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

by Lana Sky

  What unfolds next is an enthralling, heart-stopping game of royal politicking during which I die five times, and Ena has to robotically endorse the maniacal musings of his mad queen. All the while, Vadim hovers in the background, his expression guarded and yet completely decipherable.

  He watches his daughter, his gaze soft with a love no one would deny. He smiles when she squeals in delight during the twists and turns of her “game,” and I think he’s spellbound by every machination of her imagination. But pretty soon, I’m equally as enthralled by him.

  As much as I try to deny it, Irina’s petty jabs did sting. They still do—and entirely not out of concern for Vadim and his potential motives either. He may want another child one day, but so do I. Badly, I’m starting to realize. More than I thought I ever would.

  “Pay attention, Tiffany,” Magda scolds as the daylight wanes beyond the windows. Already, Vadim had to switch on an overhead lamp just to provide enough illumination for us to see by. “I’ve just declared you an illegitimate heir to the throne. You are banished from the kingdom, and my evil henchman has come to take you away forever! What do you do?”

  I frown, thinking it over. Then I tap my chin. “I think I’ll ask, why I’ve been banished,” I decide.

  But Magda’s expression falls flat. “Because you’re sick,” she says tonelessly. “And no one wants you anymore.”

  I stiffen, my gaze darting around the room. Vadim’s vanished—presumably to make dinner—and Ena already managed to escape his role nearly an hour ago. There’s no one else left to witness the pain transforming her features, and I have a suspicion that our “game” isn’t so hypothetical anymore.

  If it ever were, to begin with.

  “The queen is saying this?” I say cautiously, twisting my pink teacup between my fingers.

  She nods.

  “Hmm. And what about the king?”

  She looks away, her expression distant. “He doesn’t want you either. So the mean men come to take you away…”

  My throat is dry, my heart pounding at the sheer horror I suspect I’m only getting the faintest glimpse of. Is that why Irina abandoned her? Because of her illness? A condition that she clearly inherited from Vadim?

  Not to mention Magda’s obvious fear of men built like Maxim. How had she described him? “Is the big scary man here?”

  Did that fear also stem from Irina? Had the woman arranged for some brutal henchman to yank Magda from whatever home she’d known, dumping her at an orphanage? It would certainly explain her reaction to Maxim, and Milton to an extent.

  And, that obvious atrocity aside, my worst fear is that Magda knows well enough of her mother’s intentions. All along, she’s known. Even more tragic, she’s carried that pain believing the worst—Vadim didn’t want her. Irina told her he didn’t want her.

  When I find my voice again, I clear my throat to banish any traces of anger. “You know what I’d do?” I set my teacup aside, fold my hands and lean forward, forcing her to meet my gaze head-on. “I’d tell the queen to shove it. I am a princess, and I have more powers than she could ever dream of.”

  She raises an eyebrow, her lips quirked downward. “Like what?”

  “Like…” Make this good, Tiffy. “I’m charming, and pretty, and I’m damn good at shopping. I’ll scour the whole damn world and hunt down a cure. Then I’ll use my wits to secure a lifetime supply of it. Cursed or not, I’m stronger for it either way.”

  She wrinkles her nose, unconvinced.

  “And,” I add, thinking fast. My eyes settle on a tuft of white centered on her lap, barely visible above the table. “I know that I’m never alone in my adventures. Because the king does want me—more than anything else in the world. In fact, he sent me a protector to always look out for me when I’m afraid, or lonely. And since the evil queen is a liar, I’ll know that he must have been cursed too. That’s why he isn’t there,” I add as she shifts, her fingers creeping toward It, burying in his plush fur. “And that when he wakes up, he’ll find me. He will always find me, no matter what.”

  “Why?” she asks, her voice so hollow that I nearly lunge across the table to grab one of her hands, gripping it tightly.

  “Because he loves you,” I tell her so fiercely, my voice cracks. “He will always love you. Always.”

  Silently, she wrangles her fingers from mine. Then, she slips from her chair and scurries around the table. Before I have the sense to steel myself, she’s climbing onto my lap, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder.

  “Oh, honey…” Without a thought given for my stitches, I wrap my arms around her, squeezing as tight as I’m able to. “And when the king does find you, he’ll have a crazy bitch girlfriend who will stab the queen’s eyes out if she ever comes near you again. You hear me?”

  She says nothing, but I rock her in silence, inhaling the scent of her hair and the fruity shampoo Vadim must have bought for her. I stroke my fingers through her braided curls and reassure her in every way I can that my words are more than just a boastful fairytale.

  I will personally fight to make them true.

  After putting Magda to bed, I’m limping when I finally creep into a master suite—admittedly nowhere near as spacious or appealing as the old one. There I find Vadim hovering near the bed. The second he spots me, he’s by my side, lifting me into his arms.

  “You’ve overexerted yourself,” he scolds, carrying me over to the bed. “Lie still. I need to check if you’ve broken any sutures.”

  I pout and submit to his inspection. With utmost care, he strips my clothes, leaving them on the floor and manipulates me until I’m lying face down, his fingers gingerly peeling back my bandages.

  “No damage,” he declares after a moment. “But, I’m inclined to put you on mandatory bed rest.”

  I lift my head hopefully. “Sexy bedrest?”

  He shakes his head, stroking down my lower back in a way that inspires thoughts of anything but resting. “I’m afraid not,” he says, contradicting the desire conveyed by every swipe of his fingers. “You will have to go without until your wounds heal. That is final.”

  “Is that so?” I play dirty and reach out, inching toward the front of his slacks.

  “Very final,” he insists, groaning as I cup him, finding him straining the tailored fabric.

  I’m not the only one who will go without, it seems. Still teasing him, I flex my fingers, watching his expression shift as he turns onto his side, facing me.

  “Where did you go after dinner?” I ask cautiously. Once mine and Magda’s tea party ended, he’d served us another one of his delicious homemade meals and then vanished, leaving us to play a round of monopoly—during which I got my ass thoroughly kicked.

  He frowns and captures my rebellious hand, moving it to settle on his chest. “Something you said piqued my curiosity,” he admits. “I made another round of calls to my contacts in the hopes of finding out more about Magda’s origins. Anything I can use to—” He breaks off, his jaw clenched, but I can guess the words he’s holding back.

  He’s tracking down anything he can use against Irina. At least in her legal battle if she persists in her quest to block his custody.

  “Any luck?” I ask hopefully, but he shakes his head.

  “No. It’s like she appeared from thin air. And I’ll be honest…” He rakes one of his hands through his hair, sighing in exasperation. “Hiram was the one behind most of the arrangements in those early days when I was alerted to her existence. I still don’t know many of the details. I doubt Magda remembers much, either—though how can I ask her to? She was so young.”

  Meeting his gaze, I flex my fingers over his chest. “I think Magda remembers her,” I tell him. “I think… I think she’s afraid of her. Terrified. I can’t really explain it in much detail, but I think Irina abandoned her the second she became diagnosed with diabetes.”

  Or, in her twisted, sick opinion—flawed.

  “It’s possible,” he grates, his eyes flashing. “But what make
s you say that?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I say wistfully. “Or, to be more accurate, fairytale logic. You know how Magda likes to play games of the queen and the princess? What if they aren’t games to her at all?”

  And one overarching theme becomes painfully apparent the more I think on it. You’ve been poisoned, she declared to preface almost every one of her “tea parties.” Poisoned by the queen…

  Could Irina have drugged her? Or, given her a drink of some kind that her childish brain interpreted as much. I’m so lost in the thought that I barely notice I’m in Vadim’s arms until his voice drips into my ear, sensually low.

  “I say that Magdalene’s past is the past,” he growls, his tone both stern and husky. “I will strive to make her future so bright she looks back on any prior memories as a faint shadow. A beautiful future. One in which she has everything she could ever ask for or need—while her parents are forced to sneak away every now and again to indulge in their filthiest desires.”

  I swallow hard. Parents? Not to mention the way the man can utter the word “filthy.” An answering ache resonates down my spine, and I pout. No fair.

  “Where will we sneak to?” I ask him, reaching up to run my fingers through his abused, wild curls.

  His lips twitch thoughtfully. “I may have to declare my renewed interest in the club,” he suggests, nuzzling at the nape of my neck. “I’m envisioning a private suite filled with those apparatuses I ordered for you.”

  My toes curl. I could squeal in excitement, and the potential of healing has never seemed better. “Well then, you better get building,” I tell him, slapping his chest playfully. “Though I insist on watching. But, that means you may have to make up with your brother, if only to prevent the off chance of you killing each other should you enter the same vicinity.”

  His eyes darken at the prospect, though I figure I’m more amused than alarmed at the display. He reminds me almost of a stubborn child, refusing to end a grudge too soon, if only to salvage his pride.

  “I once promised I’d smooth things over between you two, didn’t I?” I point out. Poor, naïve past Tiffy. She had no fucking clue. “What happened between you and him? Maxim?”

  That muscle in his jaw twitches, his gaze drifting away from me—at the last second, however, something draws him back. “We grew up in hell,” he states, encasing me in his arms. “But for whatever reason, Maxim showed me kindness more than once.” His voice is gruff, as if the confession physically hurts him to voice. “But unlike you, he didn’t boldly acknowledge his actions. It’s more like…he strived to punish me for them. For wanting to reciprocate them. As a result, we’ve spent almost thirty fucking years spitting on each other. I don’t think even he understands why.”

  It’s such a raw admission from him. One I don’t take lightly. Bracing my hand over his chest, I risk planting a kiss over his heart, letting my breath warm that precious space.

  “I will always acknowledge you,” I tell him. “Always. As long as you keep me well supplied with sex—but it won’t be transactional. What you give, I will gladly reciprocate.”

  He laughs in that beautiful, haunting way. “And what you wish, you shall receive.”

  I nestle against him, lulled into a daze by the thrum of his heartbeat. I know that—despite all of our pillow talk—there’s so much more between us awaiting to be addressed. Nuances, we need to put into words. Boundaries that need adjusting.

  But, as I allow him to redress me and then drift off, I have to admit that I’m more than looking forward to it.

  Each grueling, sweaty, sensual bit of “negotiation.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The door to our room flies open with a bang, rousing me from a light sleep and making Vadim lurch upright, wrenching the covers back. His rigid posture conveys power—a desire to protect so vicious I’m awed in the face of it.

  But just as quickly he transforms as our intruder makes herself known in frantic little steps, her braids askew, her bear dangling from one hand.

  “Chérie?” He reaches for her hesitantly, his brows drawn. “What’s wrong—”

  “I don’t like it here,” she declares, lunging onto the bed. As I watch in shock, she squirms in between us, curling into a ball, her face buried in the body of her bear. “I hate this place. I want to go home.”

  “Home?” Vadim asks, as if horribly confused by the prospect. He reaches out, stroking her back. When she doesn’t recoil, he tentatively braces his arm around her, and almost instantly, she’s burrowing into his chest, her tiny limbs shaking.

  “Home,” she insists plaintively, in a tone I’ve never heard her use. “I want to go home! With my pony. I want my old room. I don’t like it here!”

  “Alright. Alright…” He relents with little resistance, petting through her hair. His expression is puzzled—confused even. As if he isn’t quite sure of the allure that would drive a child to his arms in the middle of the night. Or why she might instinctively love the home he labored to prepare for her. But I think he’s catching on quickly.

  His eyes meet mine, alight with the beginnings of a life-altering revelation. With Magda in between us, I risk reaching over her to stroke his chest and nod in encouragement.

  “Super dad,” I mouth to him, much to his surprise.

  Slowly, he settles her tiny figure against him, cradling her carefully, his gaze awestruck. I realize now that—not even in his most optimistic of potential futures—did he envision a moment like this. One so sweet, I almost feel like the intruder…

  Until Magda hooks her tiny hand around my wrist as if sensing the possibility that I might pull away. I surrender to her grasp, thanking my lucky stars that Vadim and I are at least clothed during this midnight intrusion.

  It seems our forced abstinence worked out for the best, in the end.

  And, I suspect judging from Vadim’s wistful gaze, better than he could have ever dared to hope.

  Despite Vadim’s prior intention to sell the house, “home” turns out to be pretty much as we’d left it. As I peer into the foyer, I have a mental image of him studiously overseeing a team of movers, ensuring they replaced everything in the same exact position—minus any bloodstains in the kitchen or signs of a psychotic blond.

  Even so, I’m surprised by just how strongly a sense of dread paralyzes me as I linger on the threshold. Especially considering that I had no problem entering the home I shared with Jim after he figuratively stabbed me in the back.

  But now?

  My hands shake, and breathing becomes a struggle. If I’m honest with myself, I know exactly why I’m on edge. It’s not fear of Irina that makes me linger in the fresh air, unable to enter those four walls. It’s the crushing reality of who might never come to exist to fill this home at all. The rooms beside Magda’s that might never gain an occupant. The wonderful, albeit lonely life she’ll have as an only child—spoken from experience.

  Unless, of course, her father remarried someone else capable of expanding his family tenfold.

  “Are you alright?” Vadim wonders, his gaze intense with concern, his hand on my lower back.

  Forcing a smile, I nod. “Yeah… Besides, it looks like someone’s happy.”

  Oblivious to my discomfort, Magda tears through the lower level, a whirlwind of energy. Her joy gives me the courage necessary to cross the threshold, and I find myself caught in her wake, laughing as she eagerly unpacks her clothes in her room.

  “Can I go play with Ainsley?” she asks Vadim once our things are put away, and we’ve had lunch at the dining room table. “Please?” She bats her eyelashes, playing his heartstrings like a fiddle. I almost feel bad for the man.

  Helpless, he looks to me, but I shrug innocently, leaving him to drown.

  “I…”

  “Ena will take,” a firm voice pitches in before the bodyguard himself marches into the kitchen. “And there is cake. In fridge.” He looks at me, his gaze conveying something unspoken that catches me off guard. I vaguely remember Vadim m
entioning something about a special chocolate cake Ena sometimes bakes. Dare I hope for a truce?

  The old bodyguard turns away before I can be sure, shuffling to the sliding glass door leading to the terrace.

  “Come,” he grunts, his tone unusually soft, directed at the tiny figure leaping to her feet.

  “Really?” Magda skips toward him, clutching It to her chest. No one would ever know that a horrific attack took place in this very room just a few days ago. At least, if it weren’t for the way she’s starting to carry her bear almost every waking moment. She’s already worn at It’s newly sewn head, and I’m sure he’ll wind up decapitated again before long.

  And yet, she beams as she glances at Vadim. “Can we? Please?”

  Sighing, he gives a nod of approval. “Alright.”

  She races off, her loyal henchman in tow. The second they slip beyond view, I rise from my chair and slink toward Vadim. Given the fact that I’m still very much in pain—my muscles stiff with disuse—I wind up lurching toward him more than anything sensual. Still, he reaches for me, settling me gingerly onto his lap.

  “We should have some alone time,” I declare, pressing my lips to the side of his throat. Against his flesh, I murmur, “I declare our brief abstinence officially over.”

  He chuckles, his hands on my hips, his expression pained once I slip my hand between us and cup the front of his slacks. “You’ve barely healed,” he points out as I flinch the second I strain my side too much.

  Shrugging him off, I persist, rocking my palm against him until he groans in capitulation. “Be naughty with me for just a moment,” I beg, shamelessly licking a path down to his collar bone. “I’ll even let you have a slice of my cake after. I promise it’ll be worth it…”

  “Not if I cause you any pain, it won’t,” he warns, always the stoic. Still, when I start to work my fingers into the clasp of his pants, he stands, lifting me in his arms. Before I regain my bearings, he carries me to the center island. Dazed, I grip the edge of the marble surface as he sinks to his knees, cursing under his breath.