Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ALEXANDER
My wife disappears through the door, and for several minutes, I don’t move. For a few moments while she cleaned me up, I forgot we were enemies. I forgot my plan to push her away. I forgot everything other than her gentle touch, the warmth of her hand as she held mine, her soft, quiet breathing as she worked on the injuries to my knuckles.
I want her. All of her. More of her fire, more of her burning rage. More, more, more. It’s unexpected and unwelcome, but I can’t deny it any longer. I want my wife.
Except… I can’t risk it. No matter how I slice and dice this issue, I can’t come up with a solution that won’t draw a barrage of questions. Imogen discovering I don’t intend to ever have children is powerful information that, if I were her, I’d use against me somehow. She knows part of the deal her father struck with mine is to provide children to carry on the family name. Finding out having kids isn’t in the cards for me when my father expects me to produce heirs is something she can hold over my head as a bargaining chip.
Giving Imogen the upper hand in anything is a mistake .
To avoid unwanted pregnancies before marriage, I handpicked the women I had sex with, choosing those who already had kids and were clear in their desire not to have any more, or were career women who’d rather suck out their womb with a vacuum cleaner than have a child. Besides, I made every single one sign a contract before I began a relationship with them, ensuring they were clear what the consequences were if they fell pregnant. The child would never have my name, nor the support and protection of my family, and I’d make sure the woman in question lived to regret their choices. And it worked. None of my exes fell pregnant, at least not to my knowledge.
At one point I considered having a vasectomy and solving this problem once and for all, but societal expectations stopped me. What if my father found out? What message would that send to The Consortium? My father’s position on the council and as head of this family would be in jeopardy if it came to light I’d planned this all along.
I head for my office and fall into the chair behind my desk. I’m exhausted, yet unable to sleep. Insomnia is an affliction I’ve lived with for nineteen years, and I’ve learned to accept my strange sleep patterns. When I crash, I’ll go twenty hours straight without stirring.
Reaching into my pocket, I remove the key to the locked cabinet behind me. I take out my latest journal and open it to a blank page. Journaling is something my therapist suggested years ago as a way to deal with my guilt, and potentially help my wheels stop spinning long enough for me to fall asleep. At the time, I’d scoffed at the idea, but once I tried it, I couldn’t stop. I’ve been journaling daily ever since. It helps to get my thoughts out of my head and onto the page, although regular sleep is still hard to come by .
As I flick back through my current journal, I’m shocked at what I find. Every entry for the last two weeks has contained only one subject: Imogen.
I must have written subconsciously. I have no recollection of writing these words, but as I re-read what’s on the pages, it’s clear she’s consuming me. There’s no mention of anything that has happened to me in the last two weeks other than her.
Nineteen years ago, I shut off my feelings, too afraid that if I let them roam free, I’d lose myself to the rage that burned inside me. So, I became the ice man instead. In control, cool under pressure, a man who kept his smiles for moments when he was alone with his memories.
Yet my wife is thawing me out one blazing argument at a time.
My eyes feel as if they’re full of grit, so I take out my reading glasses and put them on. The thoughts I’ve bled onto the pages are sharper now, and another slug of yearning hits my chest.
If I was the kind of man who lied to himself, I’d say I needed to get laid, but it’s more than that. Sex is just… sex. Pleasant, a release that gives me a few moments of bliss. This battle of wills with Imogen is more than that. It’s raw, exciting, and it makes me feel alive.
I run a finger over my bruised knuckles, an ache setting up camp in my chest. Maybe I can persuade her to take care of me every time I take out a mark. For as long as she’s here, that is. I usually let the cuts and bruises heal on their own, but having my wife tend to me is far more comforting.
Picking up a pen, I let it flow over the page. By the time I’m done, it’s gone one o’clock in the morning, and I’m no closer to being able to sleep than I was before. Dawn is a few hours off yet. At least in summer, the sun rises early. As soon as there’s enough light, I’ll head to the stables and go for a ride. That usually quietens my mind.
The email from Richard about the groom sits unopened in my inbox. I haven’t had time until now to read it. I open the email and click on the attachment, scanning the details.
William Edgerton, thirty-two years old. Started working here a couple of months ago. References all in place. Nothing unusual or concerning in his application.
I remove my glasses and toss them on the desk, rubbing my tired eyes. I’m well aware of my possessive issues, whether that be of belongings or people. Maybe my issue with the groom has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Imogen. I may not intend to keep her long-term, but as long as she wears my ring, she’s mine.
Yeah, that’s probably it.
“How did it go?” I look up to see Nicholas entering my study. He helps himself to the chair opposite my desk.
“You’re up late.”
“No later than you,” he says.
I nod and sigh. “Can’t sleep.”
“What’s new? So? How’d it go?”
“He cried like a baby and begged for mercy.”
Nicholas laughs. “God, it’s fucking pathetic how predictable they are.”
“Truth, brother.” I yawn, my eyes drooping, but my body has never had control over my mind. It’s that which prevents me from sleeping.
“How long has it been this time?”
I screw up my nose, counting the days. “Slept on Wednesday. ”
Nicholas shakes his head. “I thought Imogen’s arrival might have helped.”
My spine stiffens, but I school my expression. Nicholas knows me far too well, and my thoughts on Imogen are my own. I don’t plan to share them with him, no matter how close we are. “Why would it?”
A wave of sadness sweeps across his face, but it’s gone a second later. “Now you’ve cleared the earth of one more oxygen waster, perhaps you’ll get some rest.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s always another waiting to take their place, though.”
“Which is why we’re in this together. For Annabel.”
His mention of our sister shoots me nineteen years into the past. When I was sixteen, my twin and I were kidnapped and thrown into a cellar crawling with mold and rats. She broke her ankle during our escape attempt, so I left her behind, promising I’d bring help soon.
Which I did. Just not soon enough to save her.
My lungs flatten as memories break free from their chains and crowd my mind. Grief consumed my first few years, but once I emerged from the numbness, anger had taken over. I’d called a meeting with my brothers, and we’d all agreed on what we wanted to do.
Take out the trash.
My family ran many legitimate businesses, but we also had some shadier ones, as did most Consortium members. My extracurricular activities were my way of balancing the scales, and I’d made my peace with that long ago.
We sit together in silence, sipping on the brandies Nicholas pours. This is one of the great things about the brother closest in age to me. He knows when to talk and when to shut up .
Then out of the blue, I blurt, “She’s driving me insane.”
Nicholas’s eyebrows rise a few millimeters. “Imogen?”
“Yeah.”
The faintest smile pulls at his lips. “From the moment I met her, I knew she’d push your buttons. It’s the red hair, brother. She’s a fiery one. Why do you think I chose Elizabeth rather than Victoria?”
Victoria is Elizabeth’s elder sister, and would normally have been the chosen one when the Montagues struck a deal with Dad, but Nicholas asked for the choice, and Dad agreed. My brother had picked the meek and mild Elizabeth Montague rather than her far more combative sister. It hadn’t come as a surprise to any of us, and given the grief Imogen’s giving me, I can see the attraction to the quieter ones.
Although I can’t help thinking Nicholas might come to regret his decision further down the line. Having a quarrelsome wife certainly makes life more interesting. He seems okay with his choice, though. Evidently, he’d rather have peace in his home life and get his kicks through other means. I thought I’d have felt the same way.
Turns out, I don’t.
“My palm twitches to spank her every time we’re in the same room.”
“Maybe you should give her a spanking. It may do you both the world of good.”
“I already have.” I brief him on the swimming pool incident, and when I get to the part where I tossed her in, his booming laughter fills my office.
“You’re a brave man.” Shaking his head, he adds, “No, not brave. Stupid.” He laughs again.
I exhale through my nose. “You’re not helping. ”
“Oh, it’s my help you want? Are you sure?”
When he doesn’t offer anything further, I motion with my hands for him to get on with it.
“You need to fuck her.”
I should have known that’s where he’d go. “Our marks aren’t the only predictable ones.”
“She’ll feel better for it, and so will you.”
“You know why I can’t.”
Standing, he fetches the brandy decanter and pours us both another drink. He sits down again and pushes my glass across the desk. “Xan, at the risk of boring both of us by repeating myself, what happened to Annabel won’t happen to your kids.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’re you.”
“And Dad is Dad, yet he couldn’t protect us. They took us from our fucking beds, Nicholas.”
Dad found the men responsible, and I demanded the right to end their lives, which he granted me. But I’ve never been able to shake the nagging thought that they were the stooges and there was a bigger mastermind behind the abduction. Yet nothing else happened, although that might be because Dad beefed up security.
Uncle George unexpectedly returning from Asia shortly before we were taken helped, too. He was blinded by grief, along with the rest of us. He might not have been around much when we were growing up, but he’d stayed in touch with Dad, and he’d loved Mum like a sister.
Nicholas sighs and pinches the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. It’s classic Nicholas when he’s frustrated.
“So, you’re saying none of us should have kids? That we should let the family line die with us?”
It’s not what I’m saying, and he knows it, but Imogen isn’t the only one who enjoys pressing my buttons.
“No, I’m saying that having children isn’t something I can bring myself to do. I’m not pushing my choices on to anyone else.”
“Well… you kind of are.”
I square my shoulders, my spine locking in place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your refusal to have kids means Imogen will remain childless, too. You think that’s fair to her?”
Nicholas isn’t aware of my plan to force Imogen’s hand until she ends our marriage. No one is. I share most things with my brothers and my sister, but that particular strategy stays with me. They will disapprove, and an argument will ensue. Since arguments with my siblings aren’t nearly as enjoyable as they are with my wife, I’d rather save my energy for her.
When I don’t answer Nicholas’s question, he downs the rest of his brandy and gets to his feet. “Your silence speaks volumes, Xan.” Setting the empty glass on my desk, he leaves me to brood alone, the door snicking shut behind him.
I rub my eyes again and pour another brandy.
The next thing I know, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s light outside. I must have fallen asleep in my chair. Wonders never cease. I sit up straight and run my hands through my hair.
“Come in.”
Richard, my assistant, enters. He’s a serious guy most of the time, but he’s extra dour this morning, even for him .
“Mr. De Vil,” he begins, despite me telling him multiple times to call me Alexander.
Richard has worked for me for five years, and during that time he hasn’t once called me by my first name. I’ve given up correcting him.
“Yes?”
“Sir, you’re not going to like this.”
My skin prickles as adrenaline fires into my bloodstream. Has he found out something more about Edgerton. “Go on.”
“I have the manager of Citadel on the line.”
Citadel is the private bank my family uses. I arch a brow. A call from the manager on a Sunday is unusual, even for a family as lucrative to the bank as ours. “And?”
“Sir, yesterday, several large transactions were charged to your credit card. Mr. Dobbs wants to know if he should block them.”
I frown. Several large transactions? I had no call to use my card yesterday, but the idea of fraudulent activity on a card as secure as mine is unheard of. Unless…
Well I fucking never. Imogen.
“Put him through. I’d like to talk to him.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Richard leaves, and seconds later, my phone rings. I answer it.
“Mr. Dobbs, what are these transactions?”
The bank manager clears his throat. “Well, sir, they’re rather odd. Furniture, bedding, and twenty-five television sets for a women’s refuge in Chichester, half of Hamley’s toy department for Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital, enough food to keep most of the food banks in the south of England stocked for a year, and sports equipment and snooker tables for a youth facility in Hastings. Oh, and a six-figure payment to a company called Zenith.”
“Who are they?”
“I thought you might want to know that, so I took the liberty of looking them up.” He sounds pleased with himself, as if he’s expecting a pat on the back for doing his job. When I say nothing, he clears his throat and continues. “They’re an architecture firm in the United States that appear to be heavily involved in sustainability projects in Africa.”
“Approve them all.”
I’m both astounded and impressed. Imogen could have called Harrods and bought a glut of designer clothes and shoes, but she didn’t. She wanted to get back at me and help some worthwhile charities along the way. That says something about my wife, and I like what it shows. She’s still a brat, but a benevolent one.
I text Richard to dig a little deeper on Zenith. The fact they’re an architecture firm tells me that Imogen didn’t choose them by chance. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were the same firm she mentioned the first day we met—the one who’d offered her a job. It’s intriguing that she’s keeping in touch.
“Are… are you sure, sir?”
I hate being questioned when I’ve made a decision. It strikes me as the other person questioning my sanity.
“Do it.”
I hang up.
What a woman. What a fucking incredible woman.
And, for now, she belongs to me.