Page 119 of The Devil's Deceit
“What, so you could kill me? We all have survivor’s instinct, Charles.”
“And we all make choices,” Dad hits back. “All you did was delay the inevitable. You know how The Consortium works. If we hadn’t lucked out with Grace recognizing you and calling Christian, we would have caught up to you eventually.”
George pushes to his feet, a hint of defiance in his eyes as he stands before my father. “What happens now? You slit my throat? Shoot me? Leave me in here to rot? What, Charles?”
A small smile lifts the corners of Dad’s mouth. “That’s not my decision to make.”
Two deep lines pop between George’s eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
Dad backs off and stands right next to Xan. He puts his hand between Xan’s shoulder blades. “The decision of whatto do with you lies withmyson.” His smile widens. “And believe me, if you think he’s the better choice, you have one hell of a wakeup call coming your way.”
Dad’s hand shifts up, and he squeezes Xan’s shoulder. “So, son. What say you?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ALEXANDER
The slog up four flights of stairs takes what little energy I have left out of my legs. By the time I make it to the suite of rooms I share with my wife, it’s only the wall that’s keeping me upright. I feel as though I’ve been picked up and tossed about by a tornado, and it’s just spat me back onto the ground.
Imogen rises to greet me the second I stumble through the door, concern etched into every beautiful inch of her face. She flings her arms around me and buries her nose in my neck. “I was so worried.”
I hold onto her, my rock, my anchor. Truly, I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have her to come home to. She makes the worst of days feel manageable, and today is definitely one of the worst.
Or is that yesterday? Ever since Grace called Christian and told him where George and Alice were, time has ceased to exist. I don’t know what day it is, what time, what fucking year. All I do know is that I’m confused. Confused, angry,and so fucking bitter that the acid in my throat is choking me.
“Come and sit before you fall down.”
“I will in a minute. Let me kiss Sasha goodnight first.” I have an overwhelming urge to hold my son, to smell his special baby smell, and remind myself that the world isn’t all shit.
The flash of understanding that crosses my wife’s face is just one more thing I love about her. She’s not here demanding I tell her what’s happened with my uncle, just offering her solid support and giving me the space I need to process.
The nursery is bathed in a soft, buttery glow from a lamp in the corner. I cross over to Sasha’s cot, and the smile that etches across my face as I peer at him comes easily. He’s my world. Him and Imogen and, one day, I hope a brother or sister. It never ceases to amaze me how I fought for so long not to have kids and now… I could not imagine a life without them in it.
“Hey, baby boy.” I lean over the cot and kiss his forehead, breathing him in. I let my lips linger for a second or two. “You make everything worth it.”
I’m tempted to pick him up, but I don’t want to wake him. I run a hand over his mop of dark hair, then straighten, but I can’t bring myself to leave just yet. I lose track of time as I watch him sleep, his little chest rising and falling with every breath. I could stand here forever and never get bored.
Imogen silently comes to join me, resting her head on my shoulder as we stare at the baby we made in abject wonder. I thought I knew what love was. I thought my deep-rooted grief at losing Annabel and my mother was proof I loved profoundly and fiercely. But the love I have formy wife and son is something else entirely. If anything happened to them it would be the end of me.
“Do you want to talk or go to bed? I’m okay if you want to sleep. You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted, but I think I’m too wired to sleep.”
“Then, at least come sit on the couch. If you fall down in here, you’re sleeping on the floor. I’m not putting my back out trying to lift you.” She grins at me, and my heart squeezes.
I slide my hand around the back of her neck and steal a kiss. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” she whispers. “Now, move your ass, mister, because if you wake the baby, I am telling you now, I will not be happy.”
“I love it when you scold me. Turns me on.” I turn her to face the door and slap her backside as she moves off.
She lets out a tiny squeal, then gives me one of her power glares over her shoulder. I chuckle, following her into the living room.
While I sit, she fetches me a glass of brandy. Alcohol probably isn’t the best idea, but as the warm liquid trickles down my throat and settles in my stomach, the tension riding my shoulders eases off, and I can breathe that little bit easier.
Imogen sits beside me and lifts one of my hands into her lap, brushing her thumb over my knuckles. “Well, there are no bruises, so I’m guessing he’s still alive.”
“He is. For now.”
