Chapter 9 Presley
Presley
Fritz dropped me onto a sofa that was so soft it could swallow me whole.
I sank into cushions, still wrapped in my layers of wool like a human burrito.
My hair had achieved sentience during the helicopter ride.
It was a bird's nest of tangles that stuck out at angles.
I looked a mess, felt a mess, and smelled like—well, I didn't actually know what I smelled like, but from the way three sets of alpha eyes tracked my every movement, it was apparently something significant.
"Welcome to our home, Miss Prince."
Hastings stood by the tall sash windows that overlooked the private garden square. The white stucco townhouse across the street was identical to this one, all classical proportions and wrought iron balconies.
I expected a penthouse overlooking the Thames, something fit for bachelors, not a family home.
Through the window was a gated garden in the center of the square, the kind of green space that probably required a special key just to enter.
The room itself was all high ceilings with ornate cornicing, a marble fireplace that could have roasted an entire pig, and parquet floors that gleamed under tasteful lamps.
He seemed to find it hard to look me directly in the eye. Was it my thrift-store leggings, my multiple layers, or was trying to ignore the way I smelled?
"It's a little different from home." My voice trembled as I clutched the edge of my blanket.
The understatement of the century. My caravan could have fit in the entrance hall of this place with space left over for a powder room. "But this is a business deal, so let's make the rules. And I want them in writing. No... err... funny business."
Etienne let out a dry, dark chuckle from somewhere near the doorway to what looked like a library. "The entire arrangement is 'funny business,’ Princesse. But very well. Henry?"
Princesse.
Hastings cleared his throat. "Rule one: You stay here. Your heat is due, so we need you safe, monitored, fed, and healthy."
Safe.
The word landed somewhere deep in my chest. I hadn't felt safe in years.
Not since Mum's diagnosis, not since Dad's funeral, not since the nights I'd lain awake in my freezing caravan listening to the wind rattle the walls and wondering if this was the storm that would finally tear the whole thing apart.
"It's not for a couple of weeks," I said.
"And we'll start paying you from today. Five thousand pounds per week."
Five thousand pounds.
Did he say per week?
"Okay." The word came out strangled.
I didn’t question it. Why would I? I was going to be rich.
"Where do I sleep?"
Fritz chuckled from his position near the bar, where he was pouring himself something amber from a crystal decanter.
"I’ll show you the nest." Etienne stepped into the light, and I was suddenly very aware of how close he was. How his hazel eyes seemed fixed on the pulse point in my neck. How the rain scent coming off him made something low in my belly tighten.
"Nest..." My heart flip-flopped like a wet fish. Of course they had a nest. I had one in my caravan, but I'd never actually had one where alphas put in the effort for their omega. The idea that they'd prepared something specifically for me, for my heat...
You’re not theirs.
I caught Hastings' eyes as he said, "If you conceive during this first heat, there will be a significant bonus. We accept it's something you haven't done before. If you want to feel a knot before your heat, let us know."
"Oh..." I squeeze my thighs together, feeling the wetness there.
Fuck! Why did I wear leggings? When I could’ve hidden everything underneath a skirt.
“It’s just sex, Miss Prince.” Hastings' voice was clinical, detached, like he was reading from a quarterly report. "All we want is a healthy pregnancy. Science can't replicate the hormones a proper knotting provides."
I thought of the turkey baster sitting in my rucksack and felt like an absolute idiot. All those logistics I'd worked out. The timing, the clinical precision of it, and they wanted me the old-fashioned way. Knotted and claimed and probably screaming their names.
Not screaming their names, Presley. Keep it real.
"And if it doesn't work the first time?" I asked, my chin lifting. "I can't exactly control my biology. What if my body doesn't like your... juice? What happens then?"
Fritz's lips twitched, but he stayed quiet.
"Then we keep trying," Hastings said firmly. "You’ll stay here until the next heat. We can discuss heat-enhancer drugs if necessary, though we would prefer the natural route. It's better for the omega's system and for the baby to bond with the alphas."
"Natural," I whispered.
My thighs pressed together involuntarily.
No more slick. No more slick. I begged my body to control itself.
"Let's talk about your compensation." Hastings picked up a tablet from the marble coffee table. "As mentioned, to replace the salary you lost at the café, we will pay you a weekly stipend of five thousand pounds, plus expenses. Such as a clothing allowance."
Expenses.
I choked on my own spit. Clothes as well as twenty thousand pounds a month. I didn't make twenty thousand a year at the café, even with tips and Maeve's "accidental" double-entry of my hours when rent was due.
"You'll really pay me for every week I'm here? Including when I'm not pregnant?" I squeaked.
"Correct," he said, as if he was discussing the price of a loaf of bread.
"And also for the postpartum period. For every week you stay after the birth to breastfeed our heir, you will receive a bonus of ten thousand pounds per week.
We would prefer a minimum of six weeks for the baby's immune system. "
I started totting up the numbers in my head, my eyes glazing over.
One month before I was pregnant. Nine months of 'percolating their precious heir'.
I was guaranteed ten months at twenty grand per month.
Two hundred thousand. Plus sixty thousand for breastfeeding. Two hundred and sixty thousand pounds.
If I stood up, I'd fall over.
I could buy a cottage for that. Not just a down payment—an actual cottage. Yes, it would be small but I’d have a garden and a kitchen that wasn't also my bedroom and a door that locked properly.
"And," Hastings added, "provided the birth is successful and the contract is fulfilled, we will match the total earned amount as a 'thank you' bonus."
Five hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
Half a million pounds. For having a baby. For giving them what they wanted and walking away.
"And in the event of multiples," Etienne added, his voice dropping to a silk-wrapped growl, "the bonus is doubled per child."
Double.
My mind started to race as I wondered if there was a specific way to sit or a certain tea I should drink to make my body produce twins.
I'd give them triplets for that kind of money.
Hell, I'd be a baby factory for that kind of money.
Line them up on the pitch, matching jerseys, and wave goodbye with my platinum credit card.
"One more thing," I said, trying to sound like a savvy businesswoman and not a girl who once cried when she found a fiver in her coat pocket. "I want Maeve to be able to visit me. She needs transport here and back to the caravan at least once a month."
Fritz laughed, a big, boisterous sound that filled the room. "If that makes you happy, Presley. We can agree to that."
"I'll have the contract drawn up tonight," Hastings said, finally meeting my eyes. The gray was darker now, stormier. "You can review it in the morning and make any amendments."
I nodded, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline of the helicopter ride, the alphas finding me, and leaving Maeve behind, crashed through my system like a wave retreating from shore. My limbs felt heavy, muscles slack with exhaustion. I was also aware I probably smelled of greasy food and sweat.
“Viens," Etienne said softly. He held out his hand. "Let me show you to your room."