CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
The fact they’ve kept it to kissing is the only reason Lachlan still has the strength not to follow Jules to his room after they say goodnight, tension unbearably thick between them. The threads pick up when Jules’ heartbeat goes wild twenty minutes after Lachlan leaves him for the night.
He could tune into the sound if he wanted, but he never does.
There are limits.
There have to be.
Lachlan feels like he’s leading a double life.
But the balance holds, just about.
Then Savannah Alderwyck turns twenty-one in late July, and this is where Lachlan learns the true meaning of a clusterfuck.
?
Alistair Penhalyx is returning to the Estate.
There’s no official word as to why, though Lachlan suspects it has something to do with Savannah’s upcoming birthday after Vasily casually mentions it. He asks Carrigan more than once during their morning briefing if there’s confirmation of an approaching event.
She shrugs and says, ‘You’ll know when you need to.’
‘I always need to know,’ Lachlan replies, dislikes the attitude entirely. ‘Estate security may not be his priority, but it’s mine.’
‘It’s Mr Penhalyx’s Estate. We’re at his disposal.’
Priscilla Carrigan has started dressing differently lately, expensive clothes, new jewellery, hair styled every morning, makeup carefully done.
She looks beautiful. Polished in a way Lachlan barely recognises and wouldn’t particularly care about if it weren’t for comments like this, little moments that make him stop and seriously question whether he still trusts her at all.
‘Do we have a guestlist at least?’
Carrigan sighs. ‘Let it go, Lachlan.’
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
He won’t.
He remembers Savannah’s pale face when her own bodyguard turned, and Lachlan had to kill him. He knows how stupid these fucking rich people are, how they invite danger and place the blame elsewhere when it all goes wrong.
Lachlan settles in for the rest of their daily rundown.
‘Heard.’
?
Lachlan briefs his teams, tightens security more than necessary around the Estate and preps Danya for the worst, assuming some extravagant party will be held here last minute and they’ll be left scrambling.
He finds a spare few minutes to speak with Sergei Zaitsev, who typically operates from Control with Rook. Zaitsev is tall, sharp and quiet.
‘Can we speak privately?’ Lachlan asks when they’re already in an empty room in the South Wing, just below central.
He watches as the older man, only by a year or two, grips his handset and focuses on it, then presses the transmit button and holds it down.
Faint static crackles in Lachlan’s earpiece.
It’s like an advanced version of the trick he used to pull when speaking privately with Blaire.
‘One minute of wraparound.’ His accent is heavier than Danya’s. ‘You have come to ask me?’
‘Yes, but I think I know anyway,’ Lachlan says, eyes on the handset.
‘Understood.’
‘Is Jules like you?’
Lachlan watches Zaitsev roll his eyes. ‘Sort of, yes.’
‘Why sort of?’
‘All very different, Tanner,’ Zaitsev informs him. ‘Not all the same. Just as you are a killer, so I am killer too, but I do not have your good aim, yes? I use different weapons.’
‘But he is a… a Paranatural?’
‘That name was made to stoke hatred and fear,’ Zaitsev intones seriously, dark eyes flashing. ‘Do not use it.’
‘Brightling, then. Is he a Brightling?’
‘There is a very strong presence in this place. Your boy is clever, hides well, sneaky, but if you suspect, then yes, is him.’
Lachlan runs a hand through his hair. ‘What can I do to help him with it?’
‘Emotions,’ Sergei says very clearly, ‘are triggers, connections to power. Spectrum showed me how they force it out. They use pain and trauma like lightning to bring things to life. Safety is good, calm is good, fear is dangerous for all. Contact is best.’
‘What does that mean? Contact?’
Zaitsev pats his shoulder, grips it. ‘Hug. Cuddle. Good contact. Helps to… Uspokoit’ nervy.’ He taps two fingers against his chest. ‘Regulirovat nervnuyu sistemu. You understand?’
‘Regulate the nervous system,’ Lachlan echoes in English, nodding to himself. ‘What else?’
‘Control is essential.’
‘He already has control. He can use it at will.’
‘For what?’
‘He can disable tracking.’
Zaitsev frowns deeply. ‘The boy is too young to know that.’
‘Well he fucking does it. What about the…’ Lachlan casts back to Fenwick’s rambling that night. ‘Hypo… Hypochlor…’
‘Hypochlorite?’
‘Yeah. What does that do?’
‘That is not control, it is removal.’ Zaitsev shrugs and gives a tiny smug smile. ‘It did not work on all of us.’
‘What else do I need to know? Is there a way I can help him understand? What about physical stuff?’
‘No idea.’ Zaitsev whacks Lachlan’s arm. ‘Good luck.’
He releases the transmit button and walks away.
Lachlan curses under his breath.
?
Lachlan trusts Danya Yashin as much as he can trust anyone who is not Blaire Montbelliard.
It would be unforgivable stupidity to fully trust anyone in this house who is not her, but Lachlan has to trust a handful of people for this to work.
He and Danya develop a code to speak in.
It’s very subtle, and it helps them to talk openly about certain things without needing to switch to Russian which draws attention.
The bubble Lachlan was so determined to build when he first got involved here now becomes pure glass, invisible to the eye, stronger than before but infinitely more dangerous if broken.
He can work this job, protect the kids from more than just outside attacks and prepare to get them away before Jules turns twenty-one.
Lachlan knows it, but he has to trust people.
Alistair and his entourage arrive two days before Savannah’s birthday. Lachlan is still very much in the dark, despite asking Carrigan twice daily if there’s any update.
Danya has not met with Penhalyx yet and Lachlan would much rather keep it that way but knows it’s inevitable down the road.
For now, the arrival lands like a stone on a millpond and everyone adjusts to the ripples, although it is, Lachlan thinks, the smoothest arrival so far because he’s been preparing everyone so much in advance.
No one wants a repeat of the previous summer.
Lachlan meets him on the landing pad, shakes his hand and walks him inside.
Carrigan is there speaking with Maddox as they enter.
Lachlan notices her offer Alistair her hand, only for him to bypass her entirely and bring his assistant forward to deal with her instead.
Technically, it isn’t a snub. Men like Alistair Penhalyx rarely acknowledge anyone they don’t consider directly relevant but Lachlan sees Carrigan quietly take it like one.
‘Has the new surveillance been fully implemented Estate-wide?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent.’
Mimi is out of sight playing in her Tower with Blaire.
Jules, Lachlan suspects, will be called into the office soon, so he’s nearby in the West Wing, dressed sharply.
Lachlan would know, he did his tie that morning while he told Jules in a quiet, entreating voice that everything had to stop now that his father is here.
Jules had agreed, seemed serious enough but then after the tie was tied, his mouth was on Lachlan’s and then Jules’ back was up against the wall, making desperate little noises while Lachlan lost himself to the swirling upswing of pure sugar-soaked madness that is kissing Jules fucking Penhalyx, and he’d messed up his hair and he had wanted to fuck him so bad that the word fuck doesn’t even apply, it’s gone all the way back around to love, love, love as a verb and he’s half hard just thinking about it right now, which is a bad fucking sign.
Alistair asks for a tour of the improvements.
‘I can show you, sir,’ Carrigan offers.
‘No,’ he simply says, glancing at Lachlan, who takes him from wing to wing, displaying each new innovation. ‘Fantastic,’ he intently praises just once. ‘Let’s take lunch together. Bring my son.’
It happened twice during the bad summer last year. Alistair spent a mealtime with his children, both were lunches. Lachlan recalls how agonisingly awkward it was for everyone.
Carrigan steps in. ‘Sir, would you like me to—?’
‘Speak with Maddox,’ Alistair tells her without looking at her once.
Lachlan goes to collect Jules from where he’s waiting in the library. It’s deathly quiet inside, overwhelmingly musty no matter how often it’s cleaned and aired. Jules is in the back, reading.
He looks up when Lachlan approaches.
The catch of their eyes is an electric thrill.
Lachlan works to hide the way his throat bobs.
Alistair Penhalyx is here now.
This has to stop.
‘Your father will take lunch with you,’ Lachlan says.
Jules looks around.
There’s no one else in here.
Lachlan almost wishes that there was.
‘How’s his mood?’
‘Fine. We need to—’ Jules’ previously crossed leg lifts to press in-between Lachlan’s, foot finding the middle of his ass cheeks to perfectly hook him forward. ‘Jules.’
‘Bodyguard.’
‘Stop it.’
‘But I need you to take my pulse. I don’t feel so good,’ he murmurs, all saccharine and falsely sweet with that bright glint in his honey eyes that spells trouble.
Lachlan’s chest contracts, head swimming as Jules draws him closer, wriggles and manoeuvres until Lachlan is standing over Jules in the chair and then he pulls him down to straddle. ‘Aren’t you supposed to keep me safe?’
Lachlan’s lips are parted to provide boundaries and barriers, to shut this shit down but Jules seizes the opportunity.
Lachlan gasps when their mouths collide.
Jules moans softly, his hands roaming over Lachlan’s shoulders, down his sides where it gentles, tracing the three wounds that healed fine, and then Jules’ hand reaches its final destination, rubbing up and down over Lachlan’s cock, the heel of his hand grinding.
Lachlan didn’t even realise he was kissing him back until he feels that, and it jolts him hard. ‘Stop,’ he mutters against Jules’ lips, already pulling away but Jules doubles down, stands with him and won’t let go.
‘Call me baby.’
‘This is so fucking—’