Serenity's Key Read online

  His brow furrowed again as, once more, the messaging service engaged. Hmm. Where was she hiding? Not that she would be in too much trouble as long as she hadn’t encountered Jon. She was astute, sharp. She would have found somewhere by now, settled herself, perhaps presented what money she had on her and checked herself into a hotel. She most certainly had not received his message to bring herself to this apartment if needed, because she was not here. Although, she wouldn’t, would she? How could she watch out for Claire if she were here? Decent she most definitely was, which confused the Alexander conundrum yet further.

  Musings some more, he gazed at the emerald and diamond necklace on his mother’s throat, wondering where it was. Perhaps in the safe in Rome? Or was it with his father? He could not remember, or had perhaps chosen to forget when it was the only remnant of herself she’d left to him in her will. That and this damn painting—her perverse retaliation at her own death, he was sure. Her way of ensuring he would see her every time he looked at it, or emeralds of any merit. However, with Lilah in his mind while he gazed at the painting, the green eyes became somehow murkier, clouded with another’s. He felt his heart slow at the thought, felt it calm to a more pleasant rate. He smiled to himself and let the sensation traverse his skin, just as she did, and finally noticed the slight calming of his cock, too. Its ache became less ferocious, more akin to what he felt when her lips were on his. Beautiful. Serene. Quietly galvanising his innards to a more pleasurable existence. She was still a slut, though.

  “Omm, koffie?”

  “Ja,” he replied, still musing visions of loveliness and fingers angels would weep for. Those collarbones, the way she moved, the insistent way she probed, piercing the heart he’d thought only beat for one man. “And English, Thomas. Although, it is becoming more fluid now.”

  “We are in Berlin, Omm. Why do you insist upon English?” He turned on the boy and ambled his way to a blue chaise lounge, avoiding the cane stand as he did. Fucking canes. Never would he hold one again. Why he was so bereft without it given its appalling behaviour was quite the quandary. He sat and untied his shoes, readying himself for a shower and his finest hunting kit. He had women to find, and foxes to kill.

  “English is known the world over. You will deal in English, trade in it. You will learn it as your first language and leave the other languages for your emotions to play with, hmm?” He pulled the brogues from his feet and sighed, standing again and moving through the lounge to clasp his espresso. “Not that I would counsel burdening yourself with any sentiment beyond boredom and amusement.” The boy smiled at him and carried on fiddling around his kitchen, seemingly thinking it needed tidying. “What are you doing? I have maids for such activities.” The boy carried on, which was positively ridiculous given their current circumstances. They had women to hunt and he moved pans around. “Thomas, this is a kitchen. Get out of it. You are more than you were. This hesitation must stop. We have hunting to do, and fiddling with inanimate objects, unless for sexual play, is inconsequential at present.” Moronic child. He huffed and swung himself back out of the kitchen area to head back into the lounge, hearing footsteps following. Thankfully, the boy was beginning to understand his new place in society, which was well above where it once was. “There is a brown three piece in my closet. Put it on, and shine your shoes. They are most distressed. Berlin will not see me falter because of your incapacity. You are my second. Behave as such.” It was bad enough that the inbreds might believe him lowered in status because of Alexander. He would not have himself tarnished yet more by upstarts who did not know the correct way to dress. That reminded him to send the boy to Packshiltz while they were there if they had any time. At the very least, the boy would be fully tailored before either of them were killed. “And call Herman Packshiltz for the measuring of your scrawny ass.”

  “Yes, Omm.”

  Hmm.

  He pulled in long breaths and headed into his suite, where he could at least refresh himself and find some order in the chaos before beginning his hunting expedition. He had to find Lilah. Nothing had come through on email, no calls either. He stabbed at his phone again, sending out several sharp emails and messages to various people regarding their findings, then began stripping himself of a two day old suit, which would have been jettisoned instantly but for the sweet smell of Lilah lingering on it. He held the shirt to his face, breathing her in as a newborn would its first breath. Her perfume mingled with the other spice-ridden scent—Alexander. Even in a hospital, the man managed to hold on to his overriding notes of sandalwood and cinnamon. The mixture of the two was near debilitating as it ebbed its way through his innards, reminding him of the two of them together.

  He slung the thing on the floor and ripped at his trousers, flinging them to join the discarded shirt before grasping hold of his cock for relief as he moved into the bathroom.

  The shower spray reminded him of Lilah scalding her sins from her body, so he ramped the lever up to match her sensations, and then turned it yet more. The pelting of the scorching water caused him to moan in torment, bracing his hand on the wall for balance. Tension flooded him with the very first pull on himself, which immediately caused his balls to rise. He pulled again, slowly, exposing the head of his cock to the burning water and letting it linger. Pain assaulted him instantly, not only from the water but from the need to empty himself. Just the thought of them together in their sordid way had him nearly exploding. He tugged again, more vigorously this time, shoving the skin back and forth to create bliss as the scalding rain kept coming. He was assaulted by visions of his beloved’s hands holding him viciously on his knees, her lips caressing him as he fucked her that morning. Her mouth around his cock, her slender fingers linked with his. His beloved’s eyes, that scowl of his when he was displeased. And his lips, too. Those never ending fucking lips of his. Licking themselves at him and holding themselves back from just taking what he wanted. When would he fucking take it? The damned man needed pushing to get on with it. He longed to feel Alexander buried inside him, longed for that finalisation. There would be nothing after that. Just the two of them, fucking, often. Without Elizabeth or Lilah.

  On and on he drove his hand, grasping tighter to increase the pressure, causing that bite of pain he needed to finish himself off. He tried to dismiss her eyes, tried to let Alexander alone consume him, but it was pointless. She was still there. He could hear her voice. ‘Fuck me like you mean it.’

  He would have fucked her in every damn hole she had. Brutally. He’d have loved her, adored her, made love to her, given her the fucking world had she not fucked Alexander, too. He would even have given her that in time, shared her when they were consummated more succinctly.

  Slut.

  The water sluiced around his face, feeding him with hot tears of destruction as he finally felt his morbid expulsion race through him to exit. He quickened his pace again, feeling his legs burning with the struggle to remain upright as he yanked ferociously, flicking and grunting with the effort as he leant his forehead against the tiles. Fucking man. Fucking woman. No more would he let her in, no matter how far she probed and pushed. This would be the last expulsion of her. She would not break into him again. He groaned as it shot from him and grabbed his balls, twisting them to cause more pain and letting the sentiment garner itself inside as his knees gave way beneath him. He would remember this last time, remember its effect on his body and soul. Let it cleanse him of her power over his mind. Only one would have that power over him from now on. Alexander. Just Alexander.

  Silence settled around him. There was only the delicate falling of the water and his panting beneath it. The last of Lilah was gone, driven out and discarded. He would simply use her to find his daughter. No more. Why her eyes were still so prevalent within the small space was unknown. He opened his own and stared at the cream tiles, watching the water tumble down its surface through the circulating steam as he continued stroking himself. Up and down, his grip was less tense now that he’d rid himself of the inevitable
. He massaged his cock again, letting the water rinse away any last trace of his come, making certain every last drop was tossed down into the drains, where it belonged, along with his soul.

  “Omm?” His head spun round, and he glared at the door to the bathroom. Thankfully, the boy had not dared encroach on the marble area. He closed his eyes at the intrusion, sighing as he raised himself to his feet and turned the shower down to a more palatable level. Hopefully, if he ignored the boy he would disappear and just give him five minutes to think. Alone. “Omm, I cannot find the suit.” He rolled his eyes and finished his quest to cleanse, then switched the shower off and grasped a towel to wrap around his waist. Some levels of decency were required around family. Thomas’ eyes widened somewhat as he walked out into the suite, enough so that he looked down at himself to see why.

  “Is there an issue I should be aware of?” he asked, scanning his frame and finding nothing unusual.

  “No, it’s just... You’re fitter than I thought. And what are those scars?”

  “None of your business,” he grumbled, crossing to find the suit for the boy, also pulling another of his most regal outfits out.

  “How do you stay so fit? Most men your age are–” the boy began. Pascal turned sharply and raised a brow. Age was not to be discussed under any circumstance. It was enough to halt the boy’s mouth in its tracks.

  “I fuck, Thomas. There is much fucking. Strenuously so.”

  “Oh.” Oh, indeed. Fucking child. He turned back to the wardrobe and selected a tie, bypassing every colour that hinted at green or grey and revelling in a scarlet one that caught his eye along with the matching shirt. Unfortunately, that only furthered the fire in her damned eyes, too. He grasped at them anyway and tossed them onto the bed, carefully drawing out his black long-tailed suit at the same moment.

  “Where are my boots?” he asked, scanning the floor and running his hands through his wet hair.

  “In the corner, Omm. By the armoire,” Thomas replied, wandering past him and taking the brown suit Pascal offered.

  He closed the door behind the boy and busied himself with getting dressed, choosing to ignore her constant interruptions in his mind as he did. Then he stood in front of the mirror to check his appearance. Much better. Cleansed. Ready for battle. He smirked at his hair. It was longer now, enough so that he could tie it back a little, so he opted to do just that. He missed his long hair, missed its ability to be grasped and tugged when necessary. Not that many tugged it—not unless he allowed them that privilege. Lilah could, though. He would let her forever yank at his scalp and control it if she chose to, then kiss away his memories one by one with those infuriating lips of hers. He growled at himself and grabbed a black band to create a small tail. It wasn’t nearly as effective as his previous length, but it would grow.

  He slid his long boots on then finally tugged his tie into position, clasping the pin through it and reaching for his pocket watch. It was time to galvanise himself once more. Hunting was afoot, and he would do it in complete control of himself—with dignity, despite the utter devastation rallying his innards. No one stole that which was precious to him. No one had ever survived after instigating war with the house of Van Der Braack. They would not this time either, when he eventually found the bastard.

  He strode out of the suite, nodding at Thomas as an indication that the boy had dressed himself correctly. He looked almost imperial standing there with his chin aloft. Perhaps, had he a better name than the one he currently wore, he would have been more suitably noticed.

  “You should change your name, Thomas.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Van Der Braack would give you more power. Clostocker has little relevance. It will take you an eternity to get yourself heard.”

  “You would allow that?” the boy replied, mouth slightly agape and fragility marring his solidity. Pascal narrowed his gaze at the vision of weakness. It would have to go. He would drive that out of the boy with an extremely firm hand, and quickly. “I thought the family would have to agree, that maybe there would have to be a formality.”

  “Not. You would only need my signature to procure access to its privileges,” Pascal replied, nodding at the family crest on the mantelpiece and wondering what, if anything, those privileges were, apart from the ability to acquire anything. He was not entirely sure that was because of the family name, though, or whether it was down to his own criminal connections over the years.

  “If you think I’m worthy, Omm.”

  “It is not I that must believe it, Thomas. It is yourself, hmm? Are you worthy?” he said, reaching for his cape and immediately crossing for the cane stand without thought. “We have castles and luxuries abundant. We are royal, Thomas. Are you?”

  The boy simply stood there in a state of shock. The sight of him had Pascal amused at his own offering. Giving his own name away was somewhat akin to adopting the boy. However, boy he was not. He was a man—a man who would need every service available over the coming year. If giving him a name worthy of credence would aid his accession then so be it. The sooner this ended and Pascal could back away to find his own peace, the better. Claire needed him to be a father, not a man of dubious intent who founded kink empires. He scanned Thomas again and then looked at the door, thinking of the journey that would take them to Eden to retrieve weapons and sanity. They would organise themselves. They would corral thoughts of damage and destruction. Men would be made and alliances forged, or broken given the circumstances. They would hunt. Track. Work in unison to save his child and the woman he still loved, no matter how much he pushed the very notion away.

  “We shall walk out as a team, yes? Two Van Der Braacks of the same mind, both wiling to succumb to death’s embrace for the survival of our name, hmm? What do you say?”

  It was humbling in some ways to watch the boy nod, lift his head higher and stride towards his future. He had much to learn if he survived the next few days. Many bemusements would befall him. And many, many interruptions on his sanity would impinge on his well-being. However, he had a strong heart, one that would harden over time and find its own path to amusement. It would need to endure such visions that were reaching for him. Life in these positions offered little true happiness, but what they lacked in honesty and beauty, they very much made up for in debauchery. He chuckled and followed the boy, closing the door behind him as he strode along and whistled the tune to ‘Oranges and Lemons’ as he went.

  “Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

  Chip chop, chip chop, the last man’s dead.”

  Amusing indeed.

  Chapter 2

  Stretching my arms again, I stare out of the window and continue to watch the hotel across the road. I’m not really sure where I am, but it’s a small district on the outskirts of Berlin somewhere. An affluent one. There are only a few houses dotted around and they’re all ginormous, with ornate architecture and large gates.

  The taxi followed the limousine all the way from the airport, and eventually I stopped it when I saw them pull up and walk into the Strazborg Excelsior, Roxanne carrying Claire.

  It seems to be a complex of some sort, because I, too, am in the Strazborg Excelsior, but a different building on the opposite side of the road. Why it’s called Strazborg given that we’re in Berlin, I don’t know or care. I’m too tired to give a damn. All night on the plane, I watched them quietly. Actually, I think I may have fallen asleep for an hour or so, but it wasn’t long enough, and then I kept my eyes firmly focused on the black limo as it travelled its way here, and now I’ve started my watch from this window.

  They took enough cash from me at the desk for the night and let me have the last remaining room, which happens to be a junior suite, but that’s it now. There’s nothing left. I have managed to order room service of a hamburger and chips, at least. Pascal will have to deal with that when I find the peace of mind to call him. I have at least fifteen missed calls, four messages, and a lot of texts. I didn’t know. I lost power on my phone
on the plane at some point and couldn’t charge it until I got here. That’s not strictly true. I ignored the first four because I was far too irritated with him for making me do this to speak to him. Not that he did, in reality. I could have said no, but Claire’s crying eyes pulled me in, and Pascal’s pleading was nearly enough to scare me because he sounded worried, very worried. So here I sit, not daring to shower or even move from this window any more than absolutely necessary in case they leave and I miss it.

  Dipping my last chip into the mayonnaise, I look down at the phone again and sigh. I travelled this far for him so I might as well get on with calling him so that I can go home. Hopefully, he’ll just give me enough money to cover what I borrowed from Alexander and then I can get on with my plan again, which does not involve him. Whatever has happened is done now, over. That’s what I chose. I just want to get on with the rest of my life.

  I pick the phone up and turn it over in my hands, hearing his voice before I’ve even made the call. I can feel him again, crawling around inside me and saying he loves me as he rolls all those words around in his mouth.

  “Do you believe I do?”

  I thought I did. Maybe I still do a bit, and there’s no denying I still love him regardless of this mess. It doesn’t make any difference, though, does it? He almost killed a good man and called me a whore when he accused me of sleeping with Alexander. Then he chained me up in a dungeon and sprayed his come on me as if I were worthless, rubbing it into my face as he did. It’s still all the same, isn’t it? Nothing’s changed, regardless of this little detour. I stare back out of the window again and search for any movement. There’s still nothing as the dawn starts to break over the horizon behind the white stone façade, just a quiet hotel and a few workers milling around. Oh God, I’m tired. I need some sleep. I need to get back on a plane to the UK and sleep the whole way there. That’s what I need, and soon.