Epilogue 2
Three months later
Ryot
"I’d say welcome to the neighborhood, but it’s as if you’ve always lived here." Sinclair narrows his gaze on his cards.
It’s Friday night, and the first time I’m hosting poker night at my place. A tradition Arthur started at his place. One of the few my brothers and I decided to keep because we enjoy it so much. We moved it out of Arthur’s place when he was diagnosed with the big C, at Imelda’s request. She’d hoped it would mean he’d stop smoking his cigars. In deference to her wishes, we’ve forgone our cigars at the poker table. Replacing it with whiskey, and nachos, and guacamole, which my wife rustled up for us.
Aura has discovered a love for cooking. Something she was unable to do earlier when she had a chef on her staff. We agreed that, while we’ll have a housekeeper come in regularly to help keep the house clean, we’ll be hands-on in the kitchen.
She mentioned to me that Viktor was supportive of her stepping back from her Royal duties. Her father, less so. The king told her she was making a mistake, but if that's what she wanted, he wouldn't stand in her way.
Her brother Brandon, too, backed her decision. He’s the one member of her family I don’t know well at all, considering he didn’t make it to our wedding. She was upset about that, but I’m willing to forgive him because, it turns out, the guy has his heart in the right place.
Both Viktor and Brandon, separately, wished my wife the best for her move away from the monarchy.
It took another week to draw up a plan to help her separate her future from that of the Royal Family. She agreed to honor the public appearances she’d already committed to, and indicated she wouldn’t take on more. If the Royal Family needed her to do so under extenuating circumstances in the future, she’d consider them on a case-by-case basis.
Which means, she has a year’s worth of engagements to get through in countries around the world. All of which I'll accompany her to, along with a top-notch security team.
I'm not taking any risks with her protection, no matter that the person who threatened her life is dead. My wife is too precious, and I won’t leave anything up to chance.
Then came the public announcement by the Royal Palace. By then, we’d moved back to London, and that helped cushion her from the worst of the media scrutiny to follow.
I bought a place in Primrose Hill and ensured the house is under round-the-clock surveillance. This is where Sinclair lives, as do Tyler, Nathan and Quentin.
"This is a great neighborhood. Aura loves getting to know her sisters-in-law and Summer, and she's thrilled to spend time with Serene." I nod in Tyler’s direction.
"Serene’s over-joyed to have her dropping by so often." He rubs the back of his neck. "Pass," he murmurs, eyeing his cards with a frown.
"I’m sorry I took you away from her," I apologize again.
He scoffs, "I wanted to be there for you. Besides, Serene was delighted to spend time with Summer and Matty." He tilts his chin in Sinclair’s direction.
"Summer loved having her over." Sinclair looks at Brody. "And how is it that we have the pleasure of your company today?"
Brody smirks. "Figured the only way I was going to meet you over-the-hill men was by crashing your poker session."
"Over-the-hill?" Tyler frowns. "Who’re you talking about?"
"Given these two are married"—he nods between me and Sinclair—"and since you’ve got to make it home by a decent time to put Serene to bed—" He shrugs. "The three of you are no fun."
"Walking up to my bedroom where I can sleep with my wife, in my bed, in my house? I’m not complaining." I laugh.
"Same." Sinclair raises his beer bottle, and I tap mine to his.
Tyler and Brody exchange looks, both wearing matching smirks.
"You guys have no idea what you’re missing," I murmur.
"Nope, not going there. I’m out of the marriage game, was never in it to begin with. And with responsibility for Serene, I’m never getting married."
I eye him with curiosity. "Why is that?"
"First off, the relationship piece. I have enough in my life with taking care of Serene. The last thing I need is some high-maintenance woman marching in and demanding I give her attention. I only have space for Serene. And any time I have left is spent on taking care of the business."
"What if you find someone who fits into your life and who Serene likes?" Sinclair asks. His voice is casual, but I read the seriousness under his words.
"That’s not going to happen." Tyler scowls at his cards.
"Why not?" I exchange another glance with Sinclair.
"Because—" Tyler rolls his shoulders. "Because I’m not the easiest man to be with. And Serene will always come first. It’s not fair to expect any woman to accept that."
"There might be someone out there who’ll love Serene as much as you and who you find makes your life better," Sinclair murmurs.
Tyler makes a rude noise. "And Arthur turns into a loving, cuddly man overnight."
Brody laughs. "Now, that’d be a sight."
"He has changed since meeting Imelda. Not that it stopped him from trying to interfere in my love life," I throw down my cards.
"You’re folding?" Sinclair lowers his chin.
"Best to quit while I’m ahead."
"Agree." He follows my lead.
"Hmm." Brody considers his cards, then lays them face up on the table.
A slow smile curves Tyler’s face, then he turns his cards face up.
We take in the cards. It’s an eight of hearts, a seven of hearts, a six of hearts, a five of hearts, and a four of hearts. "A fucking straight flush?" Brody glowers at him.
Tyler moves the poker chips closer. "Better luck next time." He rises to his feet, then yawns.
"You’re leaving?" Brody looks disappointed. "I was hoping you’d have another beer before you head home."
"That’s my quota for the day."
"You’re not driving, so why not have another?" Brody seems genuinely taken aback.
"Because I need to be up early? Serene’s up at five a.m. most days, and I want to be able to get her dressed and feed her breakfast before I drop her off at school."
"You’re a wonderful dad." My wife glides into the room. She’s dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, but her stance is regal. She halts next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Warmth seeps into my bloodstream. My heart kicks up into high gear, as it always does when she’s around.
I look up at her. "Missed you, baby."
She bends down, and we kiss. Soft and sweet, and so fucking erotic. Her scent fills my senses, and my pulse rate spikes. I wrap my arm about her waist and pull her closer.
"Jeez, you guys, get a room," Brody says in disgust.
My wife trembles, and fuck, if I don’t want to pull her in my lap. She straightens and looks at me with shining eyes. Her features are flushed, her lips swollen, and damn, if that doesn’t fill me with pride.
She smiles, then looks at Tyler. "I may have found a nanny for you."
"A nanny?" He looks at her with skepticism.
"You’re still looking for one, I assume?"
Tyler nods slowly. "Though, at this point, I’ve given up hope of finding anyone Serene likes."
"She’s an old friend; I can vouch for her. I gave her your address, so she’ll be at your place for an interview tomorrow at five p.m. Hope that’s okay?"
"Oh, that’s good." Tyler yawns again. "Although, I’m not holding my breath."
"You might be surprised," my wife says with a small smile.
Tyler merely laughs, then looks around at the rest of us. "Right then, I’m off." He pockets his phone, meets the others at the door, and walks out.
"That’s an evil smile." I scan my wife’s features. "What are you up to Empress?"
To find out what happens next read Tyler this thing between us is serious enough that I also want to get to know him better.
"Come on, let’s get something to drink."
Priscilla
"You’ve got to stop feeding me like this." I chew another forkful of the pasta, savoring the creamy, complex textures of the dish. Turns out, he was hungry. So, he wanted, not only to have a drink, but also to eat dinner.
I didn’t demur when he began to whip up what turned out be an Aglio Olio e Pepperoncino—Pasta with olive oil, parmesan cheese, cream and pepper, in very little time.
After pulling on my blouse and skirt, I was content to sit at the counter and watch his graceful movements around the kitchen. I was right. The man can cook. And given how clean the space is, he must have a very efficient housekeeper, too. For someone who‘s so keen to jump into bed with him, I have so many questions.
He pours us both a glass of white wine; it's clean and dry on the palate. I may have left home at eighteen, but my tastes were already refined by then. Enough to appreciate the kind of quality ingredients which only money can buy.
"I love taking care of you." He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass down.
He’s already inhaled his pasta in a few efficient mouthfuls. Maybe a hang-over from his military days, when he had to eat on the go and, likely, in shared dining rooms? And now, I have myriad questions about this very handsome, very rich, rescuer of my bag who’s made me come more times in one day then I ever have, even with my vibrator. Speaking of… No doubt, he’s come many, many more times, and with different women.
I finish the last bite on my plate and place my fork down. When I look at him, he nods. There’s touch of— worry in his eyes? —which he banks. His expression turns almost bored, but he doesn’t fool me. He is concerned about my reaction.
"That many?" I ask softly.
He groans, "Fuck, woman, why are you putting yourself through this? They didn’t mean anything to me."
I nod miserably. "I know it’s different for a man. And of course, it’s stupid for me to expect whoever I choose to be with hasn't been with anyone else. Especially not someone as attractive as you. And who’s been in the Marines. You probably had a different woman every night."
When he stays quiet, I stare. "You did have a different woman every night?"
His expression turns uncomfortable, then he composes his features into a mask, so I can’t decipher what he’s feeling. "They didn’t mean anything. I promise, there was no emotional connection with any of them. You, on the other hand—” His Adam’s Apple bobs. “You’ve begun to mean so much to me in the little time I’ve already known you, baby."
The muscles in his jaw flex.
"There was a time, when I first joined the Marines and was back from my first mission… When I saw upfront friends being killed and innocents among the enemy being slaughtered… When the clarity of what I’d signed up for… When the futility of what I was embarking on became clear to me… I… I might have lost it a little."
There’s anguish in his voice and a pain that shines through and thaws the ice which had begun to settle around my heart. Whatever he’s feeling, whatever he went through, tested him. It changed him. It made him grow up and become the man he is today… The result of which I’m attracted to, hugely.
I sigh. "How… How old were you?"
"Eighteen when I joined; twenty when I went to the Middle East on my first call of duty."
The mask is in place, but something in his eyes is in shadows. Echoes of the past which were difficult. Which he had to survive to get here.
"I’m sorry." I'm not sure what prompts me to say that, but it’s the right thing, for a little tension bleeds from his shoulders.
He nods. "You don’t need to be. It was my choice. And I don’t regret it. I'm proud of my service. Proud I could come to the defense of my country and my fellow citizens. But there was a price to pay for it."
"The sleeping around?"
He nods. "It provided a temporary relief… Very fleeting, but it’s the only thing that kept me going. Some kind of reaffirming of life, in a twisted way. When I was between missions, I slept with a different woman almost every night."
I wince. Well, I did ask him to tell me. And he was clear he’d never lie to me. So, here’s the truth. Except, it doesn’t relieve that burning sensation in my chest any.
"Especially in the early days, when I also used alcohol as a crutch. I’d often be blind-drunk enough to wake up in a different bed every night, with a different woman, who I didn’t recognize. A nameless, faceless person I’d used to try and get the frustration out of my system. Not that it helped much." He shrugs. "By the time I realized that, a few years had passed. It was Brody, my younger brother, who gave me a talking to and told me to pull myself together." He half smiles. "We got into a fight, which I was too drunk to win. But his thrashing me was the best thing he could have done. I?—"
The doorbell rings.
We look at each other.
"Were you expecting company?"
He shakes his head. "No one was announced, so it must be someone security recognizes." He looks around and swears. "I left my phone by the bed, so I don’t know if any of them called me, either."
The doorbell rings again, then again. The sound is harsh, jarring, almost insistent. A shiver runs up my spine. A frisson of discomfort stabs into my breastbone. Not sure why I feel like it’s an alarm bell, a warning.
I shake my head and attempt a smile. "Guess whoever that is, is impatient."
"Sorry about that." He rises to his feet and walks out of the kitchen. Unable to sit still, I jump up and follow him through the living room to the front door. He throws it open and looks around. "There’s nobody here," he says in a puzzled tone. Then he looks down, and his entire body freezes.
Something about how motionless he is—the bunched muscles of his torso, the way his shoulder blades stand out with surgical precision against his shirt—fires another ripple of alarm through my blood stream. I hurry and close the distance to him. "Who is it?"
I draw abreast, stand next to him, and look down at a basket with an oversized bag left next to it. Huh? Does the basket have clothes in it? No, not clothes. Wait, that's a diaper bag! Now, I can make out the curve of a tiny head with downy hair peeking out. My heart leaps into my throat. My mind recognizes what I’m seeing, but the connection between my brain and my mouth seems to have been lost.
It’s Tyler who recovers first. "It’s a baby.” His voice is surprised. He looks around the short hallway, a stunned expression on his features. The noise of the elevator’s engine running reaches us.
He springs into action, walks around the baby carrier and toward the elevator. The numbers count down as the elevator descends. He spins around, rushes into the apartment, then reaches for what I assume is the intercom hooked into the wall next to the door.
"Someone came to visit me just now. You need to stop them from leaving.”
He listens to whatever the voice on the other end says, then barks, "Yes, they are on their way down in the elevator. Intercept them and keep them there. I need to talk to them."
I glance down to find there’s an envelope tucked between the clothes. A stone forms in the pit of my stomach. I can’t let myself give shape to the possibilities which are crowding my mind. Take a breath. Don’t let your imagination run away. I calm myself enough to bend and pick up the envelope.
I’m half-aware of Tyler saying something else to whoever is on the intercom. Then he hangs up and walks back to me. I silently hand over the envelope with his name written on it.
He glares at it, then takes it and rips open the flap. He pulls out a single piece of paper. Whatever he reads in it makes the blood drain from his face. As if in a dream, I reach over and take it from him and read it.
Tyler,
She’s yours. Her name is Serene.
She’s better off with you. Take care of her.
It’s unsigned. My heart stumbles in my chest. It’s not what it seems. It can’t be. There must be a simple explanation for it... Except... There’s a baby in a carrier on his doorstep, and that note tells me everything I need to know. I look up to find him staring at me.
“Did you know about her?”
To find out what happens next read Tyler it’s my whole life. What I've worked toward since I was sixteen and knew I was going to become the most phenomenal baker in the world. And now, I'm going to lose it.
“Sure, you can do it.” My brother encourages me from the doorway. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“That’s what I used to think. It’s why I started this pastry shop.” I was twelve when I discovered I was good at baking. That, combined with my love for desserts, meant I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
Two years ago, I moved to London to work at a well-known patisserie. I began scouting for a location for my place while I saved every single penny I could.
A year ago, I found the perfect place, and my little artisan bakery with coffee shop seating was born. Of course, I work eighteen-hour workdays, which means I have almost no social life. I barely manage a few hours of sleep in my little apartment over the shop. But nothing can dampen my spirits. I’m spending my days churning out cakes and pastries. It’s what I’ve dreamed of for so long. Only issue?
I don’t have the money to advertise, and despite having a social media post go viral—which is when a lot of people look at your social media feed—and result in a surge of customers, I'm not making enough to salvage my business.
“Don’t give up. You have to believe this can take off.” Ben’s voice is confident. If only I shared his optimism.
“Oh, trust me, I want to believe. But blind faith in yourself only takes you so far.” I wish I could do better at spreading the word about the place and bringing in new customers. I seem to suck at everything outside of baking. It’s why my business is on the decline.
“Success is what’s beyond the dark night of the soul,” my brother, ever the wise one, remarks.
“Is that a saying among you Royal Marines?” I scoff.
“It’s—"
The bell over the door at the front of the shop tinkles.
“—your destiny.” His lips curve in a smile.
“What?” I blink.
“The bell—it’s your future calling.”
I roll my eyes. “If you say so.”
“Go on, your customer is waiting.” My brother walks over and kisses my forehead. “Good luck. Remember, when one door closes, another one opens. Or the one I prefer, she who leaves a trail of glitter is never forgotten."
"Eh?" I stare. "What does that have to do with my situation?"
"Nothing, but it did cheer you up."
I roll my eyes, then can’t stop myself from chuckling.
"That’s my girl." He pats my shoulder.
Yep, that’s my brother. The ever-cheerful, never-surrender person. “You’ll see; it will work out.” He turns me around and points me in the direction of the doorway leading to the shop. "Go on now.”
“Whatever you say, big bro.”
I was ten when my father passed, and Ben became the de facto father figure in my life. I'm fifteen years younger than him, an "oops baby," born when my mother was in her early forties. I hero-worshipped Ben, who, in turn, took care of me and never let me feel the loss of my father. And when my mother passed away, he took a leave of absence and came home and stayed with me, until he was assured I was ready to pick myself up and move on. He’s the most important person in the world, in my life, in so many ways. And the fact that he fights wars so I can be safe is a source of the utmost pride for me. It’s one of the reasons I feel terrible about being on the verge of bankruptcy. I want Ben to be proud of me.
“This is my last chance to get things right. If I can’t find a way to pay off my debts, I’ll have no choice but to shut down." I hear my words and realize I’m being negative. The exact opposite of my brother. I expect him to tell me off, but there’s no answer. I turn to find he’s left the shop. Not that I blame him. He has a two-week break before he has to ship out again. I suspect he’s gone to meet his current squeeze. Ben never lacks female companionship.
As for me? I need to face whatever's in my destiny. If only my every decision didn’t impact Hugo. If only I weren’t running out of money to keep him in the care home that provides round-the-clock attention for him. If I can't pay next month’s fees—no, I’m not going there. I will not contemplate the repercussions of what would happen if I didn’t come up with the money, and fast.
With a last tug at the neckline of my blouse, which dips a little too low in the front, and which I wore to try and cheer myself up—big fail, there—I march out of the kitchen and go behind the counter. And all the air whooshes out of my lungs.
The man standing in the middle of the bakery is so big, he seems to occupy all of the space in my little bakery. He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. And his shoulders—those shoulders I once held onto—are wider than I remember. They’re broad enough to block out the view of the rest of the space.
His biceps stretch the sleeves of his suit, which must cost my entire annual rent to buy, given its tailor-made finish. He’s wearing a black silk tie, and his jacket is black. Wait, a suit? I’ve never seen him in a suit before, but OMG, does he do it justice. I take in that lean waist, and those massive thighs, which seem ready to burst the seams of his pants, and between them, the tent that was the object of my obsession for so long. He prowls over to the counter and whoa, that predatory walk of his, the way he seems to glide across the floor with the gait of a barely tamed animal turns my bones to jelly.
"There was no one at the counter when I walked in. No wonder, you need a cash infusion," a familiar voice growls.
What the—? How dare he say that! I wrench my gaze up to his face. And any remaining thoughts in my head drain away. I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind, but all of the pieces have scattered.
Those eyes—one piercing blue, the other an amber brown. Those heterochromatic eyes, which have always had the effect of reducing me to a mindless blob of need, stare into mine.
My entire body hurts. My shoulder muscles turn into cement blocks. My stomach twists. It feels like I’ve run into a wall. Frissons of shock reverberate down my spine, and when he rakes his gaze down to my chest, his entire body seems to tense. He brings his gaze back to my face, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Again.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak around the ball of emotion in my throat.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” His jaw tics, a muscle spasms in his jaw, and he curls his fingers into his sides. There’s so much tension radiating from him, I feel faint. Apparently, he doesn’t like what he sees.
That makes two of us. Nathan-bloody-Davenport. My brother’s best friend. The man I’ve had a crush on for more than half my life. The man who turned me down when I threw myself at him the day of my eighteenth birthday party. Not before he kissed me, though.
He hauled me to him, thrust his tongue between my lips, and ravaged my mouth. He squeezed my ample butt and drew me against him, and I felt every inch of what he was packing. The kiss seemed to go on and on. My head spun. My knees gave way underneath me. I stumbled, and he straightened me. Only to tear his mouth from mine and stare into my face, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gusts that seemed to swell his shoulders. He raked his gaze across my features, like he was seeing me for the first time. Like he wanted to throw me down and mount me right there.
“Nate…” I breathed his name.
“Starling,” he whispered against my lips. The sound of his voice seemed to cut through his reverie, for the next second, he released me and jumped back.
A look of confusion, then regret, then anger swept over his features. I felt his rejection even before he blanked all expression from his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Skye.” He turned on his heel and walked out of my birthday celebration, and our house. And my life.
That was it; he cut off all communication with me. I never saw him again. Over the last five years, I've heard about his progress in the Marines from my brother, but I never set eyes on him. Until today.
“You’re the last person I want to speak to.” I cross my arms over my chest, thereby pushing my breasts up higher. His eyes move down before he forces them back to my face. It's not that I want to flaunt my double-D tits. Okay, okay, maybe I do. Maybe, I want to make him realize what he's been missing. I’m proud of my assets. I might be a size sixteen, but I’ve never tried to conceal my full figure. So what if I want to run and hide right now?
“The feeling’s mutual,” he growls.
And the sound is so freakin’ hot, so caveman like, my ovaries seem to quiver. Just because my body can’t control itself doesn’t mean I find him attractive. Nope, it doesn’t mean anything that I haven’t stopped thinking of him all these years.
I draw myself up to my full height. Not that it helps, considering I’m five-feet four-inches tall, and he’s a good foot taller than me. Still, this is my space. “This is my shop, and you need to leave.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option," he sneers.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You’re looking for a bailout.”
“Excuse me?” I gape at him.
“Your business is in trouble. You need money to pay off your debts.”
My flush intensifies. Heat crawls up my cheeks, all the way to the roots of hair, followed closely by anger. How dare he walk in and throw my failure in my face? How dare he not talk to me all these years, only to reappear at the worst possible moment? And right after my brother told me it was my destiny come-a-calling when the bell to the shop rang.
“Wait, did Ben put you up this?”
“Eh?” He stares at my lips. His gaze is so intent that the frisson of awareness, which has crackled up my spine since he arrived, flares into a full-blown shiver. I shake my head, ignoring the buzz of electricity that has always hummed between us. “Are you here because Ben asked you to help me out?”
A weird look comes into his eyes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m here because my grandfather is the chairman of the Davenport Group of companies, and he thinks your bakery would make for a good investment.”
“He does?”
“I’m yet to be convinced.” He crosses his arms across his chest.
So that’s how it's gonna be, eh?
He glances toward the counter, taking in the various desserts on display, and his frown deepens. I follow his gaze and take in the tray of cupcakes displayed: Sp1cy Scene, Red Room, Velvet Ties, Purple Patches, Cave Wonder, The Vanilla Vajayjay, The Earth Moved… You have to admit, they’re innovative names for the treats.
I named the first one in jest, but it proved to be a hot topic of discussion among fellow spicy book readers like me. Before I knew it, I'd ended up naming many of my desserts in a similar vein.
In fact, the dessert shaped like the backside of a woman and called Spanked is one that customers seem to love. Then there's my other hit, a chocolate cake shaped like a vibrator and called C!itasaurus. Yep, they love that one. Also, another raspberry-infused one in the shape of a peach called Moist Goodness, not to forget the honey-glazed fruit cake in the form of a beehive called the Honey Pot, and the strawberry and cream-topped, fig-shaped shortbread I named Sweet Bits. Finally, the doughnut-shaped dark chocolate glazed treat called—you guessed it—A1phah0le, which readers love when I cater at book events.
You’d think business is booming, and I certainly have my share of loyal customers, but it’s not enough to keep me in the black. I need to bring in new customers, and a lot more of them.
He stabs his forefinger at the display. "Is this a joke?"