Chapter 22
As I near Aaiden’s suite, four house staff are closing up the suite next to his and turn in the same direction, pushing cleaning carts. They’re all focused on their tasks, no one paying attention to the addition of one more uniform among them. Perfect.
A young woman pushes the lead cart, her keycard dangling from a retractable clip at her waist. Behind her, an older man carries fresh linens. Two more follow with cleaning supplies, their conversation mundane as they discuss a television show from last night.
I fall into step behind them, mimicking their pace and posture. Head bowed, shoulders relaxed. Just another member of the cleaning staff, invisible by design.
“New protocol,” the lead woman says, stopping before Aaiden’s door. “Mr. Rockford wants us in and out in fifteen minutes flat. No lingering.”
“Again?” The older man sighs. “That’s hardly enough time to vacuum and dust.”
“He said clean, not thorough.” She reaches for the keypad. “And no touching his bed. At all.”
I position myself behind the man with linens, close enough that when the door opens, I’ll appear to be a member of their group. The risk of being counted during exit is high, but unavoidable. Sometimes the only way forward is through.
The woman punches in a code, her body blocking my view of the specific numbers, though I catch the rhythm of her finger movements. Six digits, not eight. Interesting. Aaiden’s paranoia hasn’t extended to changing all his security habits.
The lock disengages, and the group rushes forward.
Thanks to Aaiden’s imposed time crunch, no one spots the shadow on their tail as each person takes a different area of the suite.
The man with the linens heads for the bathroom, two of the women head for the office, and the other one heads toward the bedroom.
They’ll save the front room for last, vacuuming their footsteps away as they leave.
Quickly, I search out the cameras in the corners of the ceiling. No red lights. As expected, Aaiden maintains his strict privacy even with heightened security elsewhere. The only way those cameras come on is in an emergency.
The suite opens into a familiar sitting area, everything as I remember, with a leather couch positioned in front of a large flat screen television that I had imagined curling up on together for movie nights.
I fade back toward a structural column near the massive bookcase, where a tall house plant hides me from view. The bookcase provides cover from three angles, and the open door gives me a blind spot that’s perfect for concealment.
From here, I track their movements by sound rather than sight as I remain still, breathing shallow and controlled. This stillness, this patience, is what separates professionals from amateurs. Anyone can move fast. Few can hold position.
“Did you hear about the security increase?” One of the staff murmurs.
“Hard not to,” another replies. “New guards everywhere. New cameras. It’s like we’re in a military base now.”
“Ever since Mr. Rockford’s Omega left.”
My pulse jumps, but I force my breathing to remain steady.
“Shh. You know we’re not supposed to talk about that.”
“I’m just saying. He’s not been the same since.”
The conversation dies as the lead woman returns from the bedroom. “Bedroom is finished. Five minutes left. Let’s wrap it up.”
They move with renewed urgency, dusting surfaces and arranging items with efficient speed. One of them straightens the whiskey decanter on the sideboard, adjusts the single crystal tumbler next to it.
“Done in the bathroom,” the older man announces.
They work as a team to fluff the couch cushions and wipe down the leather before the vacuum whirs to life.
Through the crack between the door and the potted plant, I watch as the others wheel the cart out into the hall.
From the doorway, the lead woman does a final visual sweep. “Good job, everyone.”
The one with the vacuum walks backward out the door before she leans through and yanks the cable. The plug pops out of the socket, and she winds it into the vacuum.
The door closes behind them with a click, followed by the electronic lock engaging. Curious, I check the time. Fifteen minutes on the dot.
If they’d dawdled, would Sebastian have received an alert that Aaiden’s lock was disengaged too long and triggered a security check? He’d better be giving the staff huge bonuses for putting up with this shit.
I hold my position for three full minutes to ensure no one returns for a forgotten item or additional task. Only when I’m certain the suite is secure do I emerge from my hiding place.
Alone in Aaiden’s most private space, surrounded by his pheromones, his possessions, and the remnants of his daily life, my heartbeat quickens despite my training.
I cross to the sideboard where he keeps his nightly whiskey, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Everything is arranged just as he likes it, with the crystal decanter three-quarters full and a single tumbler placed one inch to the right. A silver coaster waits for use.
From my pocket, I retrieve a small vial of clear liquid.
The sedative is tasteless, odorless, and fast-acting when mixed with alcohol.
But I leave the decanter untouched as I focus on the glass itself.
Two drops inside the tumbler, spread along the bottom edge where the whiskey will hit first. Enough to affect him without raising suspicion or causing harm.
I reseal the vial, return it to my pocket, and reset everything as I found it.
With that done, I move deeper into the suite, past the sitting area, and into the bedroom. I need a position with a clear line of sight to both the entrance and the whiskey, but with total concealment from casual observation.
The massive wardrobe offers what I need. If I crack open the door, I can keep an eye on both the whiskey and the door from the shadows through the narrow gap. But first, I detour to the bed.
I lean over, pressing my face to the sheets, and inhale. Aaiden’s pheromones saturate them, and the instinct to crawl into bed and roll around to cover myself in them almost overwhelms my self-control. I take another deep breath, and this time, I catch a hint of my own.
He was telling the truth about not letting them change his sheets, the sick, possessive bastard.
As I turn to retreat to my hiding spot, I catch sight of my footprints, visible in the deep pile of Aaiden’s pristine carpet.
“Shit,” I mutter, doubling back.
I drop to my knees, smoothing each depression with my palm.
“Of course you’d have carpet that shows every goddamn step,” I whisper, erasing the evidence of my presence. “Control freak.”
Only when the carpet is perfect again do I slip into the wardrobe, settling into position, and my muscles relax into the familiar stillness, a state I can maintain for hours if necessary.
Now, to wait for my prey to arrive.
Time dissolves into nothing as I wait in Aaiden’s wardrobe, hidden among his dress shirts. The suite remains quiet except for the faint hum of the climate control system.
Then, at last, the electronic lock disengages and the door opens.
Aaiden.
Through the narrow gap in the wardrobe door, I watch him enter alone, his broad shoulders slumped. He appears tired in a way I’ve never seen before, the usual perfect posture diminished. His fingers move to his tie, loosening the knot with a tug.
“Long day, sir?” asks a guard from the hallway.
“The usual,” Aaiden replies, his deep timbre sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “No disturbances tonight.”
“Understood, sir.”
The door closes, and Aaiden’s shoulders drop a fraction more. This is the private Aaiden, the one few people ever see. The one who allows himself small moments of vulnerability when he believes he’s alone.
He removes his suit jacket and unbuttons his vest. He hangs both in the wardrobe next to the one where I hide, his back turned to me. The muscles beneath his shirt flex as he reaches up, and I find myself tracking the movement as my pulse races.
When he turns back toward the room, his focus shifts to the sideboard. He pours his nightcap, and the crystal tumbler catches the light as he lifts it, two fingers of amber liquid swirling into his tumbler. He brings it to his nose first, inhaling the aroma before taking a small sip.
No reaction.
Aaiden carries his drink to the chair by the bed and pulls out his phone. His thumb moves across the screen before he holds it to his ear.
“Raphael, please,” he says after a moment. “Tell me where Avery has hidden him.”
A pause follows.
“I understand your position,” Aaiden responds, taking another sip of whiskey. “But this has gone on long enough. I need to see him to know he’s safe.”
The genuine concern in his tone almost melts my resolve. Only with his closest brother would he allow himself to show this level of vulnerability.
“I realize this, but... No, he’s not answering my calls.” Aaiden pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, just tell him... tell him I miss him.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I force myself to focus on the mission, not the man.
Aaiden ends the call and sets the phone down with a little too much force. He takes a larger swallow of whiskey this time, almost emptying the glass. The sedative will be hitting his bloodstream now, subtle but building.
I watch through the gap as he finishes the last of his drink before setting the empty glass on the nightstand.
He stands, stripping off his tie and shirt, then pulling the belt from his buckle before he sits on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.
The first signs appear within minutes. He gives a long blink, his movements becoming less coordinated as he attempts to untie his shoes. His fingers fumble with the laces, and frustration flickers across his face.
“The hell?” he mutters, shaking his head as if to clear it.
He manages to remove one shoe before giving up on the second, instead flopping back onto the mattress with uncharacteristic carelessness. His breathing deepens, though his eyes remain open, staring at the ceiling in apparent confusion.
I wait until his attempts to sit back up grow sluggish, his powerful body fighting a battle it doesn’t understand. When he settles back on the pillows, half-lidded but still conscious, it’s time.
I push the wardrobe door open and step into the room.
Aaiden’s head turns at the movement, his reactions delayed by the sedative. He squints as I approach the bed.
“Security,” he tries to call out, but it comes out weak and slurred.
“They can’t hear you,” I say. “And they won’t check unless you don’t appear for breakfast.”
“Jade.” My name comes out steady despite the drug in his system, and he smiles. “You came home.”
“That’s still to be decided. We need to talk.”
I move to the drawer in his nightstand, where I hope to find his aforementioned toy collection. The leather cuffs are nestled among other items for more pleasurable activities than this.
“What are you...” He struggles to push himself upright, but his movements lack coordination.
“Don’t fight it,” I advise, returning to the bedside with the cuffs in hand. “It’ll only knock you out faster.”
Anger flashes in his eyes, but the drug has already compromised his reflexes. When I take his wrist, his resistance is sluggish at best. The first cuff closes around his right wrist with a satisfying click.
His nose twitches. “Why can’t I smell you?”
“Pheromone blockers.”
“You drugged me,” he slurs, the realization hitting him as I secure the other end of the restraint to one of the wooden rungs of the headboard.
“Just enough to slow you down,” I confirm, moving to his other side. “Not enough to hurt you.”
His left hand tries to grab me as I reach for it, but his movements are easy to counter. I catch his wrist and apply the second cuff, securing it to the opposite side of the frame.
His laugh comes out rough and edged with respect. “You didn’t need to drug me to talk.”
“Didn’t I?” I move around him, staying in his line of sight. “Would you have given me control of the conversation any other way?”
His breathing comes heavier, muscles straining to escape the restraints. “Jade, stop this.”
His attempt at Command sweeps right over me, the drug reducing his control over his vocal cords enough that he can’t influence me.
He tracks me as I move around the room. “Your hair. You changed it.”
I examine the other contents of his toy stash. “Do you like it?”
“No.”
His instant response brings a smirk to my lips. “But it made it so easy to infiltrate the house staff. No one noticed me. Not your security. Not your staff. Not even my own mother.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “How long have you been here?”
“For hours.” I pluck a ball gag from the drawer and hold it up. “Really, Aaiden? Did you think I’d let you use this on me?”
“Caleb gave it to me,” he protests.
I freeze as I turn back to the drawer. “Did he give you all of these?”
“Yes,” he admits, his eyelids grow heavier, fighting to stay open as the drug reaches its full potency. “He thinks it’s funny to slip them into board meetings for me to find mid-presentation.”
My hand clenches around the leather strap. “So when you said we could use toys during my Heat, you were offering to use a dildo your cousin bought for you?”
“No, I…” His brow furrows in confusion. “Yes?”
“Should I just kidnap you and lock you up?” Ball gag still in hand, I close the nightstand drawer. “That would solve all of our problems. You’d enjoy being my sex toy every night when I come home from work. Let Nolan and Leo have the Rockford Empire.”
“No… Mine...” He tugs on his restraints again, but he can barely keep his eyelids open at this point.
“Stubborn control freak. Rest now,” I tell him. “We’ll talk when you wake up.”
His eyelids flutter down and don’t rise again, surrender coming in stages as the drug pulls him under. I wait, monitoring his breathing, checking his pulse again to confirm he’s stable.
Only when I’m certain he’s sedated do I begin the next phase.