Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (33 page)

Chapter 46.
Morgan Wyndsong. New York City. December 19
^th
 

Rama
Is Sitting In An Empty Office.
The sun is setting, casting long shadows across
the city that has adopted him. A cup of hot tea sits next to him and he's
wearing black sweat pants and a t-shirt with the Morgan Estates logo emblazoned
on them. The casual clothing and his wet hair and bare feet all combine to make
him appear very young and very lost.

He still doesn't feel
warm.
 

There's a circle of
space around him—a cautious sort of distance that reminds him that no matter
who he has loved or how well he might serve, he is not a Morgan. He will never
be a Morgan.
 

That matters more some
days than others.
 

The door swings open
behind him. He doesn't move as Aleja slips through the quiet office to flank
him. Even when she stands silent at his side, he doesn't stir.
  

He's calmed since Emma
was pulled into the med suites. The family doctor was waiting when they
arrived, with nurses who hurried him away and warmed him.
 

“She has two broken
ribs. A concussion. The exposure is the most worrisome thing, but Emma will be
fine,” Aleja says. Her accent is thick, and he wonders if it is because she is
tired or worried.

He slides a glance at
her and nods once, refocusing on the cityscape.
 

“It meant nothing.”
 

That earns a reaction,
and Rama turns dark eyes on the Reaper. She stares at him, curiosity in her
eyes.
 

“The sex. It means
nothing.”
 

He stiffens, that anger
from before bristling to the surface. This—this is why he fights for his calm.
Why he rarely allows his temper to snap—because it is very difficult to quiet
that fury, when it boils to the surface.
 

“She cares for you,”
Aleja adds, her eyes knowing.
 

“Cares,” he spits. “But
doesn't love.”

Aleja's eyes narrow thoughtfully
and then she shrugs. “With Morgans, is that a bad thing? We aren't them,
Ratchaphure. We take what they can give.”
 

“We are not below them,”
he snarls.
 

She nods, slowly. “But
you serve.” Her gaze drops to his wrist and the unending snake there. “By
choice.”

Her words infuriate him,
but he doesn't snap at her. Aleja releases a soft breath and turns back to the
door. She hesitates once. "She is asking for you."

Rama's eyes go wide
because he expected Emma to demand her cousin. He didn't expect to be called
for by either of them. Aleja watches him from the doorway and then she makes a
haughty noise, a reminder of her own position, and leaves.
 

For a long time, he
stands at the window, fighting the chill that won't quite leave him, and the
urge to leave headquarters without seeing her.
 

But he sees her again,
the flash of movement as she fell, the way her face slid from desperate to
determined and her eyes left Seth’s, locking on his in the split-second before
she hit the water.
 

Eventually he shakes
himself and leaves the room.
 

The hall is empty,
almost eerily so. Seth and Emma are too weak to tolerate anyone but the closest
of their allies. Even the syndicate enforcers they trust have been sent away as
the queen and king recover.
 

The med suite Emma is in
feels too similar to a hospital room. She’s propped on a pillow, an IV in her
arm feeding her fluids.
 

For a moment, unnoticed
still, he allows himself to study her.
 

Bruises and tiny cuts
criss-cross her face. Her lip is split and raw where she bites down nervously.
She's wearing a satin robe and he can't help his eyes dropping down and tracing
over her.
 

He knows her body well
enough that the bandages stand out, bulky and unnatural around her ribs.
 

She looks fragile in
ways that she would hate if he were to tell her. Pale and weak and so utterly
breakable, with her red-gold hair fanning out around her.
 

Then her eyes open, and
he sees Caleb, bright blue eyes and bruise-darkened face staring at him through
exhaustion, wary and expectant.
 

He blinks and Emma
shifts. Aleja turns from where she's pouring a cup of coffee. She doesn't say
anything as her gaze sweeps over the Asian prince. The Cuban adds a little
sugar to the coffee, stirs in creamer before she hands the steaming cup to Emma
and straightens. “I’ll check on Dom.”
 

“Thank you, Aleja,””
Emma says, her voice soft and raspy. The assassin gives her a flashing smile
and then ducks out.
 

Silence settles over the
room and Emma’s head drops, her hair slipping down to mask her expression. It
makes him pause and he stares at her, fascinated. He knows what role Emma had
in the family. The favorite cousin, the only daughter, privileged and
protected. And for most, overlooked. The demure, easily forgotten princess.
 

He will never understand
how anyone can look at her and see anything less than a brilliant, capable
queen.
 

But right now, with a
flush in her cheeks and her hands twisting in her lap, he can see the mask she
hid behind.
 

This is the girl that
Caleb loved. The one he loved enough that he didn't trust Rama with her. And
that is part of the anger, when he is honest with himself. Caleb had secrets
but there was trust between the Morgan son and the Thai prince.
 

That he didn't trust his
ally with the cousin he chose to protect stings.
 

“Thank you,” she says
quietly. And he's furious suddenly.
 

“You don't thank the
ones who serve. You accept that service, because you are queen and they are
loyal.”

Her head comes up, the
bruises dark shadows in the soft light. “I will thank anyone I damn well
please. You are my equal.”

The words ring heavy in
the quiet room and Rama takes a steadying breath. “Why did you jump?”

“Because she would have
shot him,” she says, simply. As if risking her own life was that simple.
 

For her, it is.
 

“You risked yourself,”
he snaps, his hands balling. Furious that once again, she is putting Seth
before everything——even her own wellbeing.
 

A tiny smile tilts her
lips. “No, I didn’t.” That makes Rama go still, his dark eyes wide and
searching. “You wouldn't let anything happen to me.”

He makes a choked noise
and she looks away, the flush on her neck deepening a little.

“I'm sorry. The way I treated you—it was wrong and there are no
excuses for it.”

She's quiet for a long
moment and he can't bring himself to breach the silence. Because even though
she is apologizing, the sting is there.
 

“Caleb taught me. The
years when Seth was gone—it was Caleb taking care of me and teaching me about
the syndicate. About our world. I didn't always learn what he wanted me to, but
he did his best. And he trusted you. Loved you.” His breath catches and her
eyes dart to him. A tiny smile. “I was scared. Because I watched love destroy
Seth and my parents. How could I trust that it wouldn't again? Right? But Caleb
was never like the rest of us. He worked so hard to earn what the rest of us
took for granted. And I think that includes you. I forgot that.” She takes a
breath, and he sees the flinch she tries to hide and it hurts him, even as he
tries to cling to his anger. “Mali,” he whispers and her eyes widen, finding
him.
 

“When Beth had me, I
remembered something. You told me once that you didn't see me as a weak link.
That you see a queen. That kept me going. Not Seth. The fact that you have
never seen me as anything but strong enough to be your equal. I want to be
that.”

She looks at him again,
and her gaze is determined. The girl with enough confidence to intrigue him on
the dance floor, wearing echoes of his dead.
 

“I can’t,” he says and
her eyes widen. He thinks she is as startled as he is to hear those words. But
they feel right. “I can't do this right now,
mali
. I need—"
Time,
space, Caleb
. He takes a breath. And says, ““I can't right now. I need to
know you aren't coming back to me because you were scared and almost died. And
I need to know I'm not taking you back for the same reason.”

He leans down and
brushes a kiss over her forehead. Murmurs softly in Thai as he runs a hand over
her hair. Then he pulls away and slips out of the room.

Epilogue
.
New York
City, December 25
^th

Seth sits on the leather
loveseat in his living room, in white sweat pants and nothing else. Jazz plays
softly from his stereo as he sips a glass of Chianti. The shades are drawn
against the city night outside, and the lights are low, soothing, like the
jazz. The remnant of a joint is the lone occupant of a crystal ashtray.
 

It's been a tense week
since the showdown with his aunt, but the dust has begun to settle. So far,
there have been no suspicions that the fire upstate was anything but faulty
wiring in an abandoned house. Their crew successfully drained the pool, removed
the bodies, and torched that haunted place. Though Emma's injuries are not
life-threatening, the fact that she was so easily taken from him has him
spooked. This is the first time he's left the med suite since they
arrived.
 

“
Go away
,” Emma had said with a crinkled nose. She was joking, and
her voice was still weak from the pain of breathing. It had broken his heart
all over again, that she was trying to be light-hearted—some shade of what used
to be. She had known the small space and monstrous thoughts were getting to
him. She had looked so sad when she said, “
Don't
you want to see

Vera? She must be worried about you.
”

He makes a quiet sigh, a
slow one that still strings pain along his left ribs. Two of them are
fractured, but he refused to be restrained, and he didn't tell anyone. The
stitches along his cheekbone itch, the gash from Bethania's pistol whip, which
was surprisingly deeper than the bullet graze. He also refused stitches for
that side. Still, the wounds nearly mirror each other—— a reminder; he has been
marked. The times he has cheated death are stacking up against him, and
fearlessness comes with a cost. Isn't that something he should have learned from
his father?

Maybe now, finally, he
has learned that much.

He should be seeing to
the details of his pending trip to Bangkok, to the last step before he reaches
the top. Just as he had with Rama, he will have to amend the disrespect his
uncle showed to the Ratchaphure's elders. It also means he will be leaving Emma
behind, a thought that causes a barrage of anxiety every time he thinks it. How
can he leave her? How can he go with the only other person who has risked
everything for her?
 

That beast is a little
too much for him to face, so he takes another drink of wine and stares down at
an eight-by-ten framed picture from the Christmas after Emma was born. Everyone
was there: Isaac looking cool beside his younger cousins, Gabe with his arm
around Miriam, who stands beside Emilio. Emma is a bright-eyed, tiny thing in
her dad's arms, and Bethania is barely smiling, her hand on Isaac's shoulder.
Mikie stands on Gabe's other side, flanking the king. His smile is a little
more real, warm like Seth's childhood memories. Mikie’s arm is wrapped around
Seth’s chest, Seth beaming for the camera while Caleb's brow is furrowed.
Tinney is not in the picture.
 

Finally, it all makes
sense, as much as it ever will. And finally, the sins of the parents have been
assuaged. It’s’ not what his dad wanted, not what he wanted, but he has
preserved that shred of hope that his dad passed on to him. It wasn't Caleb's
fault he was shrewder. Caleb was born of deception, and yet he lived and died
by honor. Now, Seth has seen the darkness that came naturally to his big
brother. To give under its weight would be a discredit to Caleb.
 

The intercom by the
archway entrance to the living room buzzes, then security says, “Vera Rohan to
see you, Mr. Morgan.”

He draws a deep breath,
sets the picture down on the coffee table beside the pair of wine glasses, and
the bottle. He stands, perhaps a little slowly, and stalks across his space. He
punches the button and says, “Yes, send her up, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

His lips twist into a
small smile, the feathering pain be damned. He could use something bright in
his world.
 

The seconds crawl by,
the limbo of an elevator ride, so that when the thing finally dings, Seth has
already sat on the couch and stood up again. Nervous is not a sensation he experiences
often, but the thought of Vera in his living space is some new kind of strange.
And as the doors swish back, he thinks that every time he sees her lately, he's
just there, actively waiting for her.

The doors draw back to
reveal her in a long brown coat, big free curls damp from melting snow. She
hesitates, no doubt taking in the expansive room done in hardwood and warm
color. She steps into the room. The doors close behind her and Seth can't help
but notice how her deep red hair comes alive in the low lighting.

Her eyes do a quick scan
before landing on him. She gasps, lifting a hand to her mouth at the sight of
his bruised and ravaged body. Her steps lull in her shock, so he steals up to
her, expression solemn. He puts his hands on her upper arms, squeezes gently.
Tears well in her eyes as she inspects his injuries.

He says, “Shhh, I'm
fine.”

She shakes her head,
moving the hand from her face toward his. He twitches away, and she freezes.
The tears spill over to slip down her cheeks. Her hand falls slowly to her
side.

She quietly says, “I've
never been so scared in my life as when I thought I might lose you forever.”

He lets go of her arm in
favor of running his hand up her neck and into her hair. He pulls her close, so
that their lips are almost touching, and says, “I'm here now.”

She presses her mouth to
his, a gentle kiss, drinking him in. Her hands lift to his sides, and she
hesitates.
 

He pulls away, says into
her ear, “Let me take your coat.”

She sniffs, swipes a
hand across her cheeks, and nods. As she hands him the coat, he pauses, eyes
crawling over her. She's wearing a faded pair of jeans and an oversized tan
sweater that hangs off of one shoulder. Her eyes grow wide when she notices his
attention, and she says,

“What?”

He gives her a little
smirk and says, “I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans.”

She sucks in a sharp
breath and her shoulders straighten, accentuating the bit of collarbone that
peeks from beneath the sweater. She lifts her nose and says, “Don't get used to
it.”

He laughs softly.
“Please, come in.”

She watches him
disappear into his inner sanctuary, and then scans the room again. It's
elegant, simple and certainly expensive. She pushes further into the space,
over to the loveseat. As she sits, her eyes wander over the coffee table——one
wine glass half full, another one empty, the open bottle of Italian wine. Then,
the picture. Her eyes widen.

“I'm sorry it's taken so
long for me to see you.”

Seth's voice makes her
jump as he walks back in the room. She locks eyes with him, no doubt in her
mind that he knows what she was looking at. Surely he wouldn't leave it there
by accident.

“I know how it works,”
she says, her voice a husky compliment to the fevered jazz.
 

She watches him take the
place beside her, losing against herself and letting her eyes ghost over his
bruises, the stitches, and then his discolored ribs. Again she wants to cry,
because she can do nothing to ease his pain.
 

He takes the bottle and
pours a glass for her. His movement catches her attention and her gaze drifts
to the ashtray. Her eyes widen. He's so blatant, so debonair in his disregard
for rules.
 
He sets the bottle down,
smirks, and says, “You wanna get high?”

Her eyes flash to his,
half shaded and undeniably interested. But she shakes her head, says, “I've
never had a taste for it.”

He retains that little
smile and nods toward her wine glass. She obliges, lifts it into the space
between them. She can't quite smile back. The sight of him so broken is like a
disease that starts on the inside. She can't do anything to change it, can't
help him.

His smile fades and he
says, “Please don't ask me what happened. Don't worry that I'm in danger. Just
know that I really appreciate you coming. And I'm sorry that you had to deal
with my security.”

Her eyes flame. She had
been in the middle of an interview when said security had entered the cafe, and
lurked around until she was forced to reschedule. Not long after that came the
phone call—a very quiet Seth with apologies and vagueness and the mention that
he might die. She pulls her wine glass close to her body, and says, “Your
security? How about dealing with the certainty that any minute, you'll be dead,
and I'll never see you again?”

His brow hardens and he
looks away, to his own glass. When he finally looks back to her, his eyes are
heavy, full of pain unimaginable. He says, “You've always known what I am.”

The tears rise again in
her green eyes, and she blinks. She clinks her glass against his, and says,
just a little bitterly, “You're right. And it's always broken my heart.”
 

He leans in, presses his
lips to hers for a moment that passes into eternity. When he pulls away, her
tears have fallen. Still, she is beautiful.
 

She takes a slow drink
of her wine, gaze falling to the family portrait on the table. She stares at it
for a long time, in which Seth can't help but follow her attention. Neither of
them look away as she says, “Seth, there's something I've never told you.”

She hears his breath
catch, feels the tension coil within him. He's been through so much that she
can only imagine in her wildest moments, and her words draw such an edge in him
that she almost regrets them. Yet, doesn't she owe him this honesty now? Now
that he's given the same to her.

She says, “The first
time Caleb came to me, it wasn't about the Ratchaphure.” He bristles in her
periphery.
 

“It was about the
details of his biological parents.”

Seth's eyes drop closed.
A familiar pain streaks through him, the ghosts of his family. He takes a long
breath, then opens his eyes. Vera is watching him, wary of his reaction. Has
she betrayed him by omitting this truth?

He reaches out his free
hand to her, runs his fingers down her cheek. He says, “That's all history now,
a different world. That was a world of lies, one that collapsed because its
core was rotten. I'm just glad that there was someone who didn't stab my
brother in the back while I was gone. So thank you for helping him. And thank
you for loving me. You are one of few who have never fucked my family over,
though by all means you could have.”

Vera just stares, eyes
mirrors of surprise. Her lips move, but she makes no sound. Seth bridges the
gap, presses close so that her mind goes white. He says, “I told you before
that your hooks were an anchor. Just be that for me now.” “It never ends, does
it?” she asks breathily.

“There's always an end,”
he says, his lips brushing hers.

Eyes closed, and body
humming with his proximity, she answers, “I don't want it to end.”

“Good,” he says, lips
curling into a smile against hers. “Because it's not over.”