“Thank you,” Beth said. “We look forward to hearing from you when there is news.”
As she swiped the END CALL, she glanced at the crossed-off numbers on her list. Last night, she and Nolan had seen a baby in the online files, so Beth had called the adoption agency today only to find the newborn already had a waiting list of interested people. Darned if the same wasn’t true with every single baby in the Florida system.
She wrote up her notes of the conversations for Nolan and set the pen down. Time for some fun.
Tucking her phone into her back pocket, Beth rose from the desk and frowned at the silence. Facebook had a meme about silent puppies meaning trouble. Over the past week, she’d learned that logic also applied to little boys.
She walked down the stairs and checked the clock. Four p.m. Nolan should be home soon. She needed to get some supper started. This evening, she’d update the scheduling for her clients, including Alastair and Max, and work on a new landscape design for a day spa. Nolan would probably take the boys out for some hide ‘n’ seek or something.
Juggling work and children made for interesting times. Thank goodness, her job was flexible, and her yard guys had been happy to pick up some extra hours. Nolan had been working shorter days, as well.
But for the joy of having the children around? She wouldn’t change a thing.
“Hey, guys.” She poked her head into their bedroom. No one there. “Grant? Connor? Where are you?”
No answer.
A quick search showed they weren’t in the house.
Frowning, she stepped out onto the covered patio. Empty. No sign of them in the yard. They weren’t by the pool or on the dock—which they shouldn’t be able to reach anyway. Relieved, she checked her potting shed on the left of the house. No one there. So she crossed to the right.
Voices. In Nolan’s workshop.
She opened the door. At the workbench, Connor stood on a small stepladder to be able to see. Grant was pushing a plug into the wall.
It’d turn on the bandsaw.
“Stop!”
Grant spun around. Connor tumbled off the ladder onto his butt.
Taking a shaky breath, she told herself to relax. Hopeless. All she could see was her cousin’s little finger—missing half because he’d been careless with his bandsaw. Her imagination provided Connor’s screams. God. She tried to calm herself, and her voice still came out too high and harsh. “You aren’t allowed in the workshop without a grownup.” She’d told them that when she’d shown them around. “Out.”
With a terrified squeak, Connor darted past her. Grant ran after him.
She followed them to the house. Easy, Beth. Stay calm. Rational.
Was she supposed to punish them because they’d disobeyed her? Oh heavens. Her dad would’ve swatted her butt, but she’d grown up knowing the rules. What kind of discipline was appropriate when a child was still new to a household? Even a timeout sounded too cruel.
They’d fled to their bedroom and closed the door.
She tapped, waited for a response, and opened the door when she didn’t get one.
In the corner, they were using the small table as a barricade. At least they weren’t hiding under the bed.
Rather than penning them in, she left the door open and leaned against the wall. “I know the workshop is filled with interesting equipment. But it’s not a safe place for children. That’s why I asked you to stay out of it.”
Connor’s chin quivered. His back was to the wall.
She moved forward. “Oh, honey, you’re safe. I’m not—”
Grant stepped in front of his brother. “Leave him alone! I won’t let you whip him, you-you bitch.”
Beth closed her eyes for a second, almost in tears herself. How had this gone so wrong? “Grant, I wouldn’t.”
“What’s up?” The ominous growl came from behind her. Nolan was home. He set a hand on her shoulder. Protectively.
“Don’t be mad at them.” She blocked him. “Grant’s just afraid and is protecting Connor.”
“What happened?” His gaze was level.
She didn’t answer soon enough, and he turned his attention to the boys. “Grant. What happened?”
Grant’s small hands closed into fists. “We went into the workhouse. To play.”
“With the equipment?” Nolan’s voice darkened.
Grant nodded. But didn’t move from in front of his brother. Such a little protector.
“I see.” Nolan considered. “Grant, walk with me. Beth, can you talk with Connor?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her automatic answer won her a brief tilt of his lips before he motioned to Grant and walked out of the room without waiting. So self-confident. He never doubted someone would obey him.
Grant moved toward the door, although she could see his reluctance. He was afraid to leave Connor with her, and a band of sadness squeezed her chest.
She curled her hand around his arm and slowed him long enough to whisper, “I won’t hurt Connor. Honey, I’ve never whipped anyone in my life, and I’m not going to start now.”
When she felt his muscles relax, she kissed the top of his head and nudged him into moving again.
As he disappeared, she took a seat on one bed, studying her bare feet. Giving both of them a chance to calm down.
After a minute, she glanced at Connor. His color had come back. He wasn’t flat against the wall. She patted the bed. “C’mon and sit beside me.”
Like a terrified kitten, he advanced with tiny, heartbreakingly tentative steps. Then he was on the bed—and didn’t run when she carefully tucked an arm around him.
When he leaned against her, her heart started to beat normally. Oh, Connor. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry, honey.” She swallowed. “I got upset because the bandsaw could have hurt you. I was really scared for you.”
Eyes the color of dark chocolate went wide. Had any child been more precious? Unable to help herself, she pulled him closer.
“Scared…for me?”
“Yes, for you.” She was still shaking, in fact. “Those saws can be dangerous. Let me tell you about my cousin.” A story—minus the gruesome details—was the finest way to give a warning and make real the danger.
“Okay.” When he rested his little head trustingly against her chest, relief and love tightened her throat so thoroughly she couldn’t speak at all.
In the great room, Grant saw Nolanman crossing the patio outside. He hurried to catch up.
His stomach felt funny, all shaky, and he wanted to go back to his brother. But Beth had said she wouldn’t hurt Connor. She’d said that. And her voice hadn’t been loud. Her eyes hadn’t been mad…no, she’d almost seemed as if she might cry.
Connor’d be okay.
The air was hot outside and the sun too bright, and Grant’s breathing was going all funny, too fast as if he’d been running. But Nolan was mad at him. And Nolan was awful big.
He followed the man down the sidewalk toward the lake. At the fence, Nolan punched in the numbers for the lock, opened the gate, and waited.
Carefully, Grant eased past him, and the gate closed behind them. Nolan walked out on the dock and settled into one of the old wooden chairs. He pointed to the other.
Feeling his chin start to tremble, Grant eyed him.
Nolanman had a hard face, and a big scar down one side. His eyes were black. Not mean like Jermaine’s, but not friendly like Beth’s, either. Not unless he smiled—or sometimes when he looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t.
He wasn’t smiling now. But he wasn’t shouting, either. Just…waiting.
Grant edged into the chair and stared at the rough wood of the dock.
At a sound, Grant jumped about a foot, but Nolan was only stretching his long legs out, and with a slow sigh, settling lower in the chair. He was awfully big and had muscles everywhere. Jermaine would look like a…a mouse next to Nolanman.
Grant wanted muscles everywhere.
“Guess you figured out that sneaking int
o the workshop isn’t a great idea.” Nolan’s voice wasn’t mad. It sounded like when he talked about baseball, or how to make a fist, or float in the pool.
Grant opened his mouth. Swallowed. If he spoke, would Nolan get really mad like Jermaine did? Only, sometimes Jermaine got mad even when Grant didn’t talk. “Answer me, you little shit.” Grant gripped the chair arms in case he needed to move quickly.
Nolan eyed him. “The best answer for me—if you agree—is, ‘Yes, sir.’ If you don’t understand, you say, ‘I don’t understand, sir.’ ” The long dent in his cheek got deeper, like it did when he didn’t quite smile. “I was in the military, so I like a lot of sirs.”
Grant sucked in air, like he hadn’t taken a breath in a long time. The right words…those were important. To know what to say to keep a grownup from yelling was good. “Yes, sir.”
“Very nice.”
Grant let go of the chair arms. His fingers hurt, and he opened and closed his hands.
“Later, we’ll discuss why I don’t want you in the workshop. But first, let’s talk about how men treat women in this house.”
Huh? Grant frowned and realized he knew the right words. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Sometimes a guy loses his temper and shouts at someone. That…happens, although it’s not good if you’re a lot bigger than the person you’re yelling at.” A corner of Nolanman’s mouth tilted up. “You’ve got a ways to go before you need worry. However, no matter your size, I don’t want to hear you call any woman a bitch—or any other nasty name.”
“But-but Jermaine said it to Mama all the time.”
Nolan’s mouth flattened. “I bet. But, Grant, did your pa call your mother ugly names?”
Grant blinked. Considered. Shook his head no. Daddy had called her sweet names. Honey. Sweetheart. Darling.
“Didn’t think so. Even if pissed off, good men—strong men—don’t call women nasty names.” He paused. “You’d probably rather grow up into a man like your father than an asshole like Jermaine, yeah?”
Grant stared at the wood planks. He’d called Beth a bitch—and sounded like Jermaine. Like asshole, douche Jermaine. His daddy wouldn’t call Beth a name. Not never. “I want to be like you and Daddy,” he whispered.
“Good man.”
Fear slid over Grant’s skin. Beth probably thought Jermaine was a douche, too. She’d never said anything, but Grant could tell. And just like Jermaine did with Mama, Grant had called Beth a bad name. Would she stop liking him now? His insides felt as if darkness was filling him up. “Will”—he gulped back a sob—“will Beth be mad at me?”
Nolan’s dark eyes met his. “Tiger, everyone screws up sooner or later and hurts someone he loves. Time for another lesson.” He rose and clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let’s get some lemonade, and we’ll talk about the manly art of apologizing to a woman.”
Chapter Ten
On Sunday, storm clouds had rolled in around suppertime and finally rumbled into a pleasant evening rain. As the drops pattered against the roof and window, Beth let herself out of the children’s room, closed the door, and indulged in a muscle-easing stretch. Since she’d shifted most of her outdoor work hours to the weekends when Nolan could be home with the kids, she’d spent most of today weeding and planting.
Working on Sundays meant she hadn’t been home—again—when Alyssa did her therapy visit. The boys had told her how they’d played with their trucks on the patio while the therapist had worked on Nolan’s shoulder. Beth huffed a laugh, imagining the lush submissive trying to be seductive with the boys making truck noises a few feet away.
Thanks, guys.
They should sleep well tonight, after a big supper of Nolan’s spaghetti, an active game of hide ‘n’ seek, soapy baths, and story time. They’d conked out halfway through the third picture book.
Tired boys. She smiled slightly. To her surprise, they’d actually been more relaxed since the fiasco of them sneaking into the shop. Maybe because they’d misbehaved and nothing horrible had happened to them. She’d feared that Connor would never trust her again; instead, he’d cried in her arms.
Later, with Nolan beside him, hand on his shoulder, Grant had given her a lovely apology and, chin trembling, whispered, “Don’t hate me.” When she’d held out her arms, he’d blindly stumbled forward and clung to her, shaking. Hate? Hardly. God, she loved them both.
They were such good boys, and would be good men…if they had someone like Nolan to show them how. Maybe Drusilla would let her and Nolan stay part of their lives?
Heart feeling bruised, she walked into the empty kitchen. The dishwasher was running, and the counters had been wiped down. Nolan must be outside; her Master loved watching the rain.
Quietly, she walked out the French doors to the covered patio, and there he was in a chair, bare feet up on another. The rain-cooled wind whipped at her hair, carrying the faint taste of brine from the Gulf.
He motioned to a well-filled wine glass on the table. “Figured you earned some alcohol. How many stories did you read them?”
“Just two. And a half.” She picked up the drink, but frowned at the sandwich beside it. “I hope this is for you. I’m still full from supper.”
“You need to eat, sugar. You’re still underweight.”
“My weight is coming back up.” She’d been planning to talk to him about his almost obsessive urging her to eat more. “And I’m not hungry.”
“Take a few bites anyway.” He shook his head. “I should be horsewhipped for leaving you alone all summer. Fucking stupid of me. I didn’t—”
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do.” That Sir should feel he’d let her down was intolerable. She worked to keep her voice even. Reasonable. “Raoul asked you to supervise the construction, and it was the right thing to do. They needed you there.”
“You needed me here. Protecting you is my—”
“No, Master.” His remorse simply broke her heart. She wouldn’t let him feel guilty for being away. Not ever. “I’m not a child. If I have a few nightmares and lose a few pounds, it won’t be the first time.” Regret lowered her voice. “It won’t be the last either.” Like with a gravel road, the ruts Kyler’s abuse had created in her mind would have to be graded out whenever she had a bad episode.
Nolan leaned his forearms on his thighs and pinned her with a resolute gaze. “I don’t think of you as a child, but as your Dom, I have obligations to you.”
“Yes, you do. Of course, as your submissive, I have obligations to you, as well. Are you angry with me because I didn’t bring you lunch at work on Friday? Or because I was late getting home, and you cooked supper and cleaned up the kitchen afterward? Oh, and you didn’t get any sex last night. Should I feel guilty for that?”
His smile flickered before he reached for his beer. “You’re so sweet I forget you have a temper that’d put a rodeo bull to shame.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You, Sir, are evading the issue. I lost weight. You feel guilty. So you’re trying to get me to eat. Honey, I’m stronger than you think—and I’d rather you just lose the guilt.”
His sexy, rough laugh bounced off the patio walls and rolled out into the night. “Yes, ma’am. I will, ma’am.” Filled with his intimidating self-confidence, his deep gravelly voice didn’t sound submissive in the least. He held his hand out.
“That’s better. Subbie.” She haughtily took his hand.
He yanked her right into his lap.
As she curled against him, he was all hardness and heat, his scent compellingly masculine. When he gripped her hair and angled her head to take her mouth, she had no doubt which of them was in charge, no matter how many ma’ams she might hear.
Nevertheless, her Master had listened to her, and if she’d eased a bit of his senseless guilt, she’d call it a win.
Arm supporting her shoulders, he cupped the back of her head, intensifying the kiss, his lips firm, his tongue insistent, a determined assault on her senses. When he gr
owled and tipped her farther, forcing her to depend on him for support, a hum of arousal started low in her pelvis.
Lifting his head, he smiled down at her, undoubtedly knowing her brains had seeped right out of her skull and onto the concrete.
What had they been talking about anyway?
Her hip rested against a wonderfully thick erection. Under her bra, his callused, powerful hand cupped her breast. A shiver ran through her at the dark promise in his eyes. “Master,” she whispered.
“Now, about that night of sex I missed…”
Chapter Eleven
On Monday evening, the doorbell rang. Perhaps just as well, Nolan thought. Grant was slaughtering him on Xbox to the cheers of Connor and Beth. His li’l subbie was going to pay for her disloyalty. Tonight. In a myriad of carnal ways.
Nolan opened the front door, and a wrecking ball flattened his cheerful mood. “Price. What are you doing here?”
“I have bad news for the boys.” Price tugged his brown suitcoat straight. “I need to see them.”
“What bad news?” Hell. He knew. Every morning, he called the hospital to check on Drusilla. Today, the nurse had warned Drusilla wasn’t doing well. He and Beth had discussed taking the kids to say farewell, but seeing their mother comatose, gray-faced, and hooked up to tubes wouldn’t be good for the children. Instead, they’d tried to explain how ill she was. “Drusilla?”
“Yes. She died a couple of hours ago.” Price glanced at his watch. “I don’t have much time before my next appointment.”
His next appointment was probably with his supper table. Nolan didn’t move. “Can I trust you to break it to them gently, or should Beth and I handle this?”
The asshole’s lips thinned. “It’s my job.”
Protecting His Own (Masters of the Shadowlands Book 11) Page 11