Conquer (XXX Vadim Book 3): Club XXX Book 6

by Lana Sky

  A horrible, sobering thought makes me slip my hand from his and utilize what little energy I have to brush his cheek, seeking out the contours of his haggard expression. “She doesn’t want Magda,” I tell him softly, a relief within itself. And, in so many ways, a tragedy for a child who, some might say, was abandoned by both parents at some point. “She wants you.”

  His eyes blaze, his throat constricting around a hard swallow. And… I think, deep down, he already knew that.

  He was afraid of that very reality.

  “I don’t know how she got past Ena,” he says hoarsely. “He didn’t even see her. He was beside himself…” He sighs and runs the fingers of his free hand through his already mussed hair. “I hired ten more guards to cycle out at random intervals. I’m selling the house. Our new location is somewhere unlisted, impossible to trace. She won’t come near you again.”

  I sink against my pillows, overwhelmed by the raw note of possession in his voice. The conviction with which he swears something so assuredly. Its power.

  “Did Magda see…”

  “No. I heard your warning.” He takes my hand again, bringing it to his mouth, running his lips over my knuckles. “I entered the house first and distracted her before she saw anything. As far as she knows, you opened a cupboard of glass dishes with a faulty shelf, fell over and cut yourself—but she is intelligent,” he admits, sadness crossing his features. “Too intelligent. Your parents, however, received the same story. I believe they accepted it, for what it’s worth.”

  “Thank you…” The thought of him reaching out to my parents, given his lack of familial ties, means more to me than I would have expected.

  But my relief is countered by concern for Magda. My heart aches for her—and pounds ferociously in the same breath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a desire to protect another so strongly before. Every time I think of her in danger…my blood boils.

  “Irina doesn’t want her,” I reiterate, my voice cold. “She said she was…flawed—”

  “She won’t ever touch her.” Vadim stands, turning his back to me, both hands in his hair, his posture rigid. Slowly, he starts to pace the length of the room, and my pulse flutters the more I watch him. Gone is the pain—replacing it is steely, terrifying anger. “Never. I will kill her before I let that happen—”

  “You knew.” Gingerly, I shift around, groaning as fire shoots through my side. It’s intense—I can feel each, individual puncture wound. Four, he said? Their placement makes it hard to find a comfortable position without being reminded of my injuries every time I take a breath. Intentionally, I suspect. And if Vadim really grew up with Irina as he claimed, then he most likely is well aware of her capabilities. “That’s why you really tried to push me away. Not only for Magda.”

  In his own, twisted, broken logic—he wanted me to run. But in me, the master manipulator met his match.

  His hands fall as he turns to face me, his eyes scanning my battered frame. “How do you feel?” he asks, a deliberate change in subject.

  I wince and twist my hips into a slightly more comfortable position. “Not dead, at least.” I force a laugh that he doesn’t return. “What happened? When you found me.”

  He crosses over to a single window betraying a view of the darkening sky. “Magda raced me back to the house, but I started inside before she did. I saw the blood first,” he confesses. “I sent her back to the stable to fetch something. Called Ena. I held you down to apply pressure to your wounds while he raced us to the hospital.”

  “And Magda? Don’t tell me you left her there alone.”

  He cocks his head, his frown deepening. Layers enhance the tormented expression, creating a grimace shaped by both pain and…confusion. “Not quite—”

  “Tiffany!” Magda waltzes into the room as if on cue, armed with a massive box of crayons and a stack of printer paper. I’m not sure how much time I’ve lost being stuck in this bed already—a day, maybe longer? Someone, however, took up my hair brushing duties in my absence, as well as dressed her in a lilac dress—though it clashes with her trusty fanny pack—complete with matching hair ribbons. The only detail glaringly out of place is a massive amount of glittery, unicorn stickers climbing up the length of her left arm.

  “Pretty,” I say, as she marches to my side, squeezing past Vadim. Reaching out, I stroke the gaudiest sticker—a pink unicorn bunny with big blue eyes. “Where did you get such swag, honey?” Call it a hunch, but they don’t quite seem like Vadim’s style.

  She shoots her father a wary glance, but I can tell she’s bursting at the seams with this new secret. “Ainsley gave them to me,” she says, flashing that rare, ripe grin as she shows off her decked-out arm. “We had a sleepover.”

  “A sleepover?” I feel my eyebrows shoot up as I glance at Vadim while seriously considering the fact that I may actually still be high.

  He doesn’t meet my gaze, his frown surly, though as he looks down on Magda—and her obvious joy—his lips soften again. “A sleepover,” he concedes.

  That’s it. I am hallucinating. As quickly as I dare, I sit upright, making him face me. He looks on edge, as if I’ve caught him with his pants down. Or, even worse in his mind, I caught him at a moment when he’d been desperate enough to go to the one person he seems to hate more than anyone.

  Solely for Magda’s sake.

  “Francesca watched over her,” he finally admits. “And her siblings.”

  But not the main, dominant member of that household—his brother Maxim. Not too long ago, he was out of the country. Could he still be gone?

  Yet, the idea of Vadim crossing the invisible boundary between the property is a sight so unexpected—and at its core, so damn selfless, with such tender motivations—my heart almost can’t contain it.

  “Can I go back tonight?” Magda asks. She’s curled up on his vacated chair, her gaze fixated on a drawing she’s in the process of scribbling with a red crayon. At a glance, she’s the picture of childish nonchalance—but her eyes betray her. Every few seconds, she glances hopefully at Vadim, her bottom lip dangerously close to a pout.

  “Not tonight, ma chérie,” Vadim says, moving toward her to ruffle her hair. She deflates, but relents to his touch, her nose wrinkling. “We’re going to our new home tonight, remember? So that we can get it ready for Tiffany’s return.”

  She nods, turning her attention to me. “No glass this time,” she says solemnly. But damn…

  Much like Vadim, I sense she’s well versed in doublespeak—and my heart swells again. Literally.

  A series of beeping machines goes off, and Vadim scrambles for a nurse. After checking my vital signs, she deems me no closer to dying than at any other moment throughout the day. Still, he’s frowning, unconvinced.

  “You need rest,” he declares, brushing his lips over my forehead. “I’ll come back tonight after Magda’s in bed. Ena will watch over her this time. You’ll have three guards on you at all times. You’re safe.” He sounds so confident in that fact, but as he pulls away, I suspect his reassurances were more for himself than me. He looks so exhausted as the waning daylight casts shadows over his haggard features. Worn. And yet, as he hasn’t failed to do since her arrival, he swallows down any discomfort as he faces Magda.

  “Let’s go, chérie,” he calls to her. “I’m sure Tiffany appreciates your many creations.”

  As battered as he is, the man cracks a tired smile at the sight of her drawings scattered all over my side table. I spot one and reach for it, wincing with the effort.

  “This is lovely,” I croon, glancing over a misshapen blob formed of black crayon that may or may not be an animal of some kind.

  “It’s It,” Magda says seriously. She slips from the chair and gathers her belongings. Squished into the cushions of the seat behind her is a small white bear that she clings to even while juggling her pilfered art supplies. “He can protect you. From falling onto glass.”

  I laugh, but when I look up from the page, her eyes… They bore into mine so
fiercely I flinch. Oblivious, Vadim comes to relieve her of her artistic burden and heads for the door. “Let’s go.”

  She follows him, but when she glances back, I nearly lunge from the bed to grab her, barely able to suppress a fierce desire to hold her in my arms until she never sports such an expression again. Fear. Raw, naked terror so potent I’m rendered silent in the face of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  I barely have the chance to mourn his absence before I sense Vadim return just as I’m dozing off. He slips into the room without a word, reclaiming his post beside me. I shiver, content, as warmth feathers my forehead—the shadow of a chaste kiss.

  As I continue to feign sleep, his fingers capture mine, lifting them from my crumpled blankets. I make myself limp, my breathing steady. Maybe I’m curious as to what he’ll do? And he doesn’t disappoint.

  With breathtaking care, he brings my fingers to his mouth, or so I assume from the warm bursts of air ghosting my knuckles. The feel of his lips a second later—grazing the back of my hand reverently—makes me shiver. Damn this man...

  He gently strokes whatever parts of me he can reach. Runs through my hair with aching gentleness. He lavishes me in silent praise, all in secret without an audience to preen for. And even though my eyes remain closed, I know that this is him—a man Irina was never, ever privy to.

  The real, unfiltered Vadim.

  I wake up to find a watchful gaze directed my way, its owner wearing another stripped-down suit—this time with a navy dress shirt and no jacket. The moment I start to lift my head from the pillows, he races to get me a pitcher of water and small pieces of fruit, fussing to make sure I’m hydrated and fed.

  Once my nurse comes in and performs her assessment, then the doctor—who deems me stable enough to leave—I find myself discharged and promptly carried into a waiting car a little after noon.

  “Where’s Magda?” I ask once I find the backseat empty.

  Vadim’s chosen to drive us himself, and he chuckles as he settles into the driver’s seat, his lip twitching. “Forcing Ena to teach her gardening techniques. Well, perhaps not necessarily against his will.” His expression turns wistful as he navigates the steering wheel with one hand, the other placed firmly on my knee. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the bastard smile,” he admits. “At anyone.”

  Satisfied, I sit back in my seat, oddly amused by the prospect. But then my thoughts turn to more dangerous topics as my injuries throb, even after a dose of—much less potent than my initial dosage—pain medication.

  “How did she get past him?” I ask, eyeing Vadim warily. “Irina?”

  He frowns, all traces of joy vanishing from his face. “I suspect she timed it. Watched him long enough to know his schedule—when he’d be the easiest to circumvent. She was always like that. Cunning.”

  An assessment that brings up another chilling suspicion circling my brain. “Magda… Do you think she remembers Irina?”

  He cocks his head, his brow furrowing. If he’s considered such a possibility himself, I can’t tell. “What makes you ask that?”

  Several reasons come to mind. Her aversion to roses, for one. Not to mention her almost obsessive need for her teddy bear—a bear, that I’m starting to realize, may symbolize more to her than just a sentimental gift. A fact bolstered by a certain picture she’d chosen to hide within it.

  He can protect you, she told me after giving me her drawing—which I’ve kept tucked within my discharge paperwork.

  For all of her intellect, she’s still seven at heart. A child prone to magical beliefs of monsters and mystery—and one who trusts in Vadim’s presence so strongly that, in her mind, he could protect her from anything. Even her worst nightmares…

  “It’s nothing,” I finally say, rather than bother him with a bunch of random observations that may not mean anything. “But have you talked to her yet? About what she might remember of her life before you found her?”

  It’s a topic that feels far too intimate for me to broach again. Only her father should have reign over that arena.

  …Shouldn’t he?

  “No,” he confesses. “I haven’t. Not yet. According to her records, she had decent nutrition and healthcare prior to being discovered. But…” He frowns and lifts his hand from me, stroking it through his hair.

  “But?” I prod when he falls silent.

  “Her diabetes was newly onset, so her blood sugars had been wildly uncontrolled—but that is typical with this illness. Otherwise, there wasn’t a mark on her.”

  But I know firsthand that abuse can extend far beyond the physical. Some of the worst wounds are the ones inflicted upon your soul. As strange as it feels to admit, even to myself, Irina’s attack—while hurting like a bitch—doesn’t sting anywhere near as badly as some of the verbal blows Jim dished out. Injuries to my self-esteem that I’m still recovering from years later.

  The thought of Magda suffering even a fraction of the same…

  “She doesn’t need Irina,” Vadim says, injecting himself into my scattered thoughts. “Irina’s heart has only ever had room for herself. But you? Bleeding and injured, your sole concern was that Magda didn’t see you in such a state.”

  Awe colors his voice, making my cheeks catch fire. He makes it sound so momentous—so unfathomable to him. That the welfare of another could supersede even someone’s personal pain.

  Not that I’m the only one capable of that kind of selflessness.

  “You’re such a good dad to her,” I tell him once the internal rage has worn off, and I can objectively review his actions over the past few days. “To Magda. She adores you—”

  “And you,” he says almost hesitantly as if he’s not sure how I’ll handle that knowledge. His gaze finds me warily though he keeps most of his attention on the road. “I can’t get her to stop asking when we’ll go to California again.”

  I laugh, wincing as my left side twinges. “If my parents have their way, then probably for every major holiday at least. A few of the minor ones too. You do realize they’ll be expecting us for Christmas, don’t you?”

  A smile softens the line of his mouth, and it is breathtaking. I sense him sneak another peek at me and his eyes brim with a hint of something that may or may not be…hope?

  “Another chance to practice my gift-giving skills,” he says earnestly.

  “Wine for my mother. Beer for my father. And as long as you don’t buy the entire toy store for Magda, I think you’ll do just fine.”

  It’s only when I see the pained edge to his expression that I realize something I don’t have the heart to ask out loud. Has he ever spent a Christmas with family? With anyone other than Ena?

  I make a mental note to myself to spoil him lavishly when the time comes—shower blow jobs galore. When I’m through, he’ll look forward to the holiday season with a childlike sense of joy.

  I’ll fix all of the broken memories his childhood denied him.

  Even if it kills me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It isn’t until Vadim parks in an unfamiliar driveway—one barricaded behind a high stone wall and wrought iron gate—that I recognize the stout, clinical gray mansion as our new home.

  In so many ways, it’s not as impressive as the last.

  Dour and relatively plain, it lacks the charm of the beautiful house overlooking the cove—instead, commanding a ruthlessly manicured plot of land cast in shadow by that massive wall spanning the entire perimeter. Once inside, I find the décor seriously lacking. Or, as my mother would say, “Where is the sunlight, darling?”

  Without the aid of bay windows to provide said natural light, or a view of a body of water, Vadim’s dour color scheme creates an almost prison-like atmosphere. One bolstered by the strange men I spot patrolling various sections of the property.

  Gone are the days of Ena’s out of sight, out of mind approach to security, it seems.

  We find the old bodyguard himself sitting at a square table in a spacious dining room at the center of the flo
or plan. In addition to his typical battered leather jacket, he sports a new, unusual accessory draped around his neck—a bright pink feathery boa. Across from him sits Magda, her gaze intent on what looks to be a pink tea set arranged in between them. Carefully, Magda lifts an empty cup and places it before Ena.

  “You drink it,” she says as if narrating a play.

  He nods. “Okay.”

  “And now you’re poisoned,” Magda says, deadpanned. “So…you have to die.”

  Ena shrugs. “Okay.”

  “That’s it?” Magda purses her lips, fighting to maintain her serious frown. Despite her best attempts, a smile breaks through within seconds. “You’re supposed to be dead,” she exclaims, throwing her hands into the air. “Try making death noises or something! Play pretend. Let’s go again—”

  “It looks like the queen needs to work on her poisoning skills,” I call from the doorway as Vadim comes up behind me.

  Magda looks up, her smile unfurling in full. “Tiffy!”

  “Easy, chérie,” Vadim scolds gently as she races over and snatches my hand, tugging me to her makeshift royal tea party. “She’s still very sore.”

  “Never too sore for palace intrigue,” I say, forcing a grin as Magda ushers me into the chair beside Ena.

  Once she reclaims her throne, she glances at the bodyguard, her frown apologetic. “You’re not the princess anymore,” she tells him, though judging from his stoic expression, I doubt the man is too heartbroken by his demotion in status.

  Something far more serious seems to be on his mind. Guilt? His dark eyes shift toward me and quickly dart away. “Okay,” he grunts, starting to rise to his feet.

  “But,” Magda says, making him pause mid-motion. “You can be my royal henchman. Tiffy will play the princess. Now, henchman—” Her eyes take on a gleeful, calculated gleam. “Pour the tea!”