Stolen Crown by S. Massery
Aiden
Colin has disappeared.
Hart stops me outside my house after a day of pointless searching, his expression grim. The whole West family is laying low, apparently. No one is stressed about Gemma’s disappearance. No one is acting suspicious at all.
That’s the suspicious part.
“Your father wants to see you,” Hart informs me.
I raise my eyebrow and resist the urge to knock my friend’s hand off my shoulder. “You’re his fucking lackey now?”
His brow lowers. “Fuck off. Sam called.”
I grimace. That, at least, is believable. Sam is on my side, although he pretends otherwise. I’ve secured my tight-knit group: Hart, Ford, Breaker, Sam. They’re the only ones I trust… and my brother, now that he’s back in play. Luca was supposed to go overseas and stay gone. It was safer that way.
My father didn’t bring him back—my wedding did.
“You seem…” Hart shifts. “Worried?”
“Me? Worried? About what?” I shake my head.
A total lie—one he sees through easily. He passes me, jogging up the porch steps. “She’ll be back. She knows you love her, right?”
I remember the way she watched me in the warehouse, and I’m suddenly not so sure.
Grabbing my keys, I head back to my bike and slide my helmet on. I wave at Hart and let the roar of the engine under me try to beat back some of my demons. I pass by a construction zone on my way to the skyscraper and idle, watching the yellow tape flutter against the scaffolding.
It reminds me that, besides Gemma, I have another issue: the councilwoman’s mystery donor. Never mind Rubert and his deal with the Wests. The last I knew, Breaker had left the son of a bitch alive and in a puddle of his own piss on the front stoop of his house. Never mind the weapons we’re missing—and the money our family lost.
I shake away that thought and continue quickly to the DeSantis tower, riding the elevator up to the offices on the twentieth floor. The whole level is dark, with no sign of my father, so I cross to his private elevator and ride it to the penthouse. Thirtieth floor. It’s half of the building—the other half is the rooftop pool that’s open to most of the family. That side is reachable by most of our elevators. His, however, only goes down to the offices. Extra security, he said. He has a private rooftop above his place, but I’ve never been up there.
I figured if he takes anyone up to that roof, they’re in danger of being shoved over the edge.
The elevator chimes, and I wait. My father has to approve who the elevator releases—and if he doesn’t want to see you, well, game over.
It only takes a minute of waiting, my annoyance growing, for the doors to slide open.
“Good of you to join us,” Dad says from the other side. His white collared shirt is half untucked, tie and jacket missing. The top few buttons are undone.
His gaze sweeps over me, and he grimaces. “There’s blood on your collar.”
I shrug. “That’s what you get when you summon me in the middle of the night.”
He watches me for a moment, then grins. “Good, good. I like that.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on.”
I follow him through the foyer into his giant living room and stop short.
Elise and Michael Page—Amelie’s parents—sit on the couch. There are drinks in front of them, but only Dad’s has a dent in it.
“Aiden has so graciously deemed us worthy of his presence,” Dad says to them. He glances at me. “Sit.”
The order rankles. As I watch, though, he collects his glass and gives himself a heavy re-pour from the wet bar. He drains it in a gulp and fills it again. Whiskey, from the look of it. The dark liquid makes him mean.
So I follow directions and sit in one of the chairs near Elise Page.
Her attention flutters over me, pausing at the blood spot on my shirt, then quickly away. She never did enjoy working with us. Her husband was the driving force behind the deal. I lingered at the back of those meetings, too, when it suited me. How Michael Page quivered as he delivered his offer: money in exchange for protection.
Amelie was never supposed to marry Wilder. That was my father’s idea. A way to cinch their purse to our name.
A vague threat, too, although only Michael seemed aware of that.
Wilder was a subtle demon. He would’ve used Amelie as leverage at some point. More money, more support, or…
“As you know, the Pages have contributed a significant amount to our family and the politicians who support us,” Dad says, dropping onto the sofa across from our guests. The liquid sloshes in the glass, and he rests it on his thigh. “They’ve been happy to help assist us with uncovering the mystery donor.”
I don’t react. He loves a show, and right now I can’t tell if it’s meant to intimidate me or them.
“Go on, Elise.”
“Councilwoman White has provided her PAC’s reports of donations, as well as the charities she supports that have received a few large donations from anonymous contributors,” Amelie’s mother explains. Her voice trembles. “This puts an expectation on the board that she supervises. You know—”
“I’m familiar with how politics work,” I say drily. “They chase the money. They’re slaves to it. That’s why we’re working together.”
You’re our bank.
She swallows and falls silent.
“The councilwoman is running for governor next year. She’s announcing her candidacy this weekend at the Children’s Hospital Gala,” Dad says. “Needless to say, she expects a donation from us—and public support. This is where Wilder was going to come in, but that option is off the table. It’s one thing for a mystery donor to try and sway her, but it’s another entirely for them to come out and give her what she needs: public backing. Money only goes so far in this town, especially if they want to sit in the shadows like cowards.”
Now that’s a stretch of truth.
I narrow my eyes. “Obviously.”
A buzz sounds, and Dad hops up. Voices drift toward us, and then he ushers the new arrivals into the room.
Amelie strides ahead of Luca and my father, seeming disgruntled—but it’s nothing compared to the expression that crosses her face when she spots her parents.
She stops dead. “What the fuck?”
“Language, Amelie,” her mother reprimands. She rises and goes to her daughter, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. The hug is painfully awkward, to say the least.
Amelie stays stiff, her face pained, until Elise releases her.
Her dad rises, too, and presses a kiss to Amelie’s temple.
Luca steps forward, scowling. He pulls Amelie back against his chest and glances at Dad. “Okay, enough. Can you tell us why you had one of your lackeys come to my home and demand we go with him?”
“You’ve been shirking your duties.” Dad circles them and points to the sofa he previously occupied. “Sit the fuck down.”
Amelie opens her mouth like she’s going to say something—bold of her—but then seems to think better of it. She sits closer to me, eyeing her father across the low coffee table. Luca goes to the wet bar and pours his own drink, then perches beside his wife.
“We were hoping Luca and Amelie would attend,” Michael says. “Page Printing is hosting the event, and Jameson has agreed that a show of force would be best.”
“Agreed,” Dad drawls. “You’re back in New York. It’s time you stop fighting your family, Luca.”
I give my brother a warning look. How many times have they had this argument? The idea of family is so scattered in Luca’s mind. I don’t blame him for staying away.
Stupid fucking wedding.
I had been eagerly anticipating it, too. Not the ceremony, but seeing Gemma in a dress? Tying her to me forever? The idea that forever could be a good thing…
“I’m not sure why you think that’s a good idea, Mother,” Amelie says. “I was supposed to marry Wilder, remember? How do you think your peers would react knowing I married his brother?”
Dad’s lip curls. “We’ll find out.”
I watch my father. He has to have another motive besides just showing support for Sandra White. Maybe he wants in her pants, or he’s after more power, himself. Aligning himself close to her—but to what end? It can’t just be about the construction business, or the fact that someone else is encroaching on what he perceives to be his territory. It can’t just be about money.
What does he want that he doesn’t have?
Michael glances my way. “And we’re hoping you and—”
Dad’s loud laugh cuts him off. “I hope you weren’t about to suggest Gemma West attends, Page. That girl is nothing but trouble. She created a disaster at her own wedding. We were held at fucking gunpoint.”
Ah, yes. My father went on a tear after the botched wedding ceremony, but I thought he might’ve let it go. He didn’t really care that I was shot. He only gave a shit about his reputation, and that a small team had bested his guards and spirited Gemma away. The way he’s clutching his glass, though, says he hasn’t forgotten. He glares at me like I’m the one responsible.
I stand, fighting my own temper. He hasn’t said anything about Gemma to me, personally, but now? Fuck that.
“We’ll be there.” I stride to the elevator and jam my finger on the button. I shouldn’t leave Luca and Amelie alone with them, but they should be able to handle themselves. The guilt barely registers, instead frustration and annoyance taking over.
The elevator doors slide open, then swiftly closes behind me.
I slam my fist against the wall.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I step off on the twentieth floor and storm through the offices toward the main elevators, then pause. What if whatever Gemma found is still in my father’s office? Or a hint of it, at least? Without really thinking it through, I go to his office and push open the door. It’s neat, not that I was expecting anything different. He keeps things tidy when he’s not actively destroying something.
I circle his desk and yank the first drawer open. Well, I would, but it doesn’t budge.
Interesting.
The next drawer is locked, too. The only thing not locked down tight is the one on the bottom left, and it’s practically empty.
“He’s not wrong,” my brother says. I can see their shadows on the floor in front of the door. They walk adjacent to the office, toward the other elevators, and I hunker lower.
“He’s not right,” Amelie counters. “He’s insane. And why didn’t my parents see that he was just going to keep using them like a yo-yo? There was no one-time payment. It’s now familial obligation, and Dad walked right into it.”
Luca snorts. I step around the desk and press my back against the wall right next to the door, hoping they won’t see me. It isn’t really pertinent—I doubt Luca will go crying to Dad that I broke into his office—but the less he knows, the safer he is.
At least, that’s my line of thinking until he asks, “Are you going to tell Aiden where Gemma went?”
I clench my jaw so hard, my teeth might crack.
There’s silence, then, “I don’t actually know where she went. And she gave me her phone…”
A phone I now have.
“You believe me, right?” Her voice is small.
“Of course,” Luca replies easily.
Resentment pangs through me, and shame a second later. Their trust was hard-won, and I’m jealous that Gemma and I don’t have the same? For all I know, this is our battle. This could also be the calm before the storm…
The main elevator pings, and I poke my head out in time to watch them step inside.
“Focus,” I mutter. Dad’s office is a dead end for now. Until I can get back in there with tools to pick the locks, I’m not going to get anywhere. He’d know if I broke the drawers open. My other option is to return to where I know Gemma disappeared from: her family’s bar.
But they’d probably shoot me on sight if I walked in during their operating hours. Tensions are high, even though her family seems to have disappeared from the streets. It’s only a matter of time before my father begins to press his advantage—and if they’re not around to stop our family, they’ll be extinct before they can even blink.
Exhaustion burns my eyes. I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night. Part of me wants to shrug it off, but I can’t ignore my body any longer. So I go home, to my sanctuary, where Ford and Breaker lounge in the living room, and Hart smokes a joint on my back steps, and I finally try to rest.
I even manage to drift off, my mind settling.
Until a phone rings.
One that isn’t mine.
I shoot upright and grab at Gemma’s lit-up phone from my nightstand. A number with a New York City area code is calling.
What the hell, right?
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
A quick intake of breath on the other end of the line, and my heart races.
“Aiden?”
It’s her.
“Please tell me you’re safe.” I’m gripping the phone too tightly.
“I am,” she says. “Why were you following me?”
I laugh. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
“No.” She’s quiet for a moment. “What I found in your dad’s office… I need to know if you know. And if you do, you need to understand that you and I won’t be a thing.”
I rear back and stare down at the screen. “You want to talk about this? I don’t know what you found in his office. Up until Wilder’s death, I tried to stay as far out of the politics of it—”
“Meet me tomorrow,” she says. “At the—”
“You come to my house,” I interrupt. “It’s safe. My father doesn’t even know I own it. I’ll text you the address.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll… see you tomorrow, then.”
My stomach twists, and I lie back down. “Where are you?”
“I had to see my family,” she whispers. There’s rustling on her end, too. “They didn’t know my father was dead. But this place seems good for them. I’m glad he got them to safety.”
“Did you consider staying with them?” That fear springs out of my mouth before I can stop it. The thought of her hiding away—I don’t know if I’d be able to find her. I wanted to kill her brother when she vanished last night.
Worry and frustration kept me awake—desperation keeps me on edge, even now.
What would I do to get her back?
“I couldn’t,” she says. “Your father would bulldoze the Wests right out of the five boroughs.”
“So, Colin wants to fight?”
She chuckles. “Something like that. Are you suggesting we give up New York? It’s late—I need to sleep. And so do you, from the sound of it…”
“I do.”
I wish I could see her face right now. Impulsively, I check the screen and see the FaceTime icon lit up. I press it and wait. My own face is barely lit in a green glow from my clock. She accepts the call, and her face fills the screen. It seems she’s flat on her back. A lamp off to the side gives her skin a soft golden glow, and the light catches on the strands of blonde hair fanned around her face.
“Hey.” Her cheeks turn pink.
“I wanted to see you,” I say. “You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re going to get me in trouble.” She sits up, pulling her hair over her shoulders. “I borrowed this phone.”
“From…”
She shoots me a look. “From a person.”
I laugh. “Okay, princess.” My voice lowers. “What made you call your own phone?”
Gemma grins and fiddles with the strap of her black tank top. “I hoped you had it. After Amelie took my car… And I was just thinking about what I’m going to do when I get back. What are you doing right now?”
“Thinking about you. Naked.” My dick hardens just thinking about her. “How you feel under me.”
Her cheeks are no longer pink—her whole face is red.
“How you taste,” I continue.
“Aiden,” she whispers. “Why are you doing this? Any of it?”
“I’ll never let you go,” I swear. “And I’m not fucking apologizing for that, Gem.”
Her chest hitches, and she inches her finger lower, between her breasts; she takes the fabric with it and exposes her pale skin.
I bite back my groan.
She tilts the camera down, until I can see from her eyes down to the bottom of her rib cage. She slides her hand into her shirt and pinches her nipple. Her eyes flutter, and her lips part.
“Take your shirt off.” I wish I was there. “You’re going to follow my directions, yes?”
She nods, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. Then she moves, positioning her phone against the pillows. She backs away from it and kneels on the bed, a plain white wall with a nondescript dresser in the background. Her black shorts leave nothing to the imagination—her long legs are tan and smooth. She drags her shirt up slowly, over her head, and tosses it away. She rakes her fingers through her hair and eyes me.
“What now?”
Her left hand catches my attention—she still wears the ring. It’s her mother’s, but the fact that it’s on the finger a wedding band should sit tells me there’s still a chance she’s invested in us.
“Your shorts.”
She complies, and I get harder. I reach under the waistband of my sweatpants and stroke myself, trying not to let out a hiss of breath. She’s just too fucking perfect. She wriggles closer to the screen, parting her knees and giving me a full view of her glistening pussy.
“Your finger on your clit,” I order. “Now. Rub little circles.”
“What about you?”
I rotate my phone and show her my tented pants, the rough movement of my tugs.
She groans, and I quickly flip it back around to see her face. She parts her folds and rubs at her clit, her head falling backward. I shove my waistband down, freeing my erection, and squirt lotion into my hand. The new sensation helps my palm glide up and down, but it isn’t as good as the real thing. Her.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
She shudders.
“Slide a finger in your cunt.”
She parts her knees farther and does as I ask. She whimpers, slowly fucking herself.
My grip on the phone is almost strong enough to crack it. I want to reach through and touch her so bad, but I can’t deny that this show is erotic as hell. I pump myself harder, matching her tempo. Remembering her heat.
“Two fingers. Rub your clit with your thumb. That’s my hand on you, Gemma. Slower.”
She grits her teeth. “You’re killing me.”
“I’d be drilling into you hard and slow if I was there,” I tell her. “You would be soaking my dick, begging me for it.” My movement is jerkier now, my balls tightening. “Let your other hand roam, princess.”
Her free hand travels up her thigh, over her belly. She squeezes her breast and rolls her nipple between her fingers.
“Just like that. Ride that edge,” I instruct.
She moans quietly, her fingers moving faster. I watch with greedy eyes, keeping my tempo matching hers. I’m on that edge, too, about to explode. I sweep my thumb over the head of my cock.
“Show me,” she says suddenly. “Aiden, I’m going to—”
“Easy, baby,” I interrupt. The feeling is almost overwhelming, and I hold the phone out so she can see my cock, my bare chest, my face. “Give it to me.”
She whimpers and presses hard on her clit, her fingers twisting. Her head bows forward when the climax hits her.
“Eyes,” I demand.
Her gaze bores into mine through the screen, hazy with bliss.
A moment later, I come with a grunt. The hot, ropey liquid hits my chest, and my eyes nearly roll back. But I catch the rapt way she’s watching me, and it just prolongs my orgasm.
Finally, I relax. She pulls her fingers out with a shudder and flops back onto her side, taking the phone with her. I can see half her face now, eyelids heavy. She shows me her wet fingers, and I groan agony when she sticks them in her mouth and sucks her digits clean.
“Tomorrow,” I say. I take her with me into the bathroom, letting her see my upper body as I clean myself off and readjust my sweatpants.
“Tomorrow,” she repeats. Her cheeks are red again, embarrassment getting the better of her.
“What is it?”
“I…” She glances away. “Is our connection only sexual? Is that why you said you loved me after you fucked—”
“No.” I scowl. “Don’t think that way. That this connection is our only connection.”
She hesitates. She fucking hesitates.
“Don’t ruin this,” I find myself pleading. Me. I don’t plead with anyone—but I’d get on my knees and beg her. “Gemma.”
“I’m afraid for tomorrow,” she admits. “But there’s no stopping this train.”
I nod, but I’m suddenly exhausted. With all of this. New York and the Wests and my psychotic father, war and death and this stupid game we’re playing.
She reaches out and clicks off her light, and the screen goes dark. “Goodnight, Aiden.”
“Goodnight, Gem.”
