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A few minutes later, together, with my head on his chest, we just start talking, about everything and anything, and we don’t shy away from family. I tell him about the silly nickname “Bird Dog” and my brother. He tells me about learning to fight by beating up Brody, and the stories of their fights are both gasp-worthy and comical. If he’s trying to humanize Brody, it’s not necessary. I know the man in that tower with me was in pain. I know Jax is in pain. I feel it when he’s talking about his family. I feel this man in so many impossible ways.
Ways that will either be the best of my life or the worst. I choose right now to believe he will be the best thing that ever happened to me. Because he feels like more than a lover. He feels like a best friend I’m just getting to know. The kind of best friend a girl could fall in love with.
Chapter fifty-two
Jax
Emma’s body eases against mine, her breathing growing steady. I lay there, with her head on my shoulder, me on my back, listening to her breathe. I don’t bring women to my bed. I damn sure don’t lay awake talking to them for two hours that felt like fifteen minutes, because I enjoyed it so damn much. I shared things with Emma about my family, and even after what Brody did to her tonight, she laughed, she smiled, she teased, and she shared her own stories.
What we didn’t talk about was her near-death experience, which came about in direct relation to Hunter’s death. Nor did I press her about her fear of being tied up because I know where that leads, damn it to hell,I knowwhere it leads. It leads to her ex, York Waters. It leads to me wanting to kill that bastard. Emma has hell in her background and what does Brody do? He pushed his bitterness on her when she already has her own baggage to deal with, outside of ours. Part of me wants to whisk Emma away to someplace luxurious and give the two of us time to figure us out before we deal with family.
I start to replay the call I had with her brother after Hunter died, his push to buy the castle from me now that Hunter was gone. Everything about that call had felt wrong, but then I was burning alive with pain and anger over Hunter’s death. I don’t know how objective I really am about Emma’s family. But then, neither was Hunter those last few months. He was secretive and withdrawn. My mind tracks back to two months before he died, to a day that stands out to me and has haunted me for too damn long.
Pulling the black Jag up to the door of the castle, I hand off the keys to Ross, the rapidly graying doorman who has been with the family since I was a child. A man who most likely knows I bought that car six months ago because it was my father’s car. He loved Jags. He loved black Jags to be specific. And I loved my father.
“Is he in?” I ask, and of course, I mean Hunter, the man of the castle since our father died. The bastard of a brother who dodged my calls the entire two weeks I was in Europe, pimping our brand.
“Yes, sir,” Ross replies tightly. “He’s in.”
In the absence of information is information. When Ross is discreet, there’s a reason for his discretion. His response alone tells me there’s a problem, but I don’t press him. This is how he cares for a sick mother, and I don’t pay his check, though, I gladly would. Hunter inherited. Hunter runs this place. Hunter was always dad’s go-to man.
“Thanks, Ross,” I say. “I’ve got this.”
“I hope so, sir,” he replies, that discretion in place, but the message is clear: there’s a problem just as I feared.
The fucking problem, I think, taking the stairs, is that dad’s go-to man won’t go to anyone else for help. Hunter’s shut everyone out, trying to run everything himself when Dad never ran everything himself. I walk through the motions of greetingthe security guard at the castle door, his presence necessary, simply because of the business done here in the castle. Once I’m past the dungeon-style doors and inside the foyer, I walk to Jill’s office but stop as I hear, “I did what I could do to help. What more do you want from me?”
I round the corner and appear in her doorway. There’s a flicker of shock on her face that tells me my brother doesn’t want to see me. What the hell is going on? “I’ll call you back,” she says to whoever is on the line, and she hangs up. “Our warehouse manager is a pain in the butt.”
Actually, he’s not, but I don’t want to get into that right now. “Where’s Hunter?”
“His office, but—”
I’m already stepping into the main foyer and heading toward the gateway—the circle of archways leading to different parts of the castle. I head down the hallway to my right and up a set of stairs that walks directly into Hunter’s office. He’s not alone. There’s a man sitting in front of his desk, and Hunter is standing up, leaning on his desk, scowling at him. Hunter’s gaze lifts to mine, and for just a moment, I see anger that isn’t meant for the stranger. The man stands up to face me: tall, fit, salt and pepper hair, less salt than pepper.
“Ah well, there he is. The other brother.”
“Who are you?” I demand.
Emma stirs beside me and turns over, and for reasons I could explain but don’t want to, that memory has me wrapping myself around her and holding her tightly. There are things I haven’t told her. There are things Ihaveto tell her. Things that I set aside as unimportant, but I’m not so sure that’s the case anymore. The problem is that I know a whole lot less than I need to know about those things to ensure they don’t place her in danger. If silence would protect her, I’d stay silent, but inthis case, that old saying “what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her” might not be true. That’s not a risk I can take.
Chapter fifty-three
Jax
At some point, I fall asleep, only to wake to the dawn of a new day teasing the skylight above the bed. My nature alarm clock. I reach for the remote on the nightstand, sealing the skylight as to not wake Emma, but it’s too late for me. I’m awake and my mind is already working, which takes me no place that encourages sleep. The only reason I stay in that bed is because Emma’s snuggled close to me, but she’s also the reason I need to get up. I need to deal with my brother. I nuzzle her hair, drawing in the sweet floral scent that I can’t name, but if I could drown in it and her, I’d die a happy man.
I force myself to ease her off of me, and she sinks into my pillow, not her own, never opening her eyes. Despite the incident with my brother last night, she’s relaxed, she feels safe, and that’s not about the castle. That’s about me, that’s about us, and how damn well we connect. I inhale again, and this time, I take in the scent that is part cedar from the giant pillars surrounding the bed and Emma. Don’t ask me how two things mesh so well, but they do. I could get used to this pairing. I could wake up to it every day, but of course, she lives in San Francisco, and Ilive here in Maine. Not to mention that she’s a Knight and I’m a North. And while the names don’t matter to me, and I know they don’t to her, nothing about the two of us together is as simple as what I want or what she wants it to be.
Because we are the sum of lies.
Lies we didn’t tell.
Lies we tell ourselves if we say the history between our families doesn’t matter. Hell, I lied, too. I lied to Emma and to myself. My hands settle on my hips as I contemplate the cutting reality of that silent confession. My reasons for seeking out Emma didn’t end just because I’ve decided I need her in my life. I went to her seeking closure. I was looking for an ending, besides my brother’s death, that I will never believe was suicide. I don’t even know what that means or where it leads any of us, but what I do know, is the end has to come. Everything in my gut says I need to control how that happens before someone else gets hurt. That someone was almost Emma last night. The reality here is that Emma and I coming together might well be a great igniter, and the idea that I don’t know what that means sets me in motion. I walk to the bathroom and then the closet, freshen up a bit, and then with the intention of grabbing our bags, I throw on sweats, a T-shirt and sneakers.
By the time I’m done, the bedroom remains dark with Emma still sleeping soundly. I head into the kitchen and call down to the morning crew, arranging to have our bags delivered. I then set the doorbell to ring on my phone only so it won’t wake up Emma. She needs to rest, and I need to think. By the time I’ve set-up a pot of coffee to brew, the buzzer on my phone goes off, which means the bags have arrived. I could buzz open the door and have the bags left downstairs or brought up to the kitchen, but life has taught me to value my privacy, my brother’s suspicious death, driving home that lesson. I head downstairsand open the door to greet the visitor, surprised to find Ross standing there, already in uniform.
“You’re here early,” I comment, as he sets the bags inside the doorway, and I back up enough to allow him to enter. “I thought you hated mornings.”
