Breathe Me: Smith and Belle (Royals Saga Book 11)

by Geneva Lee

  A bell tinkled as I opened the door and stepped inside. Behind the far counter, a woman looked up in surprise from the register.

  “Early start,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Baby formula,” I said, looking around. “It’s a bit of an emergency actually.”

  She circled the counter quickly, leading me to the small cache of infant supplies in the shop. “What kind?”

  “I have no idea.” I’d never felt so helpless. Penny’s screams were still ringing in my ears. I could only think of bringing her what she needed. “My wife was nursing her, but there was no milk this morning. She won’t stop screaming.”

  “In that case.” She piled a few canisters into her arms. “We can troubleshoot later, but let’s get you home.” She carried them to the counter and began ringing them up, peppering me with questions as she did. “Did she try pumping?”

  “Yes. This morning,” I said, feeling another wave of frustration.

  “Did her period start up again? That can affect some women,” she said.

  “I don’t think so. Our daughter is only two months old.”

  “There are some herbs she can try. Give the baby a bottle but have her keep putting her to the breast to feed,” she advised. “She should keep pumping and take warm showers.”

  I made mental notes as she rattled off suggestion after suggestion. I gave her a grateful smile as she handed me a bag. I’d turned to leave when I remembered the herbs.

  “The herbs?” I said. I yanked the tin of tea out of my pocket. “She was taking this. Should she try something else, too?”

  She picked up the tin and pried off the lip, lowering her nose to sniff it. Her eyes widened in surprise. “This is what she’s been drinking?”

  “Yes, I think she got it here.” I cursed myself for not paying more attention.

  “Mint. Sage.” She sniffed again. “Nettle. This would dry up her milk supply. We usually give it to mothers who want to wean...or mothers who’ve lost…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “There must have been a mistake. Maybe she asked for the wrong one.”

  I closed my eyes. “She’s been drinking it constantly. The doctor told her the baby needed to gain weight.”

  “Have her do all the things I told you.” She pulled another tin out. “She should drink this one. It will taste a bit like licorice. That’s the one she wants, if she still wants to nurse.”

  “Thank you,” I called, grabbing the tea tin. The Range Rover’s wheels spun on the frost still covering the streets as I hauled ass back toward Thornham. It had all been a stupid mistake, and she was paying the price for it. I wouldn’t let her feel guilty. Maybe something could be done, if she wanted. I’d just passed the village entrance when the speakers rang with an incoming call. I punched accept.

  “Now’s not a good time.”

  “Where are you?” Georgia’s harsh voice cut in. “You sound like you’re driving.”

  “I had to run to the village.” I didn’t bother to fill her in on the particulars. I doubted she would care.

  “I’m on my way to you,” she said.

  “Christmas was yesterday,” I said dryly.

  “Funny,” she said, not sounding the least bit amused. We’d never been the caroling around the piano types, so I doubted her sudden visit had anything to do with the holidays.

  I turned down the country lane at the Thornham sign, the road instantly becoming a bumpy, dirt path. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, first, tell your wife to call her best friend back before Clara has a stroke.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “She’s been trying to reach her for weeks, and I had to stop Clara from getting in the car and driving from Scotland to Sussex. She’s worried about her.”

  “Tell her Edward’s with her,” I said. “That should calm her down.”

  “Probably,” Georgia admitted.

  “Why are you coming?” I asked as Thornham came into view.

  “It’s about your house,” she said grimly. “I got the file. I think you could use someone there to help you look into this locally.”

  A chill raced across the back of my neck like a single icy finger had pressed against it. “What did you find?”

  “We’ll figure it out. See you tonight.” She hung up before I could get any real answers from her.

  Georgia had seen the closed report—the one Longborn hadn’t wanted to give her. Now Georgia was on her way to Briarshead. That wasn’t a good sign. I was trying to decide how to tell Belle that we’d have another visitor when I pulled up to the house and saw the front door open.

  I threw on the SUV’s parking brake, grabbed my shopping bag, and raced up the front steps in a panic. I couldn’t deny it any longer. This was about more than Belle or me. There was something about Thornham that wasn’t right. I wasn’t a man who believed in ghosts. Not the kind you found in darkened hallways, at least. I knew well enough of the ghosts we all carried in our memories. But nothing had been right since we moved here.

  When I reached the open door, I ran directly into Nora, who dropped the cup she was holding in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” I bit out as she bent to pick it up.

  “I just got here,” she said. “I went up to check on Belle.” She gathered the pieces into her palm.

  “Is she okay? She had a rough morning with Penny.” I didn’t have time to fill her in on more particulars. Georgia was on her way. The baby needed to be fed. And in the last few hours, my life had begun to crash down around me.

  “She’s not in her room.” Nora shrugged. “She probably went for a walk. Where’s the baby?”

  “Edward has her in the nursery,” I told her. I passed her the bag. “I have no idea how to make one of these. Can you?”

  She peeked inside to find the formula and a few bottles the pharmacist had sent along. “Of course.”

  She hurried off, and I was grateful not to waste more time with questions. I climbed the stairs, preparing myself to relay all the information that has been dumped on me in the last half hour. Stepping into the nursery, I found it empty.

  I backed up, looking around. I took a few steps down the hall and banged on Edward’s door. He opened it, a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Where’s Penny?” I asked, but I didn’t wait for an answer.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled. “She fell asleep. Belle came in and took her to lie down.”

  I raced back to the nursery, my eyes landing on an empty crib. I already knew what I’d find when I went to the master bedroom. An empty bed. An empty bassinet.

  Edward was still yelling when I rushed down the stairs. I flew past Nora, who came running after me with a bottle. Rowan appeared coming from the direction of Belle’s new offices, carrying a bag of sod over his shoulders. He’d stubbornly insisted on working on the landscaping around it even mid-winter.

  “You look like the devil’s after you,” he called.

  “Have you seen my wife?”

  “Not this morning. I just came from the stables…”

  His words stole the last hope I had. I ran in the opposite direction. Belle didn’t know the grounds like I did, but somehow—and I couldn’t explain it—I knew exactly where she was.

  The pond sat almost a kilometer away from the main house. I was vaguely aware of others coming behind me. When the pond finally came into sight, I hesitated only a moment before sprinting forward. She was there, her back turned to me, blonde hair whipping in the wind. I was a few meters away when I realized she wasn’t standing on its bank.

  “Belle,” I called, scared I would startle her, scared she would walk farther onto the ice. “Beautiful!”

  Penny’s screams carried through the air, and fear seized me. I’d never known fear until that moment, watching my world on that thin sheet of ice. Belle finally turned and I beckoned her closer. “Beautiful, come to me.”

  Her eyes were hollow again—a ghost’s eyes—then she blinked, startling with confusion.
/>   “Careful,” I warned. “Just walk towards me.”

  Her eyes flickered in fear to the ice below her and she tightened her grip on Penny. “Smith? Where…?”

  I couldn’t risk stepping on to the ice to bring her back to safety. She had to come to me, but she didn’t move. Behind us, there were distant shouts. Our eyes locked on each other and everything else faded away.

  “Forever, beautiful,” I reminded her, my promise becoming entreaty.

  Please God, don’t take my forever. Don’t take my heart. Don’t take my world.

  “Please,” I begged her, holding out my hand. “Please come back to me.”

  There was no command in my voice. I wasn’t ordering her. I was begging for my life out there on that barely frozen pond.

  Belle slid her foot forward, her chest heaving as the next followed. Her eyes stayed trained on me, and I urged her forward with my hand extended. Time slowed until there was only her and me and our heartbeats. Her fingers closed over mine and time shot forward. Penny’s cries flooded the air along with shouts and a terrible splintering pop below our feet. I grasped her wrist, wrenching her off the ice, away from danger, back to me. She crashed into my arms, a thunderclap booming behind us as the ice gave way where she’d just stood.

  “Smith,” she sobbed my name, clutching me, Penny pressed between us wailing. “Smith…”

  I looked into her wide eyes and found the fear pounding inside me there.

  “Help me,” she pleaded. “I don’t know...why…”

  The ice collapsed behind us, sending the water trapped below cresting over the splintered pieces until there was hardly any of it left. I pressed her closer, whispering promises as I kissed the top of her head followed by Penny’s. They were safe, and nothing like this would have again. I wouldn’t allow it. I never thought it would come to this.

  But I would protect her from anything—even herself.

  Smith and Belle fight for answers and each other in the stunning conclusion to this duet, Break Me, book twelve in the Royals Saga.

  Available January 11, 2021.

  Break Me

  We thought our lives were starting, but our nightmare is just beginning.

  Belle changed me. She made me a better man. But I’ll have to accept the monster I once was if I’m going to protect our future.

  Because we’ve let something dark into our home, but it won’t break us. Nothing—and no one—will come between us. No matter what sins I have to commit.

  If you enjoyed this passionate, emotional romance, you’ll love my new book, Blacklist. Sterling Ford never had a home. Adair MacLaine spent her whole life wanting to run from hers. Five years ago, one night sparked a wildfire that ravaged both their lives and turned love to hate.

  Sterling didn’t stay. Adair didn’t leave. Now he’s back for what he abandoned: her.

  One-click BLACKLIST Now>

  The Rivals trilogy is complete and ready to binge! Keep reading for a sneak peek!

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  Rain splatters the succession of black Mercedes-Benzes and Bentleys arriving at the cemetery. Everyone in attendance pulled their most somber sedans out of the garage this morning. There are no flashy red coupes or ostentatious sport utility vehicles today. Rich people know how to put on a show, and today is all about show. But despite the dark clothes and the umbrellas, not a single tear rolls down a single face as attendees climb out of their cars and make their way toward his grave site. The rain cares more than anyone present, myself included.

  A woman stumbles, her heel catching in the mud, and my arm shoots out to break her fall. She glances up, murmuring thanks. Everything is gray around us—the sky, the rain, the headstones. Even her copper hair looks almost silver in the clouded light. The world is a hundred muted shades of nothing, except her eyes. They are bright glittering emeralds against the day’s gloom. Even after five years, I’d know them anywhere. A lot has changed. I’ve changed. Maybe she has, too. But those eyes are the same.

  Nothing registers on her face as she turns to accept the hand of her companion. He leads her to the front of the crowd, where she belongs. With them.

  I skipped the service and the viewing. I’m not here to pay my respects. I came to see him put in the ground. I came to smell the dirt as it hits his coffin and seals the fate of the MacLaine family. Business can be attended to later. I want the pleasure of watching a man fade to nothing but a legacy—a legacy I intend to destroy. But that’s not the real reason I’m here. It’s a perk that I made it back to town in time for the funeral.

  A priest says a few words. The rain continues to fall. When the ceremonial dirt hits the coffin, I’m watching the redhead. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. I guess she didn’t change after all.

  Adair MacLaine.

  The only woman I’ve ever loved.

  That bitch? She’s the real reason I came back.

  An hour later, I pull into the paved, circular drive of Windfall, the MacLaine family estate, and hand the keys of my Aston Martin to a parking attendant. Judging by the slight bulge protruding from the left side of his cheap blazer, he’s doubling as security. He scopes out the Vanquish appreciatively before his eyes skim over my Italian wool suit, pausing at the Breitling on my wrist and sweeping to the black Berlutis on my feet. Nodding toward the house, he steps to the side. It seems the only identification they’re checking is material status.

  That’s a mistake.

  Mourners are distracted. Some by grief. Some by a preoccupation with social responsibility. The MacLaines suffer from the latter.

  People hosting a funeral have blind spots. Ever wanted to see inside someone’s house? A funeral is a perfect opportunity. Thieves, paparazzi, and assassins all know it’s an in. Need to get to a high value target? Kill someone close, but easier to reach, and wait for their funeral.

  Not that I killed Angus MacLaine. Even though I would have liked to. I’m guessing I’m not the only one.

  The former senator had no shortage of enemies. Some he’d made on his own. Others he had inherited along with the family newspaper empire. For every legitimate bit of journalism he had, he owned ten tabloids. His television networks ran more propaganda than an army recruitment office.

  But it wasn’t his business practices that made me hate him—although they didn’t help his case. It’s that he was a soulless son of a bitch. Maybe he’d had a heart at some point, but he sold it for a fortune that amassed five billion dollars. Then he’d gone to Washington to protect it at all costs, like his father before him. That was then. This is now. And I’m the devil come to collect.

  A smile crooks across my face as I survey the kingdom I’m about to take. The MacLaine estate sprawls as far as I can see in every direction. Thirty years ago, Angus MacLaine built it for a couple million dollars. Today it’s worth ten times that, and yesterday I bought the lien on it. I read once in an interview that he wanted his family home to recall the glory of the Old South without all the baggage of the past. I assume he meant slavery and the Civil War. It was just like a MacLaine to believe he could simply erase a problem. The architect had managed the feat, creating an estate that occupies fifty acres in Valmont, Tennessee—the most prestigious enclave outside Nashville. Stone columns rise from the veranda to support a second story porch that runs the len
gth of the main house’s front. Unlike traditional antebellum homes, the house extends to wings on each side. The east wing houses the family bedrooms and private areas—places I was once not allowed to enter. The west wing is comprised of a solarium that empties into the grounds. Those are completely blocked by the behemoth white mansion, but I know it won’t have changed. Past the outdoor kitchen waits a swimming pool, tiled in Venetian glass. His and hers pool houses offer a much needed, if entirely bullshit, air of propriety. Then there’s the tennis court, and, if you walk far enough, stables that shelter the family horses.

  I don’t give a fuck about the house, though. Or its tennis court. Or its swimming pool. I’m not here for the modern art coveted by collectors throughout the world. I’ll sell all of it, eventually. Just not yet. That’s the difference between reciprocity and revenge. Reciprocity evens the score. Revenge, when done correctly, is slow, like lovemaking. It lingers. It builds. It lacquers pain, coat by coat, until you crack.

  I’m in the business of vengeance.

  The inside of Windfall is more extravagant. MacLaine was unfamiliar with the concept of too much. Most American homes could be parked on the marble floor inside the foyer. The ground floor boasts all the standard rooms—the dining room, a sitting room, the kitchen—and then some: a ballroom, the staff kitchen, the breakfast room, a gentlemen’s parlor, and God knows what else. I stare for a moment at the split staircase that curves toward the upper rooms, remembering the first time I set foot in this hellhole. Adjusting my tie, I swallow the thought into the pit I use for past memories.