24. Jamison
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JAMISON
Dinner was canceled by God or lightning. I preferred to believe both had finally taken an interest in my survival.
The storm broke over the Bellemere estate just before six, cutting across the lake in white flashes. Thunder rolled hard enough to make the glass walls of House Alder hum.
Across the estate, the main house lost terrace access, and, most importantly, ruined, the first official Bellemere family dinner.
I stood in the lounge with a cigarette between my fingers, watching lightning tear open the sky, and felt a peace so deep it bordered on religious.
“Find out who owns the grid,” I said.
Reeves stood near the kitchen island, reviewing dinner instructions from the estate staff because apparently a canceled dinner still required twelve different kinds of logistics.
“The weather grid?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“The regional atmospheric stabilization grid?”
“That would be the one controlling the weather currently saving me from soup with Sienna’s father.”
Reeves lifted his eyes from the tablet. “Weather grids do not control storms with that level of simplicity.”
“That sounds evasive.”
“It’ sounds factual.”
“Facts are often evasive when delivered by people trying to ruin my mood.”
Thunder cracked again.
Sienna had gone upstairs to change after the doctor left. The official instruction had been rest, warmth, fluids, and monitoring. The doctor had also said she should avoid stress. I had chosen to interpret that as an order to keep every Bellemere away from her until sunrise.
Possibly longer.
Ideally, forever.
My phone sat on the coffee table with three missed calls from her father, two from Adrian, one from Julian. A message from the retreat coordinator containing the words rescheduled welcome dinner.
I deleted it without opening the rest.
Reeves saw.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“You cannot remove the dinner from existence by deleting the message.”
“Watch me.”
“You are a guest here.”
“I am a hostage, Reeves.”
“A hostage that arrived unwanted and stayed willingly, sir.”
Reeves’s expression shifted by one degree. With him, that counted as mutiny.
Fucking Bellemeres. Ruining my life one managed event at a time.
“Sir, Crows are forbidden from manipulating weather infrastructure because they dislike archery and long-table dining.”
“Forbidden by whom?”
“Crow internal law.”
I frowned. “Since when do we have internal law against useful weather?”
“Since Damius used hail to ruin a Caplan marriage.”
I turned my head slowly. “He did what?”
“Allegedly,” Reeves said. “The hail began during the vows, destroyed the floral canopy, injured a bishop, terrified the horses, and delayed the merger by eight years.”
My cigarette paused near my mouth.
For once, Damius had provided a model of leadership.
“That old bastard has range.”
“He also created tribunal exposure that took eleven months to suppress. The weather grid has governance locks now.”
The rain beat harder against the glass, as if the sky agreed with me.
My plan had been simple.
Arrive. Avoid every fucking activity on the schedule. Keep Sienna locked in this cabin with me until I figured out how to make her stop thinking I wanted a way out of her life.
In my head, it stayed ugly and honest.
I wanted her here. In this room. On this couch. In the bed. Close enough to monitor, touch, feed, frustrate, calm, and possess with a level of attention that would probably get me compared to Marcel if Harrison ever learned enough to run his mouth.
That was the worrying part.
I understood desire with women in clubs, the structure had edges. Sir existed behind closed doors with rules agreed before anyone’s pulse climbed.
Sienna would never be an ending. With her, I wanted twenty-four hours and every room after it.
I wanted to know every body ache after rehearsal. I wanted to decide who came near her when she was tired. I wanted my ring on her hand, my name over every legal document that had ever treated her as a transferable clause, my mouth against her.
My body kept wanting Daddy from her.
That was the dangerous word.
Sir belonged to rooms.
Daddy belonged to life.
And God help me, I preferred Daddy.
Fuck.
I was turning into Marcel.
I looked back at the storm.
The memory of her on my lap returned with brutal clarity.
Wet hair. Torn blue fabric. Wide eyes. Her hands on me. Her naked and shaking under my jacket, trusting me enough to breathe when I told her how.
My cock, which had apparently recovered from the trauma faster than my soul, approved of the memory with enthusiasm.
“Unhelpful,” I muttered.
Reeves looked up. “Sir?”
“Nothing.”
The stairs made a soft sound.
I turned before I meant to.
Sienna came down slowly, one hand trailing along the rail. She had changed into a summer dress I was beginning to hate for religious reasons.
Pale peach. Thin straps tied on her shoulders.
A loose bodice that skimmed her chest and gathered under her breasts, then fell soft around her thighs.
The hem reached mid-thigh. The fabric looked light enough to tear with two fingers.
One bow sat high on her shoulder. Another at the opposite strap. Her hair had dried in loose dark waves.
My dick approved.
My entire fucking bloodline approved.
I took a long drag from my cigarette and turned back toward the storm because looking at her dress too long would lead to crime.
“Dinner is canceled,” I said.
“I heard.”
She reached the bottom step. Moving carefully, though she tried to hide it.
I hated every person who helped train that into her.
Several of them were related to her. That complicated dinner.
More reason to keep the storm.
“I’m arranging additional weather,” I said.
She stopped halfway into the lounge. “Additional weather?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze moved to Reeves, then back to me. “What does that mean?”
“It means I am investigating whether Crow holdings have enough influence over the regional grid to extend this storm.”
“For how long?”
“Three weeks.”
Reeves closed his eyes for one second.
Sienna stared at me. Then she looked outside, where lightning flashed over the lake and rain slapped the terrace in silver sheets.
“You want it to rain for the entire retreat?”
“Want is a shallow word.”
“Jamison.”
“What?”
“This is my summer vacation.”
The storm suddenly felt less perfect.
Annoying.
Emotional growth had arrived uninvited.
Reeves put the tablet down. “Crow administrative authority cannot be used to destroy Miss Bellemere’s holiday because you dislike group dining.”
“I dislike many things.”
“I am aware, sir.”
“Group dining ranks high.”
“Sienna’s vacation ranks higher.”
I turned my head slowly. “Did you just rank my priorities for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Munitiy again.
Sienna’s lips pressed together. She was trying very hard to hide amusement.
“I own men who own pieces of that grid,” I said.
“You do,” Reeves agreed. “Those men enjoy remaining out of inquiry courts. Manipulating an estate weather pattern for personal irritation would be traceable.”
“Only if done poorly.”
“Your name tends to make poorly unnecessary. People look harder.”
Sienna’s eyes flicked between us. “You were seriously considering this.”
“I was preparing options.”
“You were preparing to ruin my family retreat with rain.”
“Only the first week.”
“Three weeks,” Reeves said.
I looked at him again.
He looked back calmly. “You said three weeks.”
“Confidentially.”
“Miss Bellemere asked.”
“I did.” Sienna folded her arms, which did devastating things to the neckline of that dress. “And I’m against it.”
“Noted.”
Her brows lifted. “You’re listening to me?”.
Slowly, Sienna lowered her arms. Her suspicion came back. I hated that I had made obedience from me so strange it startled her.
“Yes,” I said.
The color in her cheeks deepened. Her arms folded lightly across herself, and that only made the fabric pull tighter across her chest.
I looked at the storm.
Self-preservation, apparently, had entered my skill set very late. I dragged smoke into my lungs until the thought lost a little heat.
A little.
Reeves moved around the kitchen, unpacking the dinner sent from the main house. An activity above him. He was monitoring me and not admitting to it.
Sienna drifted toward the kitchen, lowering her voice as if the lounge had walls between us.
It did not.
Open plan. Beautifully useless for secrets. The storm covered their voices enough that a better man might have given them privacy.
I was not a better man.
“Reeves?”
“Kitchen, Miss Bellemere?”
“Was Jamison in an accident while I was gone?”
My brow tightened.
Reeves paused. “No, Miss Bellemere.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I left Harlan days ago. Something could have happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
“A car accident?”
“No.”
“Head trauma?”
“No.”
I narrowed my eyes at the storm. Head trauma. Wonderful. I was attempting to become less of a bastard.
“He is acting strange,” she whispered.
“That depends on your definition of strange.”
“He is acting as though I exist.”
The cigarette burned between my fingers.
Reeves stayed quiet. The man understood when language became a blade with no safe handle.
“He has always been aware of you.” He said, finally.
My hand tightened around the cigarette until ash bent toward the tray.
“I think you should call his brothers,” she said.
“That may be unnecessary.”
“They would know what to do.”
“His brothers are well aware Jamison is fine.”
“No, tell them properly. Tell them Jamison Crow is willingly at a Bellemere retreat. Tell them he has spoken to me several times without being forced. Tell them he apologized. More than once.”
Reeves took a breath through his nose. “Perhaps the apology detail should remain confidential.”
“See? You’re worried too.”
“I am often worried in this employment.”
“I tried my tech, but the estate dampeners are stopping me from telling his family that something has happened to him.”
“Miss Bellemere,” Reeves said gently, “Jamison is in his rightful mind.”
“You swear?”
“I do.”
Sienna lowered her voice further. “Then why is he being kind?”
The question landed worse than the earlier sentence.
Acting as though I exist.
Why is he being kind?