9. Paxton
PAXTON
The heavy oak door swings open without so much as a knock, and I don't bother looking up from the ledger in front of me. The scent of expensive cologne and desperation wafts in before the voices follow… sharp, practiced, dripping with false civility.
"Paxton." My cousin's voice grates like gravel under a boot. "I trust you've been well."
I set the pen down slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. When I finally lift my gaze, I take my time, letting my eyes drag over the three men standing in my office—two in tailored suits, briefcases clutched like shields.
And my cousin.
So it's him. I've seen him before. I think his name is Daniel or something.
"Yes." My voice is low, calm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He steps forward, hands clasped in front of him like he's about to deliver a sermon. "I won't waste your time with pleasantries. You know why we're here."
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. "Enlighten me."
One of the lawyers clears his throat, adjusting his tie. "Mr. Miller, we're here to discuss the validity of your marriage to the late Mrs. Davis. There are concerns?—"
"Concerns," I repeat, letting the word hang in the air like a bad smell.
Daniel cuts in, his voice smooth. "People talk, Paxton.
Servants, neighbors. They say you and Elena barely spent time together.
That you lived like strangers under this roof.
" He spreads his hands. "A marriage of convenience isn't illegal, but if it was only for convenience—if it was never consummated, if it was never intended to be real—then the inheritance clause is void. "
I don't move. Don't blink. "And you've come to challenge it."
"To ensure the estate is inherited correctly," Daniel says, as if he gives a damn about what's right and wrong. As if he deserves it.
I push my chair back and stand, slow and deliberate. The lawyers tense, but Daniel's smile only widens, like he's already won.
"Nathan," I call, not taking my eyes off them.
The door opens behind them, and Nathan and my estate manager step in, holding a thick folder. He doesn't look at Daniel or the lawyers as he hands it to me.
I flip it open and let the first document slide across the desk toward them.
"The marriage license. Signed, witnessed, filed.
" Another paper follows. "The prenuptial agreement, detailing the financial arrangement between myself and Elena.
Her debts were paid in full upon our marriage.
Mine were hers." I tap the next page. "Bank records.
Every transaction, every payment, every penny accounted for. "
Daniel's smile falters.
I push another stack toward them. "Affidavits.
From the priest who married us. From the staff who witnessed the ceremony.
From the lawyers who drafted the contracts.
" My voice doesn't rise, but the edge in it could cut glass.
"And if you'd like, I can provide the contract to show you it doesn't state anything about consummation. "
The lawyers exchange glances. Daniel's face has gone pale.
"This is all very… thorough," one of them mutters.
I lean forward, planting my hands on the desk.
"Let me make something clear. My marriage to Elena was legal, binding, and real.
It served its purpose—for both of us. She got the security she needed.
I got the inheritance I was entitled to.
And if you think for one second I won't drag every last one of your reputations through the mud for daring to challenge it, you're even stupider than you look. "
Daniel swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Paxton, I?—"
"Are you done?" I cut in, my voice deadly quiet.
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Nods.
"Good." I straighten, smoothing my tie. "Nathan, show them out."
The door clicks shut behind them, sealing the room in silence again. My fingers flex against the edge of the desk, the wood cool and solid beneath my palms.
Nathan's footsteps fade down the hall, and then the clock on the wall ticks, slow and deliberate.
Three forty-seven. Late afternoon light slants through the windows, gilding the dust motes swirling in the air.
We've been going at it until morning, so she'll be asleep still. Buried under the sheets, her honey-blonde hair fanned across the pillow, lips slightly parted, that little crease between her brows smoothed away by exhaustion.
I can still taste her on my tongue. Still feel the way her body arched beneath mine this morning, the way her thighs trembled when I pinned her to the mattress and took what was mine.
Again. And again.
My cock stirs at the memory, heavy and insistent.
I push away from the desk, the chair rolling back with a quiet scrape. The estate, the fucking inheritance—none of it matters as much as the woman upstairs, warm and pliant and mine.
The hallway stretches long and quiet, the polished wood floors swallowing the sound of my footsteps. My fingers twitch at my sides, restless.
The estate has always been my kingdom—cold, immovable, untouchable. But now, the only thing I want to claim isn't made of stone and vineyards.
It's her.
The door to my bedroom is slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the hall. I push it open, and there she is.
Paige.
Curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other flung out like she was reaching for something in her sleep.
The sheets are tangled around her waist, her white tank top riding up just enough to expose the dip of her spine, the soft swell of her hip.
My chest feels like it's being squeezed. Not with want—though God knows that's there, thick and heavy in my veins—but with something sharper. Something that feels like possession and terror all at once.
She's mine. And I'll burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.
I toe off my shoes and cross the room, the mattress dipping under my weight as I sit beside her. Her breath hitches, just slightly, but she doesn't stir. Doesn't wake.
Even now, after everything, her body trusts me in ways her mind hasn't caught up to yet.
I trail my fingers along the curve of her shoulder, down the delicate line of her arm. Her skin is warm, soft. A sigh escapes her lips, and her lashes flutter, but she doesn't open her eyes.
"Paige," I murmur, low and rough.
She swats at me, her hand connecting with my chest in a half-hearted slap. "Mmm. Still tired." Her voice is thick with sleep, muffled against the pillow. "From last night. And this morning." A pause. Then, quieter, "You're insatiable."
A smirk tugs at my mouth. "And you love it."
She groans, rolling onto her back, her hair a wild halo against the sheets. Her eyes crack open, hazel and sleep-heavy, locking onto mine. "I tolerate it." But the corner of her mouth twitches, betraying her.
I lean down, brushing my lips over hers. She tastes like warmth and surrender. "Liar."
She shoves at me again, but there's no real force behind it. Just the press of her palm against my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. "What time is it?"
"Late afternoon."
Her brows knit together. "You're not working?"
I exhale, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Finished early."
She studies me, her gaze sharpening, the sleepy haze fading. "Something happened."
It's not a question. She knows me too well already.
I could lie. Could distract her with my mouth, my hands, the way I know she likes to be touched. But she deserves the truth. Especially now.
"My cousin came by. With lawyers." My jaw tightens. "Challenging the inheritance. Said the marriage to your mother wasn't real."
Her breath catches. "What?"
"It's handled." I cup her face, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "They won't try again."
She searches my eyes, her own wide and unblinking. She swallows, her throat working. "Paxton…"
I kiss her again, slower this time. Deeper. "It's all settled now," I murmur against her lips.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt, her body melting into mine for a heartbeat. Then she pulls back, her expression shifting, something flickering behind her eyes. "I—" She presses a hand to her stomach, her face paling. "Oh."
I go still. "Paige?"
She bolts upright, shoving the sheets aside. "I think I'm gonna—" She doesn't finish, just scrambles off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the floor as she races toward the bathroom.
The door slams shut behind her.
I'm on my feet in an instant, crossing the room in three long strides. I push the door open, my pulse hammering in my throat.
She's hunched over the toilet, her hair falling forward, her shoulders shaking. The sound of her retching fills the small space, sharp and violent.
I drop to my knees beside her, gathering her hair back, my other hand pressing against her spine. "Let it out," I murmur, my voice rough.
She gags again, her body convulsing. When it passes, she slumps back against the wall, her skin clammy, her eyes glassy. "Did I eat something bad?" she whispers.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "We ate the same stuff, but I'm fine."
She swallows, her throat working. "What if I'm—" She cuts off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
I study her. The way her skin has lost its color. The way her breathing is too fast, too shallow. My mind races, pieces clicking into place.
"Paige." My voice is low, careful. "Say it."
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and disbelieving. "What if I'm wrong?"
"Just say it," I repeat, slower this time.
She blinks, her lips parting. Then her face goes slack. "Oh my god." Her hand drifts to her stomach, her fingers splaying over the flat plane. "I… I don't know. What if I'm pregnant. I haven't had my period. I didn't even?—"
I don't let her finish. I stand, scooping her into my arms, her body limp and trembling against mine. She doesn't protest as I carry her back to the bed, laying her down gently.
"Stay here," I order, my voice leaving no room for argument.
She grabs my wrist, her fingers cold. "Where are you going?"
I press a kiss to her forehead. "To get a doctor."