The only flag on the playing field when it came to our Dom/sub relationship was that it had cooled since my attack. We still had sex—lots of sex, in fact. He still took control and employed multiple methods to rocket my lust into the stratosphere, but our sex life had lost the dangerous edge of pure, passionate power exchange.
He hadn't used my favorite riding crop on me since the attack. He hadn't restrained me, either. In the immediate weeks after the incident, that had been okay. Hell, it had been a damned necessity. I'd been fucking stabbed; I'd undergone emergency surgery. I'd needed gentleness, but as the physical pain drifted into memory, our sex life had never returned to what it had been. It was something I wanted to remedy.
He plucked the phone from its base just after the fifth ring. "Hello."
A smile tugged at my lips. Seeing him answer his phone as just Max, not Mr. Penn the business mogul, was positively adorable.
I was about to mouth, "Is it Karen or Garret?" when Max turned an ashen color and swayed backward. He was a marionette whose strings had just been cut. His hand slapped against the wall as if he were desperately trying to catch himself, but there was nothing to grab onto—only me.
I rocketed into him and wrapped my arms around his middle just in time to help him ease to the ground instead of hitting it with a smack. The phone clattered beside him. He hadn't hung up; his hands had likely gone too numb to hold the device any longer.
"Max?" I cupped his cheeks with my own suddenly shaking hands. "What's wrong?"
Fear was blooming inside me again. This wasn't a panic attack exactly, but many of the sensations were similar, including my spiking heart rate.
Max's gaze was a thousand miles away, as vacant as I'd ever seen.
"Max, love." I maneuvered myself and tugged until our gazes finally met. "What's wrong?"
His voice was barely audible, but it was still loud enough to break my heart. "My mum's dead."
Chapter 2
I tightened my grip on Max's hand as our caravan of black Cadillac Escalades pulled to a stop outside a rock-faced building in his hometown of Alum Bay on the Isle of Wight. With its seaside backdrop and bygone-century appeal, the structure struck me as quaint. Well, at least it would have if not for the throngs of reporters scurrying around the grounds like cockroaches.
Given my two previous run-ins with the tabloids, the pests still made me uneasy. At least, they weren't gunning for me this go around. That was something, although I'd gladly take their ire if it meant changing the reason we'd made the trip to Britain.
I turned from the vermin and focused on Max. My lover had been so withdrawn since receiving the call over two days ago. He'd always been a man of few words, but this level of quiet, even for him, was eerie. He'd made the funeral arrangements, made sure I had everything I needed for the out-of-country trip, comforted me when a nightmare had awoken me from last night's sleep, but otherwise, he'd been so terribly quiet. I almost felt as if I were dealing with the Max from the beginning of our relationship. I'd be a liar if I said that didn't terrify me.
Max didn't share details from his past; it was a statement as accurate and definite as humans require oxygen to survive. For a long time, it had also been one of the biggest burrs between us. I'd wanted a relationship with all of him, but he'd fought to hold on to his secrets. Since my attack, I'd slowly begun to understand he hadn't done it out of malice but out of fear and pain. Facing the shadows and demons lurking in the past—yeah, it fucking hurt.
After the call, he'd told me his mother had suffered an accident several years back that had put her in a completely vegetative state, but that was the extent of what I knew about the woman. Family life was one of the many things he hadn't wanted to elaborate on. Yes, since my attack, he had begun telling me more about his mysterious past, but he'd always given his childhood a wide berth. He'd once told me talking about certain events was like having to relive them. I understood that now more than ever. Every time I spoke about my attack, I could feel Théo's blade all over again, re-live the terror.
The man in the passenger's seat turned to Max. "The advanced team has the building secure, sir. As soon as you're ready, we'll escort you and Ms. Jennings inside."
"Thank you, Scott, but I still need a few more minutes."
"Of course, sir. Whenever you're ready."
Scott Washington, Max's head of security, had been with Max for going on ten years. The African American was tall and built like a tanker truck. He'd been a former Navy SEAL turned Secret Service Agent before Max had poached him. I trusted him.
Lifting mine and Max's entwined hands to my heart, I placed my opposite palm to my lover's cheek. I willed my mounting anxiety to remain at bay. I had to focus on Max. He needed my strength. He needed me to be the rock he'd been for me.
"What can I do to help?" I asked.
"Exactly what you're doing, my sweet." Closing his eyes, he turned his head and pressed his cheek more fully against my palm. We sat unmoving for what felt like half an eternity before Max opened his eyes again and tapped his lips to mine. "I love you," he whispered.
The familiar stumble of my heartbeat made my chest ache. It wasn't the first time he'd used those words with me, but god, they still undid me. "I love you, too. So much."
"Thank you for being here. I know it must be hard, given—"
"There isn't anywhere else I want to be right now."
"My sweet, I truly don't deserve you." Before I could respond, he pressed a quick kiss to my mouth and then turned to Scott. "I'm ready."
Scott said something into his wrist before exiting the vehicle. A moment later, my door swung open, and six mountain-sized men stood like a human shield between the reporters and us. I stepped from the SUV first, and Max followed me out.
The human shield encircled us as we made our way along the cobblestone walk. Reporters yelled questions at us, but Max ignored them. I cuddled closer to Max, trying to make myself as small as I could while also giving him support. I'd never get used to the kind of press Max garnered just from existing.
When we were inside, the last of the security detail pulled the door closed behind us. The incessant barrage of rapid-fire verbal vomit died away, and I breathed in a long sigh of relief. Max gave me a gentle squeeze and kissed my temple. Of course, he'd caught my unease. I was trying so hard to be strong for him, but my stupid PTSD made that so fucking complicated.
Do better, I scolded myself.
I gave Max what I prayed was a confident smile, and I must have pulled it off, too. A degree of the darkness lifted from his baby blues.
Keeping an arm around me, Max led me into the interior of the building. The funeral home was an elegant blend of warm colors and antique charm. Textured wallpaper lightened the space, a perfect counterpoint to the dark wooden hues of the tables positioned throughout. The hardwood floors were several shades lighter than the tables, creating another striking contrast. A vase of fresh flowers sat atop the table in the center of the space, inviting and somber, but the flowers weren't what made me feel welcomed. The couple standing beside it held that honor.
The man was Max's evil twin, the woman, a 1950s-screen-goddess, the yin to his dark-and-sexy yang. She'd tied her blonde locks into a delicate knot, the perfect complement to her dark purple dress. Our outfits were cut in a similar figure-flattering silhouette, but as always, she wore hers better. Not many women could compete with Karen Lanyon's natural beauty, and I was okay with that.