkerchief, removes my panties and cleans me up.

  Dimly, I register him bringing the lacy scrap of my thong to his nose before making it disappear deep in his pockets. Twin red spots burn the tops of my cheeks.

  He’s going to make me go out and schmooze with New Olympus’ richest without panties. I press my knees together.

  “There,” Logan says. He’s not quite smiling but an air of satisfaction surrounds him like cologne. He presses a button and the elevator resumes it’s smooth ascent. “Now I can gr
in and bear it.”

  * * *

  Logan

  I lurk on the edge of the garden, as far away from the milling crowd as I can get.

  I glower like a brooding gargoyle at anyone who comes my way. People see my expression and detour to inflict their small talk on someone else.

  I despise these sort of events, but it’s worth it to watch Daphne blossom. She’s lively and smiling in her wheelchair, sitting opposite Cora Ubeli at the very epicenter of the party. The wheelchair might as well be a throne.

  She’s so beautiful. Turns my heart. Every so often, she looks my direction and directs a dazzling smile my way.

  It makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and drag her away from all these potential vipers. The Ubelis might be good people, but I’d toss any other one of these fuckers off the building with no regrets. I take my station of watch seriously. Nothing will happen to Daphne while she’s away from home.

  Home.

  It still knocks me on my ass sometimes that I finally have one. Because of her. And I refuse to lose her, to death or any other damn thing.

  Down on the flagstone courtyard, Cora Ubeli steps up onto a raised dais to make a speech. She is a striking, glittering woman dripping with jewels. There are many rumors about her rise to power at her husband’s side, but people in Olympus learned early not to gossip about the King of the Underworld’s beautiful new bride fairly early on after a couple of bloody spats.

  Over the past decade, she’s only solidified she has a right to her place by his side. She stands like a queen surveying her kingdom from the raised podium, and her voice is rich and welcoming when she begins to speak. Still there’s an undertone of command that goes beyond polite matronly society.

  “First of all, I want to thank Dr. Daphne Laurel, without whose research, none of this would be possible.”

  There’s a scattering of applause and then Cora continues. She leans into the mic. “I knew I wanted to design a garden—a healing space where people could soak in fresh air and sunlight even while they’re recovering. But it was only through my discussions with Dr. Laurel that I realized we could do something much more special. That we could educate as well as appreciate beauty. The plants here all have medicinal uses.”