The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

38

Weston

Why the hell is she sitting next to him?I frown across the table as Hunter leans over to say something to Amelie. She giggles, her cheeks rosy. From his company? From the wine? From the warmth in the fireplace, maybe?

I stab my fork into the chestnut and bring it to my mouth. "Why is she talking to him?" I grumble under my breath.

"Because unlike you, she has manners and knows when to be polite, especially at family dinners." Kirsten nudges me with her elbow, "Can’t take your eyes off her, huh?"

"Of course, not." I glance down at my plate, "This food is fucking bland."

"Lost your appetite, huh?" She snickers.

I glower, "Don’t try to get a rise out of me."

"I thought I was the only one who could," she replies, "until—"

"Until?"

"Her, of course," she chuckles.

I don’t need to look up to know she’s glanced across at the pesky, curvy woman who I’d invited into my life. Holy fuck, what the hell had I been thinking? "Why is she still here?" I roll my shoulders.

"I can’t believe you asked her to leave, and so close to Christmas."

"It’s two days to Christmas," I grumble. "Enough time for her to join her family, if she chooses."

"You’re a class-A douche," she hisses at me. "Is it because you’re in love with her that you’re being so terrible to her? Is that why you’re going out of your way to insult her, to ensure she’ll never look at you again?"

"No, to the first, and as to the second... Well, that’s my nature."

"Ha," she snorts. "You can’t pull off your mean-ass persona with me, dear brother. You and I are too close for that."

And isn’t that the truth. Kirsten is two years younger than me, close enough for us to hang out together. Growing up, I was her protector and she was my shadow, who tagged along with me on all my boyhood adventures. Unlike Liam, who at eight years older than me, was someone I hadn’t gotten to know as well. There’d always been a chasm between us, which had only increased after our father had passed on.

I blow out a breath. "I’m not in love with her," I insist again.

"Keep telling yourself lies; that’s a specialty of yours, huh?"

"Don’t push me on this one," I say through clenched teeth.

Amelie’s giggle reaches me. I glance up to find her leaning into Hunter. I clench my hand around my fork, which slips from my fingers and smashes into the plate. The clash rings out and everyone at the table turns to glance at me.

"Sorry, still getting used to using my non-dominant hand for every day stuff," I scowl.

Amelie straightens, glances at me and away. Good. At least, she’s heeding the warning.

"Your finger troubling you, much?" my mother asks.

I glance down at my right hand. "The cast comes off next week, then a few more weeks of therapy and I should be back at work by mid-January, at the latest," I reply.

"How did the accident take place?" Liam asks from his position at the foot of the table.

After father passed, Mother assumed the responsibility of running the business, until Liam took over. She still holds veto power on the board and is the head of the family.

"I was forced off the road," I reply.

"Forced off?" Liam frowns.

"No need to concern yourself. I am looking into it, with the Seven."

"The Seven." His lips twitch, "You place too much importance on their friendship."

"At least I have friends, unlike you," I shoot back, then wince. Shit, a few minutes in the company of my family, and hell, if the old insecurities don’t come tumbling back.

"I’m focused on my goals, on preserving and growing the family name. I’d do anything for it."

"Including getting married and producing an heir, no doubt?" I scowl.

"If that’s what’s needed of me, I won’t shirk my duties." Liam wipes the edges of his lips with his napkin.

"You’re getting married?" Amelie leans forward, her gaze sparkling. "Who’s the lucky woman?"

"Someone I haven’t met yet," he says coolly.

"So, you don’t know her, but you're marrying her?" She frowns.

"Until he does, he doesn’t get to take over the family business," Kirsten explains. "Nor, for that matter, can Weston."

"Huh?" Amelie scowls across the table.

I stiffen, nudge Kirsten with my knee. She shuffles away. Fuck! Why do little sisters always have to be such a pain?

"Explain," Amelie insists.

"Until both of my brothers marry, and specifically for Liam, until he produces an heir, they cannot get access to the family business—"

"—Or to their trust funds," my mother completes the sentence. "It’s tradition," she elaborates. "Something decreed by my husband’s grandfather, and which I hope my sons will honor."

"And Kirsten?" Amelie asks.

"I don’t count," she smirks. "Only a woman, after all, and all that."

"And you know your father changed his will to ensure that you inherit your share of the money," Mother retorts.

"I don’t get access to the company," she protests.

"Do you want access to the company?"

"Guess not," she admits. "Still, it would have been nice if Dad had given me the choice."

"He made sure you'd be taken care of—"

"Not that Kirsten would have lacked for anything, as long as I am here." Patrick folds his arm around her and pulls her close.

Amelie’s features grow wistful and she glances from Kirsten to me. I glare at her, she bites down on her lower lip, and damn it, of course, my cock instantly notices.

I hold her gaze. She looks away, raises her glass, "A toast to Kirsten and Patrick." She smiles.

I glance over to my mother, who seems surprised. Then she surprises me, by raising her glass. "A toast." She coughs, rubs at her chest.

"You okay?" I frown.

"Never been better," she smiles, the skin stretching around her mouth. A gleam of sweat glistens on her forehead. She raises her glass in her left hand, her dominant hand, which trembles. All of my senses pop. My visions, tunnels. Even before the glass slips from her fingers, I rise, then rush over to her. I catch her as she sinks into her chair, her breathing ragged, her skin pallid.

"Liam," I snap at my brother, "call an ambulance."

He jumps to his feet so fast, his chair topples over with a crash. He pulls out his phone, walks away as he dials.

I hear the sound of Max barking. Phe begins to cry, then is hushed. More chairs being shoved back, the slap of footsteps on the floor, then Hunter and Patrick crowd me. "Move back," I snap, and they comply

"Weston," my mother whispers as I lower her to the ground. Sweat beads her upper lip, "Weston." She coughs again.

"Don’t talk," I say.

I reach for my mother's wrist to check her pulse and glimpse the steel band attached to her watch—the bloody watch that my father presented to her when they got married; the one she’d put away after the incident, when she’d found out about my trigger. Why the hell is she wearing it? My heart begins to race, the blood thundering at my temples. I stare at the watch—the hands on the face, the big hand moving fast, so fast, the small hand following pace, the countdown for my life as my kidnapper had hauled me into the small room across the corridor from where I had been imprisoned with the rest, as he’d tied me to the chair, attached the rigged clock to my chest. "Will you survive it this time? Follow the countdown, the ticking of the clock as it edges closer to the end."

He’d ripped off my blindfold—the light had cast his face in shadow so I hadn't been able to get a good look at him—then left me with only the ticking for company, and I had screamed against the gag, tried to pull free. "If you move, the bomb goes off. If you disturb the clock, it goes off. If you so much as breathe too hard…it goes off. Hell, if you so much as live…it may go off… Will you survive this round?" His voice echoes through my head. I stare at the moving hands of the watch.

"What do you think, Weston?" my kidnapper asks. "Will you live or will you die this round?"

Live or die?

Do I want to die?

What do I have to live for? Why can’t someone rescue me and put me out of my misery? If I get out of here, I’ll never allow anyone else to control my life...never. Never.

"Weston?"

Never relinquish your power. Never.

"Weston!" Something connects with my cheek. I fall back, glance up into familiar blue eyes. The eyes of an angel. The blue of the ocean, the sky. The only place where I could be safe, where I can soar above it all, away from here, away from these memories, the clocks that tick down to my demise.

"Weston." Those blue eyes blaze at me; silver sparks in their depths. Huh? "You need to help her. Snap out of your shock. Now!" She raises her palm, then slaps me again, and again.

I blink. "Amelie?"

"Thank God," she cries. She pinches my chin, turns my face to where my mother is sprawled on the floor, her hand extended. I press my thumb to her wrist. There’s no pulse.

"Mother!" I touch her shoulder. "Rosie," I call out her name but she doesn't respond.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.I tilt her head back, lift the tip of her chin and, lean in closer. Her chest doesn't move. I listen over her mouth and nose for breathing sounds, hold my cheek over her nose. Fuck, she's not breathing.

I place the heel of my left hand on the center of her chest, place the heel of the other hand on top of the first hand, interlace my fingers, My injured finger screams in protest—I ignore it. I push down with my arms and hands, using my body weight to compress her chest.

Tick-tock-tick-tock- Push-now-push-now.

My own personal song that has a rhythm that corresponds to the compressions per minute required for the rhythm.

Tick-tock-tick-tock. Push-now-push-now.

Sweat beads my brow; pain sears my arm. I reject it, continue with the momentum.

Tick-tock-tick-tock-push-now-push-now.

I count to 30 compressions, then tilt her head, lift her chin up, pinch her nose. I seal my mouth over hers, blow. Check to make sure that her chest rises. Blow again twice. Then back to chest compressions, count to 30, followed by 2 rescue breaths.

"Weston?"

I focus on my mother's face. Come on, come on, breathe.

"Weston, the paramedics are here."

Breathe. Breathe. I continue to push down to the rhythm in my head. Tick-tock-tick-tock-breathe-now-breathe-now.

"Weston!" Arms grab my shoulders. I wince; pain radiates from my injured finger; a coldness coils in my gut. I am pulled back. I lower my injured arm to my side, watch as the paramedics take over, blocking out the view of my mother. "It’s my fault," I gasp.

"What? No." Amelie’s face fills my line of sight. "Weston, it’s nobody’s fault."

"I froze," I mumble under my breath.

"Weston." Amelie cups my cheek, "Baby, look at me."

"The one time I needed to be in control of my senses, and I lost it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe… All I could think of was—"

"The incident," she whispers. "Oh, baby, stop torturing yourself."

I raise my gaze to her face, "What’s it to you?"

"What?"

"Why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you to leave?"

"Weston, man, get a grip on yourself." Hunter touches my shoulder and something inside of me snaps. I rise to my feet, plant my uninjured fist in his face.

He reels back. Fire burns a trail up my arm from the burst skin on my knuckles. "Fuck." That hurt like a bitch, but what-fucking ever. "You keep the fuck away from her, you hear me."

"Man, you have this all wrong." Hunter puts up his hands; blood drips from his cut lip. Good.

"Weston," Amelie shoves herself between us, "what’s wrong with you?"

"You," I growl. "You're what's wrong." Fuck you, what the hell are you doing? Making sure you cut all ties with her, huh? You could have accepted her tenderness, her compassion, her softness—that always seems to make you unravel, that makes you weak. She makes me want everything I swore I don’t need. Fuck me. And fuck her and, "Fuck all of you." I stumble back.

She grabs hold of my suit jacket. "Weston, please stop," she sobs.

"Look at you," I snarl, "all empathetic and shit, when really all you want is my money. Admit it."

"No."

"Don’t lie, that’s why you accepted my deal. Its why you came here, why you’re still here. Because you think I’ll succumb to your charms? That perhaps I’ll settle down and play happy family with you? Well, you can think again. That’s not what I want."

"You don’t mean it."

"You’re right." Shut the fuck up. you wanker. What the fuck are you saying? Don’t do it; don’t do it. "I do want it."

Her chin wobbles, "You do?"

I nod, "Just not with you."

"At least you are being honest." Her features crumple and tears drip from her eyes. She wipes them away, straightens herself, "You may as well admit that you thought up this arrangement, because you wanted to fake a marriage in order to access your trust fund."

As if I need the family money? I am doing fine, more than fine, on my own steam.

I glare at her.

She tips her head back.

I flatten my lips. "Fine," I snap. "That's why I came up with this idea of a fake relationship. I should have known you were all wrong for it."

"Fine." She pulls herself up to her full height, "There's one more thing I need to tell you."

"Oh?"

She nods. "Go fuck yourself."

She brushes past me, walks out of the room, my house, my life… My everything.

My vision tunnels and my heart hammers so fast, I am sure I am having a cardiac as well. Stop her; stop her. I step toward her. Liam plants his body in my path.

"Get out of my way," I growl.

"Get ahold of yourself first." Liam grabs my shoulders. I shake him off, raise my fist—the wrong one—the one with my injured finger in a splint. Fuck. He swerves; my hand grazes his face. Pain crashes behind my eyes. The next moment something slams into my face, the world tilts, and darkness pulls me under.