YOU’RE A DEAD MAN

VALENTIN ALISTAIR

I know this number like I know my fucking name.

I’ve recalled it in my head, over and over again, every day for six fucking years, waiting for the day she’ll call.

I knew she would, we all knew she would after that day.

I push forward to reach my phone, and Natasha screams with pleasure.

“Yes, deeper daddy! Please, fill me up with your big cock!”

Her fingers curl against the papers on my desk, and I catch a glimpse of the shiny rock on the fourth finger of her left hand.

It’s amusing, almost, how cunning some women can be.

Her husband is somewhere overseas, working his ass off to afford all her many frivolities, and here she is, begging for the cock of his business rival.

I couldn’t care less. My phone is in my hand, and I swipe the answer button before pressing it against my ear.

“Valentin, it’s me, Melanie. I need your help.”

I tilt my head backwards, a strange feeling rises in my chest.

This voice. Her voice.

My cock hardens in Tasha’s wet cunt, stretching her open even wider.

“Oh my God! You’re gonna make me cum, daddy!”

I shoot her a glare and press my hand over her mouth. She seems to like it, she throws her ass back, fucking my cock even harder.

Melanie doesn’t seem very pleased.

“Ewww, are you seriously having sex right now?”

A smile creeps up to my face.

It still feels so good to crawl under her skin.

“Jesus, you’re still as disgusting as you always were. That’s it, forget I called…”

“Tell me where you are right now.”

She hisses.

“Forget it. I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever the fuck you have going on, and…”

“Mummy, I’m tired! I want to go home! Take me home! I want to see daddy!”

Is that a child?

That bastard better not have gotten her pregnant.

“Look, I am sorry I had to interrupt you, but I’m at the Keaton central station, and I…I need you to come pick me up. Please.”

She sounds so fucking pretty when she begs.

“I’ll be there, sweet cheeks.”

“Don’t call me…”

I hang up and pull out of Natasha.

She moans, and whips her head sideways, glaring at me.

“Why would you do that? I was just about to come.”

I move away from her and tuck my cock into my briefs.

“Your vibrator is in the third cabinet, help yourself.”

Her manicured fingers curl over my shoulders, gently massaging. She presses a kiss to my spine.

I stiffen in irritation.

“You know it’s not the same. Come on, what if you and I go to your hotel, and…”

“Don’t you have a husband to go home to?”

That always does the trick. She groans and pulls away from me.

“You’re an asshole.”

She pulls her skirt down to her thighs, combs her fingers through her thick strands of red hair, and catwalks out of my office, banging the door behind her.

After a thirty minute drive to the train station, I get out of the car, my eyes searching the exit doors for her.

She might have changed in the last ten years, but not enough to become unrecognizable.

Someone waves at me, and I angle my head to the side to get a closer look.

It feels like a fucking fever dream.

Melanie Kingston is different.

Clad in a sky blue loose cardigan and matching blue jeans, she is…

I have no fucking words.

Her hair is shorter now, in a bob that barely touches her shoulders.

Melanie used to take a lot of pride in the length and fullness of her hair. She would never have cut it this short without a tragic reason.

And whose fucking kid is she holding?

I move away from my car. Her eyes roam around the parking lot, like she’s making sure no one is watching her, before they settle on me.

She pauses for a brief moment.

Relief, confusion, then relief again, followed closely by amusement.

It’s the last emotion that adds a bit of sparkle to her previously tired—and dare I say dead—blue eyes.

She really turned into a shadow of her former self. A beautiful fucking shadow.

Her eyes widen more and more the closer she gets, and when she finally stops in front of me, I know she’s holding back a laugh.

“Who died and made you Jason Statham?”

There she is, my Melanie.

Mine.

I was barely able to keep my need for her in check when we were younger, and now— with her full hips, breasts, and a well rounded ass and tummy—she’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

I’m fucked, aren’t I? All these years, and I’m still down bad for my stepsister.

Cassian and Xavier were right. She’s like a hook on all of our necks.

“You like the look?”

She makes a barfing sound. “In your dreams.”

I try not to look at the little girl beside her, I don’t want to see any more evidence that she left and got with that bastard.

The car door opens with a click of the keys. I step aside to usher her in.

She takes a look at the girl beside her.

“Pen, sweety, would you say hi to uncle Val?”

My eyes meet the little girl’s blue ones, and she frowns.

“I don’t care.”

Melanie’s cheeks turn bright red.

“Sweety, don’t be rude, okay? This is mummy’s…” The rest of her words disappear as she clears her throat.

“You know what? Let’s just…”

The fuck?

There’s something at the back of her neck. A scar, three long finger marks at the back of her neck, like she was strangled from behind.

My eyes wander around her body, before something at her back catches my gaze.

Her sweater’s gone dark between her shoulder blades, soaked, clinging to the wound on her spine.

She’s bleeding.

She’s fucking bleeding!

My hands roll into tight fists.

Stay calm, Val.

Stay fucking calm.

I move Melanie aside and crouch in front of Penelope, putting my body between her and the sight of her mother’s back.

“Hey.”

The little girl tilts her head towards me, her pretty nose stuck in the air. She looks a lot like Mel, yet nothing like her.

It burns to see.

“Listen, your mum’s badly hurt right now, she’s bleeding, and some really bad things could happen to her if we don’t move. So I need you in that car. Can you do that for mummy?”

The girl’s eyes widen. Concern flickers in her gaze as she looks up at Melanie, then back at me.

She gives me a small nod, turns her back to us, and climbs into the car.

Well, that worked like magic.

Behind me, Melanie makes a small, wounded, sound.

I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over her shoulders, covering the blood.

I’m surprised no one called the police on her earlier.

“Put this on. We’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.”

“No!”

I spin her around, staring into her eyes.

So much fear and anxiety oozing out of her, I can almost smell it.

“I’m not going to a hospital,” she’s shaking underneath my palms.

“I won’t go. You can’t make me! Please, not a hospital. Anywhere but a hospital. I’ll be fine. I just need cotton wool and some…”

I’ve spent the last two minutes holding a very specific kind of rage at the man who took her away from us, and it’s nothing next to what moves through me now, watching her come apart in my arms.

“Okay,” I suck in a deep breath.

“No hospital.” I open her door, “I’m driving you home.”

Brandon Kingston, you’re a dead man.