Butterfly in Amber (Spotless Book 4)

by Camilla Monk

  “It was you, even then, and I think”—a sob builds in my throat that I can’t contain—“I think Dries liked the boy you used to be too.”

  He draws a tired sigh. “I never imagined I would say this one day, but I’m going to miss him.”

  “He was a flamboyant asshole,” I concur. March chuckles in response. “But I feel like I lost such an important part of me.” My vision blurs again as I say this, and he pulls me into a tight hug that eventually results in our spooning in the back seat.

  “We’ll find a doctor to remove that thing,” he murmurs in my ear. “And there’s a big part of yourself awaiting you in New York. It’s been a very difficult eight months for your father and Joy too…”

  March is right: the warmth in my chest as he mentions them reminds me that I miss them, need them. Their memory has been wiped, yet my love for them remains, like a glimmering outline in my mind. I roll around to face him, caress his cheeks, his jaw, made rough by a little stubble. “You’re a very important part too.” Perhaps the most . . . “But you still haven’t told me. Who’s my boyfriend?”

  He whispers it against my lips, like a secret just for the two of us, and I smile. It’s a good name. I can get used to that. I close my eyes when his lips roam away from my mouth, tasting my neck, my clavicles. His hands sneak under my tank top—I think he’s trying to say it’s in the way: I pull it over my head and drop it in the crate closest to me. March’s T-shirt joins it right afterward.

  I indulge in some chest-hair therapy, caressing it over and over while his fingertips skitter across the territory they already know, making me squirm. “You’re tickling me!”

  “My apologies, I would never . . .” is what he says before launching a vicious attack on my sides.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” I gasp after he decides I’ve suffered enough.

  His eyebrows rise comically. “Are you certain?”

  “I can handle the truth,” I proclaim with a firm nod.

  He brings me close to his body, so I can feel exactly just how much all that tickling affected him. My hands roam on his shoulders, linger on the rough canvas of the lion that was once carved into his skin. He welcomes the attention with a purr, and I feel the mood shift. “I’m thinking,” March begins, “that this is perhaps the only place in the world where no one will call or barge in.” His body moves atop mine as he goes on. “Additionally, I checked under the bed and determined we are sloth free.”

  I press a trembling kiss to his chin and tug at his underwear. “What about the men in black? What if they knock to get their capsule back?”

  He stifles a strained laugh in the crook of my neck. “I’ve reached a point where I’m shooting whoever interrupts us. Human or animal. No exceptions.”

  “You’re a menace to society.”

  I think he says, “Indeed,” but the word gets lost in a deep, meticulous kiss that leaves no part of my mouth uncharted. I feel my panties slipping down my legs, the caress of his hands as he helps them past my ankles. I hold on to him and lose track of time, forget everything but our skins gliding, our hands and lips exploring urgently.

  I’ll be eternally grateful to the lewd engineers who first explored the pod’s potential, because we quickly reach a point where each touch is simultaneously too much and not enough. March’s breaths become husky sighs. He says we really need a condom, but his hands won’t listen, caressing my thighs and bringing my hips ever closer to his. How we manage to stop kissing long enough to disentangle ourselves, I have no idea.

  It’s a strange pause, a few seconds of shivering anticipation, when he moves away to take a little blue foil packet from the pod’s medical kit. I’m not really scared, but I become aware of my inexperience; everything feels new, the smell of the condom, the way March’s body molds to mine with intent. I look into his eyes, finding tenderness and hesitation that mirror mine, and I know that bond is all I’ll ever need.

  My heart beats fast, elated, and when the pain comes, I embrace it. I bury my head in the crook of March’s shoulder, breathing a little sweat and tasting salt. It’s done, and that single precious moment belongs to us both.

  Above me, March isn’t moving yet. I feel the tension coiling the muscles in his shoulders; they strain under my palms with the effort to support himself and keep still. “Biscuit, I’m so sorry . . . are you all right?”

  I look up at him and nod, too overwhelmed to form words at the moment. It hurts more than I expected—enough to for me to briefly consider that penetrative intercourse is to foreplay what the Gremlins are to Gizmo, really—but I need him to know that it’s okay, that there’s nothing to apologize for. Because we’re making love.

  I cradle his jaw in my palm and feel it quiver under my fingertips. His features are taut like he’s in pain too . . . but a wonderful kind of pain. Our hands join on the fleece blanket, his lips find mine, and little by little, we learn each other, find our rhythm.

  I let that gentle swell rock me and lose myself in March’s eyes, blue galaxies where his emotions lie bare: the need, the joy. The pleasure. All too soon, he strains against me, draws in a hissing breath, and I know it’s over. He’s falling from the stars, and I hold him all the way down, until his body grows heavy atop mine, exhausted. He rolls over, his hand never letting go of mine, even in that sweet aftermath.

  Curling against him, I listen to my own breathing and feel my heart rate slowing down with a sense of wonderment. From a purely physical point of view, it wasn’t exactly stars and satellites, but nonetheless, a giant step for all twenty-six-year-old girls named Island who love their hit man boyfriend . . . Also, to be honest, my lower regions are tingling quite a bit, and not just from the lingering ache. That whole Lego business does sound very promising.

  After he’s recovered from the high, March draws the blanket over us, and his thumb swipes at my cheeks. “I’m sorry . . . I hurt you.”

  I lick a salty drop from my upper lip. I didn’t realize I’ve been crying. I shake my head. “Not that much.”—I swallow back more stupid tears—“I think it was awesome.”

  He draws me close, wrapping his arms around me like a safe cocoon. “You’re too generous with me. I’m sorry that you didn’t . . . that it wasn’t quite—”

  “It was the best sex I ever had,” I say to rescue him, burying a smile in the holy rug covering his pectorals.

  I feel his laughter rumble through his chest. “The things you do to my ego, Miss Chaptal . . .”

  We stay like this for a while, sated, sleepy, cuddling and whispering to each other the silly things you can say to someone who officially knows every square inch of your body. I can’t say we’re really concerned about who will come to recover the pod or when—the later the better.

  That is, until a distant droning reaches us through the thick titanium walls. I prop myself on my elbows to glance through the window . . . and fall back with a groan.

  “Helicopter?” March asks, rather rhetorically.

  “Yeah.”

  “Biscuit, I’m afraid we have to give the pod back.”

  I stifle a hiss of pain as I get up—I didn’t realize I was that sore . . . “I’m keeping the toothpaste and the underwear.”

  “I’m certain they won’t mind,” March concedes with a wink before reluctantly slipping back into the pressure suit. Because it’s those or greeting the men in black in our birthday suits instead.

  As the droning grows in intensity, we open the pod’s air lock. March jumps onto the inflatable raft to check on Bahjin, who remained safely roped and gagged. He looks fine, but I still feel a little guilty that we left him outside like that while we . . . Well, he was going to nuke a US airbase after all.

  As expected, a navy blue helicopter is hovering above our heads, the wind of its rotor raising a crystalline mist around us and swaying the raft gently. When the ladder drops down, my knees quiver, and I hesitate. For all I know, that’s another first for me, and I thought the US government had secure procedures for this kind of stu
ff rather than G.I. Joe–style stunts. But I remind myself that I broke the sound barrier twice today. I flex the couple of muscles in my arms. I can do this.

  March helps me latch on to the ladder, and I try my best to ignore the way it swings back and forth as I climb, one torturous rung after another, with the wind lashing at my face. And, for the love of Raptor Jesus, I repeat to myself, don’t look down. Don’t!

  I inwardly squeal in relief when I feel strong hands taking mine and helping me inside the chopper. It takes me less than a second to figure what’s wrong though. It’s the black fatigues every man is wearing that tip me off. Or maybe the fact that behind their sunglasses, none of these guys seem genuinely pleased to see me. March’s expression too darkens when he reaches the top of the ladder and discovers the rescue team.

  I’m not entirely certain that those Lions flew all the way to Nassau to congratulate me on successfully murdering their commander.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE TEMPLE

  Okay, let’s not panic. I count six men—two in the front and four in the back, all armed with worryingly elaborate assault rifles. A couple of them sandwiched us after strapping us tightly to our seats. One of them took March’s gun and scanned us quickly with some kind of flashlight—a handheld metal detector, I suspect. Another went down the ladder to go get Bahjin, whose smiling face appears in the doorway. After the Lion is done helping him into the back seat opposite to ours, Bahjin winks at us with a shrug. I grit my teeth and glare at him in return. We should have let that asswipe get eaten by seagulls . . .

  Goose bumps prickle all over my body as the rest of the men stare at us through their sunglasses. Black-gloved fingers await on the triggers of their weapons, and you could cut the tension in the cabin with a knife—which of course they brought, I note with a wince, spotting the incurved hilt of a karambit tucked into one of the men’s tactical vest. March places a hand on my shoulder and sits still. I think he knows better than to try something for now . . .

  Bahjin turns to the Lion sitting next to him, a guy with a short blond beard—their leader, maybe? It’s subtle, but there’s something in that guy’s features that suggests he’s more relaxed than the rest of his little gang. Yep, that one’s in charge.

  “Strength and honor!” Bahjin barks happily over the roar of the rotor as the chopper flies away from our little pod.

  Blond-beard remains silent. He searches the pockets of his tactical vest for something. I barely have the time to identify a syringe before he casually stabs Bahjin’s neck. Bahjin’s eyes go wide, and his mouth works in vain for a couple of seconds before he passes out.

  “Could never stand that kid,” Blond-beard shouts to our attention.

  Obviously. I gulp, wondering whether we’re next. Rather than playing doctor though, the Lion sitting to my left lowers his rifle and opens a compartment between our seats to retrieve two headsets. He hands me one while his colleagues ostensibly aim at March when he reaches to take his—at least they’re learning from their brothers’ mistakes. I adjust my headset hesitantly. In the opposite seat, Bahjin has been reduced to a ragdoll held together by his seatbelt’s strap, his head lolling gently against the headrest. I don’t know what to make of all this. I thought they were basically here to rescue Bahjin and take us prisoner, but I pick up . . . mixed signals.

  “Better?” Blond-beard asks with the hint of a smile once the headset is secured on my head.

  “Is this an invitation we are free to refuse?” March asks coldly.

  Blond-beard’s lips quirk through the golden bristles, and he replies, “I was told the lady would be well rewarded for her attendance.”

  I try to read his eyes through the sunglasses, to no avail. Are we talking rewarded as in free T-shirt or rewarded as in Ha-ha-ha, a slow death shall be your reward, traitor?

  In a moment of rare self-awareness and honesty, March stares into the guy’s sunglasses and replies, “If you hurt her, I will kill you all. I will carve up every single one of you until there’s only meat left.”

  I freeze in my seat when two barrels rise to point at his head in response.

  “So I’ve heard,” Blond-beard says, the r rolling softly off his tongue. “But there’ll be none of that. We’re here to deliver a peace offer.”

  “From who?” I probe cautiously.

  He shrugs one big shoulder. “You’re gonna have to follow us to find out.”

  “What guarantee do I have that Island will be safe?” March retorts.

  “You have the word of a Lion, broer. Isn’t that enough?”

  Now that’s a good question, and one that does not call for an honest answer, for the stark truth might vex our new friends. So, I pinch my lips, and really, March’s disdainful glare speaks for itself. The rest of the flight is spent in religious silence, under the calm scrutiny of Blond-beard and his bros. Holding March’s hand, I watch through the helicopter’s windows as the sun sets over Nassau, painting pristine beaches and luxurious resorts with shimmering gold and coral pinks.

  Beneath us, the airport comes into view, and soon enough, we land at the end of a runway where a lonely black jet awaits us. I have this incongruous thought that if this was a romance book, a muscled billionaire would be awaiting us in the jet to fly us to the other end of the world and do filthy things to us in the privacy of some well-guarded mansion. But the only muscles are those of our deadpan escorts, and I don’t think March would want to surrender to a billionaire anyway.

  “You’ll have breakfast in Paris,” Blond-beard announces before one of the men takes our headsets, and the helicopter’s door opens.

  March and I exchange a look. Paris. Where Dries sent Isiporho and Dominik . . . Where the answers await?

  “Let’s see this through,” March says softly. “I’m with you. Whatever happens . . . I’ll be with you.”

  I give his hand a squeeze as Blond-beard and his men escort us toward the jet. “I know,” I murmur. “I’m not scared.”

  It’s when I reach the airstair that I notice they’re not taking Bahjin with us. His prone body just got loaded into the back of a white van that stopped a few yards away from the helicopter.

  “What are they going to do with him?” I ask Blond-beard.

  He shrugs one big shoulder. “He has a date of his own.”

  I wouldn’t exactly call it an answer . . . March’s hand rests on my back, a silent encouragement to leave Bahjin to face his own judgment. But that little speck of guilt at the back of my mind simply won’t be ignored. “Are they going to kill him?” I insist.

  “No,” Blond-beard replies with a finality that suggests I’m gonna have to take a Lion’s word for it.

  At last, March and I follow him up the airstair and inside the jet. Unlike the Queen’s little flying palace, this plane, while comfortable in its own right, speaks of sobriety. Beige factory furniture, simple plastic closets, and a tiny lavatory that will at least allow for a little cleaning up if no one pulls out a gun and says, “No water for you.” But I don’t think they’re going to do that. We’re guests after all, formally invited and stuff, and this is no kidnapping, since everyone here boarded of their own free will. Perhaps to better live that lie, a younger Lion goes to retrieve clothes wrapped in plastic from a closet after takeoff. He hands them to us and flicks his head to the lavatory.

  See? Five-star service, not a kidnapping at all.

  Half an hour later, I’ve freshened up, and I’m wearing a knee-length blue cashmere dress and elegant high-heeled pumps that look like a wardrobe malfunction on me. I come out of the lavatory to find March similarly disguised, in a dark suit that’s really not him at all. But the dimples creasing his cheeks when he sees me, they’re his, and it’s all I need.

  When it becomes clear that our hosts still won’t talk to us, I curl up in my seat and fall asleep, safe at March’s side.

  •••

  I’m floating in the dark with Anies, each crease and angle of his face sculpted by the red light. He’s looking dow
n at me, and his hands are around my neck, squeezing. I gasp for air in the void of space. I’m cold, and there’s no way out, no knife, no one to save me . . . March!

  I jerk upright in my seat and directly into March’s welcoming arms.

  His palm rubs my back in soothing circles. “It’s all right, biscuit; we’re landing.”

  As my heart slows down, I massage my eyes with the heels of my palms, fighting a slight headache. Through the window, I see a gray tarmac glistening with rain. That’s Paris all right, where all colors fade between November and April, and the asphalt is the same color as the sky—which also happens to perfectly match the buildings and the ashen faces of the Parisians.

  I realize with a derisive smile that this is, yet again, one of the things I can’t remember ever learning. But I’ve been here before; I can tell. The strange concrete curves of Roissy Airport’s massive dome are familiar, as is the heavy French accent of the ground attendant who welcomes us. She seems perfectly unfazed at the sight of a bunch of paramilitary creeps pouring from the jet—she must be used to seeing much worse. Prince of Thailand worse.

  I hesitate to ask whether we should be showing passports somewhere, but Blond-beard and his bros behave like they own the place, and that pair of French cops actually opens the gates to the parking area for us—the things you can accomplish in this world with a dash of glamour and corruption . . . We’re led to a pair of dark Mercedes SUVs. Blond-beard sits across from us in the back, along with the young goon who gave us the clothes. It’s hard to tell because of the glasses, but I pick up a sense of self-satisfaction in the air. We glide away from the tarmac in solemn silence, until all of a sudden, in the speakers, Selena Gomez’s voice starts cooing sensual encouragements to kill us with kindness.

  Blond-beard jerks in his seat. March’s and my brows rise in sync when the smoked-glass partition separating us from the driver slides down, and he barks, “Louis, we’re working here.”