Serenity's Key

by Charlotte E Hart

  “I am as disturbed by you as I am she.”

  I keep my chin up, tilting my head to show I’m not overly pleased with his response and gaze into my emerald eyes until he eventually rips them from me to look back at his mother. Something is definitely wrong.

  “Thomas, are you and Ruebin packed?” I ask, still looking at Pascal’s arse and watching his tension increase exponentially.

  “We never unpacked,” he replies as he gets up.

  “Good. Can you get whatever you need and meet us downstairs? Take Ruebin with you.”

  There’s a small moment where Thomas seems unsure of what to do. He hovers, swinging his eyes between the only other two people in the room as if he’s watching a tennis match. Presumably, he’s waiting for Pascal to tell him to comply with my request. He doesn’t. He just keeps on staring at his mother.

  “Thomas,” I snap out, dragging his attention back to me. “Stuff—get it and go. We’ll be down in ten minutes with Claire.” He narrows his eyes at me, looking every inch Pascal’s nephew and causing me to chuckle inwardly at the similarities between them. He even looks the same now in his suits with his perfectly styled hair. He’s not quite as well built, but I can imagine it’ll come with time. It won’t be long at all before he becomes scarier in his demeanour. He just needs some years behind him so that I believe those darkening eyes, which, at present, I do not. Besides, I sleep with a real villain, don’t I? Thomas is a child in comparison to Pascal. “Please, Thomas. Go.”

  He huffs at me, displaying the child he is, and then follows Ruebin from the room. I look back at my troubled man and try to hear what he’s thinking. There’s nothing going on. He’s just silent and as still as he was when I first walked in.

  A few minutes later, both Ruebin and Thomas reappear with their suitcases and leave. Thomas looks once more at his uncle before glaring at me with such intensity I feel Pascal shining back for a second or two. It’s not quite so extreme, nor does it have quite the disgust that Pascal manages to deliver with every furrow of his brow, but it’s there nonetheless, probably waiting for use when it’s called upon.

  “What have you done to Thomas?” I ask as the door shuts behind them, leaving us alone in the room. “He’s changed.”

  “He has begun training,” he mutters in reply, still not moving.

  “Okay, what’s the problem then? Talk.”

  “Not.”

  “Not what?” I reply, getting up and moving to stand between him and his mother. Not that I’m a patch on her in the looks department, but I’m damn sure I won’t be sidelined because of her royal bitchness. “You’re not going to tell me because you’re being a wuss, or you’re not going to tell me because it’s something really, really bad?”

  “It is not relevant to our tryst,” he says, looking straight over my head and refusing to let me in. I reach for his face, cupping the side of it and tapping it until he eventually looks at me, brow raised as if questioning the movement.

  “So if I take the painting down and throw it out the window, you won’t mind? Burn it maybe?” The other brow rises. “Or we could always slash it up. You know, rip the bitch’s head off.”

  He scowls at me, as if I’m too presumptuous saying the words aloud. Perhaps no one’s allowed to scold the woman but him? Fuck that. I am. She hurt him. She hurt the man I love, and whatever her reasons, he’s right. She is a bitch as far as I’m concerned.

  “Would you like me to do it for you?” I continue, leaving him standing there and heading off down the small hallway, to where I’m hoping the kitchen is. The walls are lined with paintings and pictures, but one small silver frame on a table catches my eye. Two men stand side by side in military uniform, one the image of Pascal, although fatter with a cheesy grin instead of the beauty that I see every day, and the other older. “Is this your brother?” I call back, grabbing the frame and heading into a small kitchen area. I dig through drawers until I find a small paring knife, then turn back out of the room and walk back to Pascal. “Hmm?”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Brother?” I reply, throwing the frame in his direction and dragging a chair towards the painting of his mother.

  “What absurd thing are you doing?”

  “Slashing your mother’s neck,” I answer, climbing up onto the chair to reach for the gilt edged frame. He makes no move to stop me so I continue hauling until the thing comes off the wall into my hands. Unfortunately, my heels and painting wrangling don’t go all that well together and I feel the moment it all begins to go wrong. The chair wobbles, the painting slips and an ornament tumbles. It’s all very loud and awkward, but bearing in mind she’s a bitch, my life feels more relevant as I jump to safety, dropping the thing as I do. Thankfully, I fall straight into the arms of Pascal.

  “Oops,” is all that comes out as I stare at him, trying not to giggle at the mess I’ve just created and hoping to hell he’s not about to get irate with me about it. “Is she slashed?”

  “Not,” he says, doing nothing other than gazing back at me, his mouth twitching slightly as he tightens his hold. “Somewhat broken, though.” What a shame.

  “Are you very mad with me? Is there punishment coming? Because you can’t do that to me anymore, can you? Well, not unless I ask, which I might. You never know, if you’re a good boy.”

  I think about wrapping my legs around him. I’m already filthy from earlier goings-on. Then I remember Claire’s here and scrunch my face up in self-disgust. Perhaps not, then. He snorts, lowering me to the floor and steadying me so that he can retrieve the painting from its place in the fire grate.

  “You are confounding, my love,” he says, a smile eventually broadening on his handsome features as he hauls it out and begins to take some of the broken frame from the edges. “Do you have no care for art?”

  “I have no care for the subject,” I reply, picking up the paring knife and holding it up to him. “If slashing her head off will make you feel better then that’s what we’ll do. I’d rather talk, but you said not.”

  “Is this your plan in life, to slash the heads from anything that gets in your way?” I nod immediately.

  “Good plan.”

  He snorts again then chuckles quietly as he puts the painting on a table upside down, wiggling his fingers at me as he does. What does that mean? We’re not having sex with Claire here. Even I’m not that deranged. It’s not happening, no matter how strange my love life has become.

  “The knife, my love.” Oh. That I can do. I wander over and give it to him, then watch him trace it over the edge of the back of the painting, gently lifting the cover as he does. Everything is perfectly precise, as if he’s done it a thousand times before.

  “You’re handy with that thing.” His lips quirk, probably telling me he’s used it before for villainous reasons. I choose to ignore that for the time being. Working in the law while being with him is going to be quite testing. Couple that with Alexander’s dealings and oh dear, frankly.

  The paper eventually peels away from the painting, dust coming off it as he shakes it away from us and reveals a small cream envelope, stained with age. He sucks in air beside me and stands upright instantly, then backs away a step, scowling at it as his hand flicks at the painting.

  “See, she taunts me even from death. It is vile of the bitch to heckle my life by constantly being in it. It is not surprising I am inclined to thrash inanity from people.”

  I’m assuming he didn’t know before that there was a letter there. Given we were just in an art shop with a man who paints, this is presumably what has him behaving so oddly. I cross my arms and stare at the envelope.

  “Did Hubert tell you about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he paint the picture?”

  “Yes,” he clips again, glowering at the envelope as if it might jump out and bite him at any second.

  “Do you want to open it?”

  There’s no reply. He’s silent as he continues to sneer and then pushes the frame away
from him a little, in disgust or fear. I reach for the letter, only to have my hand snapped away from the offending article before I can touch it.

  “Do not be so absurd as to allow her to taint your being.” He physically pulls me from the table to stand beside him. “She is not worthy of you.”

  Sweet, but not getting the job done. We need to go before Jon turns up and all of this is for nothing.

  “Okay, well we need to get Claire and go, yes? Because Claire’s safety is the important thing here, right? And you fannying around with an old envelope is not making her safe, is it? So…”

  His eyes shoot to mine as if this is the first time he’s thought about Claire or even acknowledged anything other than the picture of his mother.

  “We can take it with us. I’ll put in my bag and you can ask for it when you’re ready. Or I’ll burn it if you want me to.”

  I leave him with that thought for a minute as I head to the room Thomas went into, knowing that time short and we need to leave. That letter might be important, but Claire was taken, kidnapped, along with Roxanne. I wonder where Roxanne is. Is she safe? Why wouldn’t she be here?

  I creek the door open to see a large room, beautifully decorated with all the luxury I would expect from Pascal, but paler than I would have imagined. Actually, now I think about it, the whole place feels more feminine than his suite in New York. Or his office. It doesn’t scream him at all. There’s nothing dark and foreboding. It’s elegant, not unlike him but almost light and breezy, which is not like him at all. I shake my head at the irrelevance and look down at Claire, who is snuggled beneath plush, cream bed linen, her dark curls spilling across the huge pillow beneath her head. Time to wake baby up. We’re going to Rome. I presume Roxanne will be meeting us there. I don’t know. We’ll talk about it later. At the moment, we just need to get going.

  I shake her shoulder lightly, but her only response is to snore softly. God knows how anyone got her to sleep, or why she isn’t crying the house down given her ordeal with Jon and being flown halfway around the world. The fact that she’s managed to sleep at all without her mummy to put her to sleep is amazing, but sleep on she does. Beautifully. What a strong and brave little soldier she is. I watch the rise and fall of her tiny chest and wonder if waking her is the right thing to do anyway. Perhaps she should sleep the entire way. At least she won’t have to deal with yet more confusion until she reaches Rome. Do children sleep that long? Christ, she really does need to know what Pascal is to her. This can’t go on. She must be scared out of her wits. She’s probably sleeping because it’s easier for her poor little mind than dealing with what’s happening around her.

  I scoop her up with the cream blanket wrapped around her, choosing to keep her quiet and relaxed as long as possible as I gently cover her eyes with the material. Hopefully, it’ll stop the bright lights from waking her when I go into the living room again.

  He’s still standing there when I open the door and walk out. He’s in exactly the same spot, scowling in confusion. I do the only thing I can think of that will get us all moving. I wander over, hitching Claire onto my shoulder a little, and then snatch the letter from the frame before he can stop me. He growls instantly, and I glare in response, lifting a fucking brow and daring him to try. Whatever plan he has, he needs to get on with it rather than standing here like a lost child deciding whether to have a tantrum at Mummy or not. His daughter is here now, in need of his help. He needs to wake up and smell his own roses, the ones standing here in front of him and offering him a life free from whatever torture he endured as a child.

  “Move,” I say quietly, turning and walking to the door. I stand there looking at the light oak wood, waiting for him to open the handle for us, knowing that any door he now opens is fine. I’ll walk through it with him. We’ll walk through together. It doesn’t take long before I hear some gentle rustling behind me and then his hand appears to twist the lock. He pulls the door open and closes it softly behind us.

  He smiles at me as I shift Claire until her legs automatically clamp around my waist, then wanders beside me towards the gilded cage, all the time humming a tune I can’t quite place.

  “Interesting lift,” I say, mainly for something to say given our heated argument that involved no words at all.

  He doesn’t answer. We seem to be in non-speaking mode. It’s doesn’t mean that he’s not looking at me, though. He is. Constantly. He skims his eyes over me, glancing at Claire then back to me again. Not that I’m looking at him. My eyes are fixed on the front of the cage as it closes around us. Forward, that’s where I’m going, clasping the damn letter and taking him with me. We’ll go down to the ground first, then out of those doors and onwards to our lives. There will be no wallowing in bitter beginnings. There will be no floundering around trying to rectify past concerns. There will only be progression—one we will either thrive in or find our exit from. I may love him, and I will do everything I can to make this work, but languishing in self-pity and over indulgent tantrums will not make us whole. Life will make us whole. A life with this little girl.

  I sniff into her hair as the ground floor meets us, sucking in the smell of her and considering her life with the man behind me. The good version. How is he going to be the father she needs with the kink world knocking on his door constantly? It doesn’t take me long to realise his plan as I stride towards the main entrance. Thomas leans in the foyer looking every inch the charismatic gent as Ruebin lingers beside him quietly. His hair is neatly trimmed, his eyes trained on me as I walk onwards, his long legs encased in tailored trousers that match his jacket and waistcoat. Even his shoes are polished and sparkling under the lights. He is the spit of Pascal. He only needs a cane, a few more years, and slightly longer hair and I could be looking at the same man. One who is clearly quite attached to Ruebin, given the small smirk on his lips as he watches him.

  “How long before he’s ready to take over?” I whisper, swinging my eyes to the man I love and smiling at the thought.

  He really is planning, making himself ready for retirement. Not that he will ever truly retire, I’m sure. This is Pascal Van Der Braack we’re talking about. He will, undoubtedly, be the kinkiest bastard in the world until his dying breath. He says nothing again as we keep walking. He simply smiles a little and smacks Thomas’ head as we step out into the dimming daylight. It makes me wonder how comfortable he is with the thought of letting go as I tug the blanket over Claire’s face a bit more, hoping to keep her sleeping. Is he doing it just for Claire, or does he need to in some way?

  “You’re ready for that?” He nods and opens a chauffeur driven car door for me, then holds my shoulders to help me climb in with Claire safely attached to my chest. I’m not convinced. There’s no warmth around his eyes as he looks at me, no crinkling of love. It’s mechanical, as if he’s doing what he thinks is correct, not what he truly believes is right.

  I slide myself over and cling on to Claire, hitching her into a comfortable position on my lap and listening to her slight sniffles and continued snoring. She’s so innocent in all this, and it makes me question everything. This little girl in my arms holds the key to everything for the man beside me. She will give him a purpose he’s never had before. She will bring with her responsibility, honesty, a never-ending sense of compassion I’m not certain he can deliver, regardless of the warmer eyes that stare at us as the car pulls away. I shove the letter into my coat pocket and watch the Ferrari containing Thomas and Ruebin passing us, then turn back to him.

  “Are you really ready for this, Pascal? Thomas is young and you’re, well, not exactly ancient, are you? Can you leave this world of yours behind for her?”

  There’s yet more time where he doesn’t say anything. His thumb comes to his mouth, caressing his bottom lip, scraping the nail back and forth across it as he continues to gaze at the pair of us. Presumably, he’s thinking of the right answer to give me. I don’t need what he thinks I want to hear. I need the truth, because if it’s not the right truth then th
is little girl needs to be reunited with her mother and we need to move forward without her. I will not help him fight for a child he doesn’t have the ability to love. Sighing a little, I look out into the calming traffic and remember my father’s eyes when he looked at me. They were always so proud, so full of love and honesty. Yes, I took my punishments when I was naughty, but he always protected me from harm. He taught me everything about how to live. He guided me, helped me, and sheltered me when things were rough, but more importantly, he helped me thrive. He showed me that life was for living. I can’t even begin to imagine how I let myself fall into that pit of despair I was living in on those streets. Not with him as a father. I should have been as I am now. I should have chased and held my own sooner. Perhaps what he did wrong in guiding me was teaching me to be kind to others. Perhaps if I’d been less inclined to offer help or to trust others then none of that would have ever happened to me. My lips twitch at the thought. A little bit of anything but decency seems to ensure a more direct route to happiness, it seems.

  “Are you, my love? Hmm? It will be absurdly tedious on occasion.” What an answer. I doubt it will be tedious. Nothing about the man is tedious. Watching him attempting fatherhood will likely be the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed. My smile increases as I we pick up speed towards the airport.

  “Do you have an actual home somewhere? A house, gardens?” I ask, thinking of his suite in Eden and the apartment where we’ve just been. Nothing says home about either of them. There’s no real sense of him in them. It’s like they’re just beds he hops into as and when he needs one.

  “I do. It has been wasting away with housekeepers and gardeners. We shall rectify such glitches, yes? Breathe our version of life into its innards.” Okay. That’s a plan. Hopefully it’s in New York where my job is waiting for me.

  “Where is it?” Oh, good lord is he talking about his castle? I’m not doing princess stuff. Or Countess. Why did he lose that title? I shift Claire about so I can turn fully to face him, instantly clenching my thighs at his utter beauty and reminding myself I really need a shower.