Page 85 of His Pretty Little Duet

“I’ll leave you to it then,” the doctor says, offering Clay his hand to shake, but when Clay ignores his gesture, turning his attention to me, the doctor pretends he didn’t and walks from the room.

Worrying my bottom lip, I peer back up at him, meeting the blue gaze of the most powerful man in the city, maybe the country. “You brought me tampons, Sir?”

"Pads, actually." My hands meet my face as my cheeks engulf in fire, but he doesn’t allow me to dwell, saying, “You will let me take care of you how I see fit. That isn’t a request.”

Fawn

My abdomen coils and throbs,never letting up with the reminder I’m having my period for the first time in months. Skipping along with the discomfort is the fact that my bags are in the boot, and we have been on this country road for an hour, heading to an unknown-to-me destination.

I've never even left the District.

I might have been excited if I could feel more than the sadness clouding my mind, sitting heavily atop all other thoughts.

As I look down at Clay’s hand on my thigh, his fingers dipping into my skin in a gentle, commanding hold, I reach for happiness, for excitement.I remember wanting this moment, wanting to feel someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh. An indication the relationship is real. Itisreal. I wish I could appreciate it more but the swing of my mood only sways from sad to guilt and back again.

I peer back out of the window, trying not to let my emotions show, trying to veil them in a mask of fatigue. Clay stares at me; the feel of his gaze is everything and so much more, but not enough to ebb the hormones firing through me.

The road is hilly. I have never seen trees so high they weave above the road, creating an organic canopy, only breached by strobes from the sun. It’s so fucking beautiful, and as we veer left onto a dirty road, a bespoken wood and stone house stands in the distance.

We cross from dusty red roads into lush greenery and manicured gardens, and I can’t silence my mother’s voice in my head as she lectures me about sustainable water protocol.

“What is this place?” I ask, my knees pressed against the passenger door as I gaze through the tinted glass. We are approaching a lavish manor-style homestead that looks like it's plucked straight from the country in England and dumped in the District's outback. Through the vast glass frontage, a fire dances from within a floor-to-ceiling stone hearth. “Do you own this house?”

Following my gaze out the window, as though to check the subject of my inquiry, he says, “Yes, sweet girl. I used to come here when I needed to get away from the District. I haven't for many years, now. Do you like it?"

I sigh. It reminds me of a house I saw on this renovation show, where the owner was a carpenter, and he made the entire thing out of trees from his property. It took him ten years, but the house was so detailed, so unique. Luxury meets charm. I like it. “Well, yeah. I do. But it doesn’t scream Clay Butcher. It actually looks like it might be comfortable—shock horror.Quick get the kids into the shelter because the world must be coming to an end."

He hums his response to my joke. The car pulls into a large garage with stone cladding, the roller doors on automation, opening before us and closing behind. “Myworld, perhaps—my work cannot end in the city,” he says, unclipping his belt just as his door opens, his personal assistant, Que, on the other side. “And as you so eloquently pointed out, all I am is business.Well, I rarely have anything more important than the business to prioritise."

He steps from the car and the door closes on his shadow. It's suddenly quiet. And even a metal sheet separating us fills me with an urgency to get out and into the same air as him.

Breathing deeply, I watch him circle around the back and open my door. He leans across me, enveloping me in that scent that is allhim, and unbuckles my belt. “And now you do?” I ask as he straightens outside the car. When I step out, I come within an inch of his formidable wall of muscles.

“And now I do.” Staring down at me with undeniable affection and flickers of immense possessiveness, he entwines our fingers. Leading me through the garage, he guides me into the house. Flanking us are two of his henchmen carrying our luggage. I really wish I knew their names.

Awe arrows through me when we cross the threshold, stepping into the cavernous space adorned with polished wooden walls, floors, and exposed rafters. It reminds me of a log cabin, only on steroids. It’s wondrous.

On his haunches by the flickering fire, Henchman Jeeves places a log within the hearth. The wood below cracks. He jerks to his feet when he sees me, his face solemn, his brows drawn in as his eyes meet mine. “I’m so sorry, Fawn.”

“Miss Harlow,” Clay demands, and I feel his fingers tense around mine. Not a twitch of restraint. Dead still.

“No.” I squeeze his fingers between mine. “Fawn. Fawn is fine. I can choose what people call me.”

Clay darts his eyes between us while Henchman Jeeves seems to shrink a few feet. I think I’m taller than him now. Clay’s gauging gaze levels the situation, the disapproval ripe on his chiselled face. Then he drops his attention to my lower abdomen. His jaw pulses. “No, you can't. But I'll allow it when you're alone.”

Unlacing our fingers, he moves towards the kitchen. His signature nod directs my gaze to a golden-haired lady rolling dough on the wooden countertop. “This is Julia. She will make you anything you wish to eat...” He pauses and turns that tall, powerful physique to face me. “Even cake, little deer. Anything you want.”

“Fuck.”I half-smile. “If I’d known the baby was keeping cake from me, I would have...” I trail off. The joke burns my tongue. My smile slips. “Too soon.”

Glowing eyes the colour of the ocean on a bright still day soften on my face, and although they are no less commanding, they’re filled with deep sentiment. “Humour is how you deflect, but it’s just as revealing as if you were to cry. I see you, sweet girl. Whatever you need to say or feel will not be judged. By anyone... if they wish to keep all their fingers.”

My heart grows as his words inflate it with that hopefulness I fear. But I don’t want to take a pin to my ballooned heart today. I think I’ll let it float—full of him—for a while. “Was that you deflecting your affections, Sir? With maiming fingers?”

“Such a sweet question. No,” he states, walking towards a wooden door with carvings of a grand Marri tree. “It was a very clear warning for my staff.”

I look at the lady leaning over the kitchen counter for the flour and then to Henchman Jeeves as he stacks wood. They are both going about their business. I’m not at all surprised. I’m sure there is fear circulating this level of compliance and nonchalance; however, there is undeniably also respect.

He nods towards the open door, and I wander through, sensing his soft commanding eyes as they track my movements around the master bedroom that is finished in wood to match the rest of the house. Our clothes are hung in a walk-in style wardrobe, our shoes placed like tiny soldiers below them. A small smile tickles my lips when I see my dreamcatcher hangingfrom the left side post of the bed. He misses nothing... or was that Jasmine's idea? I wonder if she knows what happened, I wonder why she hasn't tried to reach out to me.

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