Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (8 page)

They stop for Thai in a
little shop run by a man so old Emma isn't sure how he's standing. He scolds
Rama in Thai and she watches, amused, as his head drops and he blushes under
the man's censure. A king in waiting, being scolded by his people. She will
never understand

Both of them are quiet
on the last remaining leg of their journey. She sits nervously, twitching her
sweater against her jeans. She wonders, suddenly, if bringing him to her home
is a good idea.
 

But then the limo pulls
to a stop in front of the high rise and she forces her nerves away and her
voice to stay steady. “Dom, that'll be all for tonight.”

Her driver opens his
mouth to protest and she cuts him a harsh look. His lips thin and she has a
feeling she'll hear about it tomorrow, from Dom and Seth. But for now, he
nods.
 

Rama watches some of the
tension in her shoulders ease as she strides up to building, a Morgan Estates
property. It is like watching her shake off an ill-fitting skin. Here, she
belongs and is not afraid of her place. The doorman greets her by name, smiling
and almost bowing to her as she steps into the spacious, marble foyer. “Any
packages for me?” she asks, absently.
 

“Your packages are being
held, ma’am,” the doorman answers quickly and Emma pauses, swiveling to give
him a hard stare. He hastily adds, “At the request of Mr. Morgan.”
 

Annoyance flashes in her
eyes, and she says, slowly, “Fine. I’ll talk to my cousin. I want no visitors
tonight—not even Seth.”
 

The doorman pales a
little at that, and Emma feels a flash of pity for him, being caught between
the cousins. Then Rama is pressing against her, and Seth vanishes from her
mind.
 

Rama steps into the
mirrored elevator after her, bags hanging at his side while she inserts her key
into a hidden panel and enters the code to her penthouse. As the elevator
glides into motion, he drops the bags, letting them hit the ground with a thud
of wet noodles and warm curry.
 
She has
time to make a little startled noise, and then his lip are on hers, and she
doesn’t care about their dinner or the time apart, or all the reasons a queen
can’t be weak. All she cares about is Rama, his hands almost bruising on her
hips as he lifts her up. Her legs go around his waist, and he shudders as she
fits herself against him. She smirks, a hand in his silky black hair, nibbling
softly before she sucks lightly on his lip. He growls, one hand snaking under
her shirt to grasp her breast.
 

This isn’t finesse—none
of the calculated seduction he’s used before. It’s not a slow assent. This is
rough, and primal, a battle of lips and teeth, grasping hands and choked moans.

It’s intense and insane
and not nearly enough.
 

When the elevator dings,
the doors gliding open, she curses, without ever pulling away from him. Rama
laughs against her lips, and nudges their fallen dinner out of the elevator
before carrying her into the dark foyer.
 

Her hands are all over
him, fumbling with his shirt, trying to get it off. He murmurs at her to slow
down, to take her time—they finally have time. Instead she slides down his
body, cupping him roughly. Rama hisses a curse, and reaches for the button on
her jeans.
 

The world seems to
stutter, stopping when Rama’s fingers dip into her jeans, brushing over the
lace of her panties, then against her wet heat. Emma makes a low noise, her
head falling back as he slips a finger through her, teasing. He groans when his
finger sinks into her.
 
“More,” she
gasps.
 

Without argument, he
shoves her jeans and panties down. She’s working on his belt, and within
seconds, he’s got it undone, kicking off the exorbitantly expensive suit pants.
He lifts her up again, so fast she barely registers the move before he’s
pressing against her, sliding deep, and she whimpers, arms going around his
neck.
 

She had thought it would
ease, the fierce ache to be with him, when he was inside her.

But it hasn’t and she
can’t help the mindless roll of her hips. He jerks her by the hair to his lips,
tongue tangling with hers as he drives into her body. He braces her against the
wall and slides a hand between them to toy with her. She screams, a broken sound
that ends on a sob, and he kisses away the tear that’s escaped.
 

“Don’t stop,” she
whimpers and even she doesn’t know if she means this, or loving her. He leans
down again, kissing her hard as he pushes her toward a climax. Her body is
tightening around him, her nails digging into his back and he leans back,
searching for that perfect angle. Then he hits it and she shrieks, her eyes
closing as her body jerks and clamps down around him.
 

His eyes slide closed as
he lets go, orgasm slamming into him. His legs go boneless and he catches her
close as he slides to the floor. They lie like that, sweaty and panting for a
long time before she finally rolls to her stomach, propping herself up to stare
down at him.
 

“I missed you, Rama,”
she murmurs.
 

Something loosens in his
expression, a tightness she hadn’t noticed, and he grins, kissing her lightly.
“Dinner is getting cold,
mali
.”
 

He collects their dinner
as she wiggles back into her jeans, then leads him into the penthouse.
 
It’s strange, seeing it through his eyes for
the first time. The penthouse is soft and delicate, done in shades of blue and
cream, with an oversized chair and a couch in the living room. There are
pictures—her and Caleb and Seth, Gabe, a red-haired man that still hurts to
look at.
 

Rama knows that she
hates her mother—but can he ever understand how much she loved her father? She
swallows hard and ducks into the kitchen.
 

Emma eyes the contents
of the bag while Rama prowls her home. With a muttered curse, she dumps
everything into a large bowl and pulls out two sets of chopsticks. She puts
their dinner on the low coffee table, and then grabs two wine glasses and a
bottle of red before returning to the living room. Rama is standing at the
window, staring out at the city.
 

It is a million dollar
view, with the sparkling lights of the city and the deep darkness of Central
Park yawning into the nothingness.
 

“You love this city,
don’t you?”
 

She steps up beside him,
a surge of pride going through her. “Yes. I’ve never known another home—I don’t
want another home.”
 

“I would like, very
much, to show you Bangkok.”
 

Fear slithers through
her, and she steps away, retreats to the couch. “I don’t want to be your queen,
Rama,” she says, clearly.
 

He turns, and she
watches as he fiddles with the bandage covering his tattoo. His dark eyes flick
up to her, assessing, and then the bandage is gone, and she almost drops her
wine glass.
 

It’s simple. Utterly
simple and so familiar it’s impossible to mistake. A banded snake, eating its
own tail.
 

“What does this mean to
your family?” he asks, intent.
 

“Family. Protection.
Service.” She speaks by rote, then blinks, staring at him with furious eyes.
“Why?”
 

He sits next to her and
opens his chopsticks, stirring the pad thai. “Caleb took the Ratchaphure mark,
you know.”
 

She does know—Seth told
her that Caleb had taken the Thai flower. She doesn’t understand that. In the
Morgan syndicate, the upper echelons of the family don’t carry the mark. They
are above that—it is for those who serve, who put the family before anything,
even if they are not tied by blood. Caleb was the exception to that rule—he
took the Ouroboros in high school, another silent reminder that the royal thug
was different from the family, that he took nothing about his place and privilege
for granted. But to take another family’s mark—to put himself in service to
another syndicate—even knowing Caleb as well as she did, Emma cannot make sense
of that.

“This—” he nods at
tattoo, “—is a reminder to you and the rest of the world that I serve you. That
you are my chosen family. That I will protect you.”
 

Her eyes are wide and
startled. “That…no. That is meant for Seth—not for me.”
 

Rama’s gaze cools. “Seth
is an ally and a friend. But he doesn’t have my loyalty, Emma. That is all
yours. This isn’t a trick—this isn’t a test. This is my gift to you.” He
shifts, reaching into the bag he carried into the living room, producing a
small gift wrapped box. “And this.”
 
She
stares at the small, crimson-wrapped present in silence.
 

“A late birthday gift,
love.”
 

“Rama…”
 

“Open it.” He says, his
voice brooking no argument.
 

Her fingers shake as she
carefully slips the tape free and lets the gold foil paper fall to the ground.
A tiny blue box sits in her hand and she has a moment of fear, that he would—

Before she can follow
that thought through, she opens it and her breath catches.
 

Not a proposal. But
almost worse, in its way.
 

The flower hangs on a
thing gold chain, four ragged petals and a thin stamen. She has seen that mark
on Caleb, and kissed it on Rama’s hip, seen it at his club—the delicate
syndicate mark.
 

“I can’t—”

He snaps his fingers,
and her wide blue eyes dart to him, startled and angry. He stares at her in
silence for a moment and then, gently, “I am not Nicolette. This means only
that my people will protect you. Taking your mark—it means I am subject to
Seth’s reprisal, if I were to double-cross either of you.”

She nods slowly. That's
the unbelievable part. Not that he would give allegiance and protection—he has
done that already. But the third part. The service—it puts him below her, a
tool she could use or throw away. A foreign prince has done that, for her.
 

“This gift comes with no
strings, Emma. It is freely offered. Nothing more.”
 

She gives him a panicked
look and he takes the necklace back wordlessly, setting it on a side table, and
with it out of her hands, the tension in her chest loosens a little. “Eat,
mali
,” he orders softly.
 

And because her mind is
spinning and he has managed—once again—to shock her, she does.
 

Chapter 11.
Morgan Estates. New York City. October 19
^th
 

She
Still Hasn't Quite
adjusted to the new office. She liked her cozy office downstairs,
but Seth insisted. This was appropriate. And, she knows, he likes having her
close enough that he would know immediately of any threat. Close enough that he
could see her without moving.
 

He's on the phone now
and she feels a little lost, a kite cut from its string. There is so much
pressing in on all sides that she doesn't know where to begin.
 

Her intercom chimes and
she taps it absently. “Yes?”
 

“Bradford Oleander for
you, Ms. Morgan,” Lewis says crisply.
 

Her brows go up and she
nods to herself. "Send him back."
 

She takes a moment to
straighten in her seat, smoothing the silk top and black pencil skirt.
 

Oleander is new to the
board, an addition that Seth insisted on that she still doesn't truly
understand. Lawyers are a dime a dozen, even the Oleanders. But Seth trusts
him, said that Caleb had trusted him, and for now that's enough.
 

Still, he hasn't made a
move to approach the new queen. Not until now. Bradford steps into her office
and she notices two things: he's nervous, and Seth is watching them.
 

“Thank you for seeing
me, Ms. Morgan,” he says quickly.
 

She smiles, standing.
“Of course. Is there something the board needs to be aware of?”

He looks even more
nervous and glances at the open door. Emma perches on the edge of her desk,
crossing her ankles. Framed by the city, in her suit, with her curls falling
around her shoulders, and her hands tucked under her thighs, she is a beguiling
mix of innocence and power.
 

From across the hall,
she can see Seth, the worry and hesitation in his eyes. She meets his gaze and
he seems to relax, turning away.
 

“Feel free to close the
door if you'd like privacy,” she tells Oleander.
 

He's watching her, and
he looks torn between appreciative and terrified. But he closes the door, and
his hands aren't shaking as badly when he smooths his suit jacket and sits in
the large leather chair across from her.
 

“What can I do for you?”
she asks.
 

“I have a letter for
you. It was left in my care to be delivered after your birthday.”
 

Emma stills, and
Bradford swallows hard. She watches him for a moment and he pales. He is a
lawyer, one who works for her—and after killing Nicolette, the idea of removing
a troublesome lawyer is less disturbing than she expects. She clears her
throat, banishing the thought.
 

“Who left it?” she asks
distantly, all warmth gone from her voice.
 

He pulls out the
envelope and she knows. It smells faintly of his cologne and stale smoke and
his handwriting forms the letters of her name.
 

Her fingers tremble as
she touches it; the paper shakes and Oleander stands abruptly, going to the
sidebar and pouring a splash of scotch.
 

“Why did you wait?” she
whispers.
 

He flinches. Despite the
broken tone, the confusion and loss there, that was a demand from an outraged
queen. “The information in that—it has killed people. He wanted you to know the
truth, but on his terms. When he was sure you were safe enough that it couldn’t
hurt you. He wanted you beyond their reach.”
 

She lets out a single,
bitter laugh. “He told you that?”
 

Oleander withdraws
another document. This one a well-folded, worn letter. She takes it and the
only noise is the crinkle of paper. Then she laughs and if there is a
hysterical edge to it,

Oleander doesn’t comment
on it.
 

Even from the grave, her
cousin is still protecting her.
 

Without opening the
envelope, she circles the desk and sits. She eyes the unbroken seal— something
Caleb rarely bothered with. This was important to him, then.
 

She glances at the
lawyer, and he shakes his head. “It hasn’t been tampered with. It’s been in my
personal safety deposit box since he gave it to me.”

Emma takes a deep breath
and uses a letter opener to slit it open. There is a thick sheaf of papers, but
the first one has a handwritten note, and her fingers shake as she picks it
up.
 

She never expected to
see his writing again—occasionally she’ll stumble across a note from him,
handed on by one of the eager boys in his division, little notes with terse
orders about where to find him, or when he’d pick her up. Often, when she spent
the night in his apartment, she’d crawl out of bed to find an empty living room
and a note, and she’d occupy herself by cleaning the roach-infested kitchen
while she waited for him to return.
 

Those notes are tucked
away now, in her penthouse, where she can find them when she misses her
blue-eyed cousin.
 

Seeing his handwriting
now, here, where she least expects it, is like a blow.
 

Em-

I don’t want you to read this. I want to sit
down with you—talk to you. I don’t want you to stumble into the truth the way I
did. But we don’t always get what we want. And if things go south, you still
deserve the truth.
 

They lied to us, Emma. All these years—all the
shit from my dad about family and loyalty and how nothing else matters. They
lied. Mikie knows. So does your mom. It’s only fair we know.
 

Family, right?
 

They said Mom died in a car. They said your dad
died in California. They lied.

She stops reading, her
shocked gaze darting up to Oleander. He’s waiting, his gaze steady on her. How
can he be so steady when she’s falling apart?
 

They had an affair, Emma. Years ago—before I was
born. The syndicate killed them for

it.

“No.” she says, softly,
“No. I don’t believe this. It’s not true.”
 

“Finish, Emma,” Oleander
says softly. She can’t look up, but she hears him moving, pouring another
splash of scotch.
 

I did the DNA test. On both of us. It makes sense.
Why Dad gave the family to Seth instead of me. Why we look alike. Why Beth
hated my mother so much. All of it.
 

Family matters, Em. It’s all that matters. And
we are more family than they ever told us. Emilio was my father—I’m your
half-brother.

-C

Her hands shake as she
flips through the papers. Its there: DNA reports, graphs that don’t make any
fucking sense, and the neat, scientific explanation. Partial match.
 

Siblings.
 

Blood roars in her ears,
and she can’t breathe. Oleander sets the drink next to her and she downs it
without thinking. The burn of the alcohol makes her eyes go wide and shocks
some of the numbness out of her.
 

“Sit down, Bradford,”
she says, softly.
 

The lawyer retreats to
his side of the desk and it gives her enough time to scrap together a semblance
of dignity. Not much.
 
Not enough.
 

But all she has. “He was
my brother.”
 

Saying the words out
loud makes it real, and the crushing grief of loss swamps her again. God, she
misses the hard-eyed golden prince.
 

“Half, ma’am. But yes.”

“Does Seth know?”
 

Oleander shakes his
head, quickly. No. He wouldn’t. He would never keep that from Emma.
 

“Thank you.”
 

“If you need anything,
I’m at your service.”
 

She smiles, a tiny tilt
of her lips in acknowledgment.
 

After the lawyer leaves,
she sits in silence, the door closed. It’s a request for privacy, something she
is surprised Seth grants. The sun is setting over the city when he finally
comes to her, a light tap on the door announcing him before he enters the dark
office. She watches his eyes flick over the open decanter of vodka, the empty
desk and slightly askew chair. And her, curled in a corner on the couch, a
blanket pulled over her.
 

He knows instantly that
something is very wrong, and for a few heartbeats, she sees violence in Seth’s
dark eyes.
 

Then he forces it down
and comes to sit next to her. She’s holding a framed picture in her lap, and he
stares at it for a long, quiet moment as she leans into his shoulder.
 

Caleb smirks out of the
picture, all lazy, lion-like grace and self-assurance.
 

“Oleander upset
you.”
 

“It’s nothing.”
 

He weighs her words. “Is
it nothing, or are you asking for privacy?”

She meets his gaze.
“Privacy.”

Seth releases a sigh,
and pulls her to her feet. “For now,” he allows.
 

She gives him a small
smile. “Thank you.”
 

She can see how hard
this is for him, not to push. And she will share—it’s too much not to tell
him—but she needs time and answers first. “I miss him,” she says.
 

Seth sighs, and gives
her a one-armed hug. “I do too, Em.”
 

For a few seconds, she
rests there in his protective embrace. Then she pulls away and he summons a
smirk for her, just to see the shadows ease in her gaze. “Come on, sweetheart.
We’re meeting Rama for drinks.”
 

Butterflies flutter in
her belly, nerves and anticipation. Picking up her purse and sliding a few
papers into it, she follows Seth from the office.

Tomorrow, she will start
looking for answers. She'll read the rest of the damning reports.

But for now, she follows Seth out of their office, into the
night.