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“Precisely.”
“And she’s terrified of your rejection. She knows her place here is contingent on pleasing you.”
“It does not do that girl any harm to think there might be consequences for her actions,” Angelo said.
“Uh huh.”
“What, Mark?”
“I don’t think you want someone that smart and reckless feeling disenfranchised, is all.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Sex is a great bonder.”
“It’s also how little Vitalis are made, and as we’ve just farmed our son out to a royal family, maybe we should consider being somewhat more careful with our sperm.”
“We could have been more careful in the first place. Why weren’t we? With no further threat to Tilly from the Spencers, being as they’re both dead, why can’t they come back?”
Bobby asked the question bluntly from the corner of the room where he was lurking.
“You’re the one who told me we couldn’t raise a child, Bobby. You tell me.”
“The truth,” Mark said. “Is that she fell in love. After the New Zealand raid, we took refuge in one of the prince’s homes. He happened to be there, and he and Tilly met. That was that. Love at first sight.”
“Wait. You let some random prince fuck Tilly?” Bobby was horrified. “She’s ours!”
“Tilly owns herself. She’s a woman. A mother After everything she has been through, she had the right to choose her own mate. And she did.”
“Wow. So the two of you let Tilly take the baby and marry some other fucking dude, and you didn’t think to mention that to me?” Bobby was on his feet now, his dark eyes locked on a fierce glower. “I thought there was more to it. I thought…”
“It’s the best option for all concerned.”
“And you get to decide that?”
“Yes. I do,” Angelo said simply. “I decide the fate of all who live here, boy. We just recently had a reminder of that fact, did we not?”
“Gemma’s right. You do treat women like they’re disposable,” Bobby growled. “Tilly’s been married off. The baby has gone with her like he’s the prize in a cereal box. Willow’s dead. Gemma’s been locked in her room for a week, and you haven’t given a single shit.”
Angelo was unmoved by Bobby’s tirade. He could hear strong notes of Gemma in it. The girl was in his boy’s head. She was starting to pull strings. That could not be allowed.
“Just so you know. I’ve been fucking Gemma’s ass,” Bobby announced as if that was the sort of thing one could declare defiantly.
“Have you, boy.”
“Of course I have. She’s mine. So you two can forget whatever designs you had on her or what prince you wanted to trade her to. I’m not giving her up.”
“Possessive, isn’t he?” Mark smiled.
“Very possessive,” Angelo agreed with Mark. “Sweet isn’t it.”
“I don’t think we get to keep anything for ourselves, do we?” Mark asked the question with a hidden wink at Angelo as he teased Bobby.
“You come back, and I’m expected to share?” Bobby scowled. “She’s mine.”
“And you’ve barely spent a minute with her since Mark returned. Go and get her, boy.”
Bobby did not want to get Gemma. Gemma hadn’t been in a good mood since Mark came back. Actually, no. She hadn’t been okay since Willow was shot, and he couldn’t really blame her.
“Gem. We need you…” he swung the door to her room open, only to discover she was not there. Cursing, he went to the window and checked the roof. He was both concerned and relieved to find she was not there either.
A brief search of the house did not reveal her, and so he had to return to Angelo without the requested female in tow.
“She’s gone.”
“She’s probably on the roof.”
“She’s not on the roof. She’s gone. I think she’s run away from home.”
Angelo’s eyes narrowed as he took in that information. “That’s something dogs do. And small children. Women don’t run away from home. They escape their captors. Or they defect back to their handlers.”
Chapter 9
Gemma had stolen a motorcycle.
She hadn’t really meant to steal a motorcycle, but she’d found it just sort of happening to her. First, she’d gone for a walk. Nothing wrong with that. There was a village about an hour’s wander away, and she’d decided to take that walk, sort of like an Austen heroine might.
Then, upon reaching the village, she’d realized that she didn’t have any money to buy ice cream or a cake, which had been a very great disappointment because she was sad, stressed, and then hungry from her walk as well.
She just wanted to sit down somewhere, and that somewhere happened to be on the back of a motorcycle outside a bar that probably wasn’t as seedy as it looked.
Half an hour earlier…
“You sit on my bike, you sit on my cock.”
She turned around to see that the speaker was a very big man with a lot of facial hair that, for the most part, made it look like the hair from his genitals had sort of crawled up to his chin and made a nest there.
