Break Me: Smith and Belle (Royals Saga Book 12)

by Geneva Lee

  I exhaled heavily and pulled my mobile out of my pocket. “I recorded her confession,” I explained. Nora didn’t need to die. Before this, I would have killed any person who hurt my family without blinking. But now, I saw things differently. How many lives had Hammond destroyed? I was wrong. It wasn’t my sins that kept finding me. It was his. “She needed to be locked up. She needed to pay for what she’d done.”

  “Are you complaining about our—”

  A scream split the air and I felt a blade pierce my shoulder. I stumbled forward, ducking just in time to give Alexander a clear shot. He took it without hesitation.

  “You were saying?” he asked coolly.

  I reached behind me and touched my shoulder. Drawing my hand back, I found it coated with blood.

  “Let’s get you back to your family,” Georgia said softly, “and call a doctor.”

  “And maybe the police,” Alexander suggested, leaning over to check Nora’s body.

  “That depends.” Georgia raised an eyebrow, meeting my eyes. “Don’t best friends bury the bodies?”

  “Not this time,” I told her. I wasn’t going to hide from my past anymore. I wasn’t going to let it define me. Instead, I left it behind in the dirt and walked away.

  I stepped inside the back door and made my way toward the living room toward the fire and my daughter and my wife. Mrs. Winters flapped over, clucking at me. “Is this mud? My floors!”

  I glanced back to see a trail of blood and dirt in my wake. “It’s blood. I’m sorry my wound is making a mess.”

  Her neck snapped back and she turned to stare, not moving when Alexander and Georgia walked around her. I would deal with it later. I had to, unless I wanted to find another housekeeper. I wasn’t sure her poor heart could take any more excitement between having the King of England for dinner and the shootout on the grounds.

  Clutching my hand over the wound to staunch the bleeding, I walked wearily into the sitting room. Edward jumped up when he saw me, and Brex immediately headed to Alexander, ready for a report on what had transpired. But Belle lingered near the fireplace.

  Penny’s downy hair was visible just over her shoulder, glinting gold in the firelight. Belle moved rhythmically, rocking her, but the baby didn’t make a sound. I realized she was doing it for herself as much as for Penny.

  “Beautiful,” I said softly, and her shoulders sagged as whatever weight she’d been holding on them released. She turned to me slowly. When our eyes met, a ragged sob escaped her lips.

  Despite the exhaustion I felt, I walked swiftly toward her, forgetting my wound, forgetting everything but her. Belle rushed to meet me and we collided, her arms cradling Penny protectively as she pressed into my arms. Her free hand reached around to hook my neck, hitting the stab wound, and I winced. Her eyes widened and she started to draw back, but I was too quick.

  I kissed her, knowing she was mine and that nothing could come between us. We had faced darkness behind these walls, not just from our enemy but from ourselves, and we were still here. We were still forever. Her mouth parted in a soft sigh, welcoming me home.

  A throat cleared loudly and we broke apart.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I didn’t save your ass so you could bleed to death from a stab wound,” Alexander called from the door.

  “You were stabbed?” Belle yelped in panic, waking Penny.

  “Everyone relax. I’m putting pressure on it, the blood loss is already slowing.”I leaned in to kiss the baby’s head, smiling. I would never take simple acts like that for granted again.

  We laid Penny down into the nursery and Georgia insisted on performing a security sweep. We returned to the sitting room to sort through the evening. We filled Belle in as Georgia inspected my wound, which turned out to only need cleaning and bandaging. Alexander and Brexton had called someone to help deal with the body. I wasn’t surprised when a half-dozen black SUVs pulled onto the drive instead of the local police.

  “I figured we’d skip the bumbling detective,” he said. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Everything should be fine, but call me if there are any...issues. You have my number.”

  “Heading out?” I asked.

  Alexander’s eyes swept over us, and I knew what he was seeing: a family. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

  “Good, because Clara has been calling you nonstop,” Brex said, pushing his mobile into his hands. “And I do not want to get blamed for keeping you out too late.”

  “This one is all on me.”

  Belle went to show them to the door. To my surprise, Edward went with her. I watched as the brothers said an awkward goodbye. At least they were talking to each other again. Before they could step out, Georgia flew into the entry, “Brex. A word.”

  He shared a quick look with Alexander, who tipped his head. “I’ll prepare for the flight home. See you out there.” He turned and met my eyes. “Remember, Price, you can call me anytime you get into trouble. Buckingham does get a little monotonous.”

  “Oh no,” Belle interjected. “We are all going to have quiet, simple lives from now on.”

  Alexander bit back a bemused smile. “I’ll try.”

  But as he stepped outside, his laughter echoed across the lawn. At least, he was developing a sense of humor about our fucked up lives.

  A few minutes later, Brex marched across the foyer. His mouth was tightly drawn, and he forced a nod to both of us. “Good night.”

  “Night,” we called after them.

  Belle closed the door and sighed. “Will those two ever—”

  “No,” Georgia interrupted, coming into the room through the same door Brex had just used. “Which is exactly what I told him. I’m going to go wash all the psychopath off me. Try not to let anyone crazy in your house while I’m gone.”

  “That reminds me,” Belle said, her eyes darting between us. “Mrs. Winters is—”

  “Mrs. Winters is what?” The housekeeper appeared as if she’d been summoned.

  Belle froze and studied her for a moment. Finally, she squared her shoulders and asked, “Are you adopted?”

  “What?” Mrs. Winters placed a hand over her heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Belle added quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You...didn’t,” she said. “I don’t know why it matters, but yes. I never knew a family other than the Winters. I was only a baby when I went to them.”

  My mouth hung open, but Georgia recovered quickly.

  “Wait, you were adopted by the Winters, and you married a Winters?” she asked.

  Mrs. Winters heaved a sigh, as though she was dealing with a lot of unruly children. “Housekeepers always go by missus—even the unmarried ones like me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a mess to clean up.” She paused for a moment before looking at me. “I am glad you are okay, Mr. Price, and that the family is safe.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, meaning it.

  “Do we tell her?” Belle asked after she’d left.

  “Yes,” I said before adding, “later.”

  “But what are we going to do now?”

  I raised my hand to her lips and kissed it. “I have a few ideas.”

  “That’s my cue,” Georgia said.

  I ignored her as I led my wife upstairs. My eyes never left her as we circled the spiral stairs. I knew each one would be there. I didn’t need to look for them. I had complete faith. She’d given that to me. I might not have been a perfect man when Belle walked into my office and changed my life—maybe not even a good man. But she’d shown me to a path I thought I couldn’t walk. Now I would choose no other.

  This time when I moved between her legs and claimed her no shadows lingered over us. We had fought for each other. We had found each other. We always would. Belle’s body pressed against mine, writing our future in pants and moans, as we sealed our vows to each other one more time.

  When we finally collapsed, Belle laughed. It rang through the room, sounding a new day had arrived at last. “I shouldn’t be
happy, right?”

  I understood how she felt. We had only just escaped the darkness. There were still problems to deal with and wrongs that needed to be fixed. “I demand that you feel happy—now and every other day for the rest of your life.”

  “Is that so, Price?”

  “It’s an order.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with the monarchy.” But she burrowed closer to me under the sheets. She grew quiet for a moment. “Should we tell Mrs. Winters? That she’s…“

  “Yes.” I didn’t even have to consider it. “You can only be free of the past when you let it go. She deserves to know.”

  “But Thornham should be hers,” Belle said softly.

  I’d already considered that, too.

  “Beautiful, let’s go home,” I murmured, my arms wrapped around her nude torso as my hand shamelessly covered her breast. After the last few months, she couldn’t blame me for feeling possessive of her.

  “Home?” she repeated, nuzzling against my chest. “I’m already home as long as I’m with you.”

  “London.”

  “London?” Her head raised to meet my eyes, surprise written across her face. It dimmed for a moment. She bit her lip. “For the weekend?”

  I looked at her and knew that no matter what we faced, we would do it together. But that didn’t mean we had to do it alone. We were stronger not only because of our love but because of the people who loved us. It might be dangerous and chaotic, but as long as I had her, I knew I had everything I needed. I couldn’t escape my past. I had to embrace the future she’d given me. So there was no doubt when I answered her question that we belonged there.

  “Forever.”

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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 length 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 tha
t 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.

  MacLaine would be pleased at the turnout, even if half the people here despised the bastard. People you’d recognize from Forbes magazine covers or television, if anyone still watches it, mill throughout the ground floor. It’s a sea of black, groups moving in surges from one empty conversation to the next as easily as they run through the canapés.

  A man near the bar glances in my direction, his face blanching paper-white. I’ve been recognized. Not that he’ll tell anyone who I am. Then he’d have to admit that he knew me—that he knows what I do. I move past him without a second glance. He won’t be any trouble—and I have bigger prey to hunt.