His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 17

I STROLL into the house just after ten p.m. Sunday night, having seen the Indonesian fuckers off at the airport for their redeye flight back to Jakarta. The press stopped me from making a timely exit, wanted a spontaneous interview about the fires while my illegal weapons partners checked in across the terminal.

All in one room.

Lorna is the queen of propaganda, and she has set me on a pillar for the residents to worship. A place I can operate without their eyes, too focused on the right or left of me to stare straight at the obvious. They all know. They knew when Jimmy ran this city, his influence in every department, and deep down in their guts, they know the same about me.

But while I protect them.

While I stand for them.

They just don’t care.

When I enter the main living room, I expect to see the house bathed in a low hue of orange, allowing the night staff and security visibility as the rest of the house sleeps. What I don’t expect to see is the lights turned up to blinding levels, five books face down on my cream-coloured leather sofa, the cushions stacked in a kind of pyramid on the floor, and a little deer sitting crossed legged staring at a crystal vase filled with freshly cut red roses.

I frown.

She catches me off guard, not twisting to face me when she projects her voice over, saying, ‘You know, roses are the most uncomfortable of flowers, Sir. Even your choice of floral bouquet is painful to touch, pick, hold, even to look at if you really stare long enough. At first, I thought, how pretty. I saw them being cut and wondered what would happen to them. Now, though, I’m looking at them like… thorns and spinney stems… not nice at all. Only the petals themselves are soft. Might as well just pluck them and sprawl them over the television unit.’

This is about my admission to not making this house a kind of home. That isn’t how I relax. I relax when I fuck. I relax when I shoot. I don’t need décor to do that for me.

I stop at the entrance to the lounge room, loosen my tie, and run a hand through my hair. ‘The thorns and stems are what protected them. Roses are only able to be so soft and beautiful due to that protection.’

Her pupils dilate, and I hate that she’s letting ridiculous concepts like this get to her. ‘They wouldn’t last long without the stems. The thorns. It’s funny, isn’t it?’ she says, without a hint of mirth. Climbing to her feet, she stares at the roses as though they are responsible for everything wrong with the world. Perhaps, by design, they are. It’s a shame that something so soft and beautiful needs so much protection to survive. ‘Without the spinney stems and thorns, they’ll slowly wilt and die. Pretty things need ugly defences. Kinda like Monarch Butterflies. They’re poisonous, did you know that?’

This isn’t about the fucking roses.

Although a twitch moves through my knuckles, heat through my forehead, her sad metaphor agitating me, igniting something in me, I bite it all back.

Releasing a long jagged sigh, I say, ‘I did know that… Are you feeling dramatic today, little deer?’

She finally looks at me, those wide dual-coloured eyes firm, deep in thought, until they meet my face, and she swallows thickly, as always, visibly anxious in my presence.

It’s fucking delicious.

She mutters, ‘All last night, I thought about making this room more comfortable.’ Bouncing her tired eyes around the space. Lashes beating slowly. Her lips thin in her disappointment. ‘I played with the pillows.’ She motions, with a careless hand, towards the sofa. ‘I turned them askew. Fluffed them. Made them look used, enjoyed. But they didn’t look any more comfortable. In fact, I wanted to put them back into their perfect diamond-shaped positions, so instead, I stacked them because it didn’t make sense and that made sense…’ She sighs. ‘Then I read a book about that war in Timor—even your reading material is uncomfortable. I read it just so I could put it face down on a cushion, thinking the space would look like someone was just here. A ghost of warmth welcoming the next person. One book didn’t look any less staged. Two neither. So, I put five out and now it looks ridiculous just like the stack of pillows.’

My jaw tightens, even though this is beyond eccentric behaviour. Beyond what I would consider normal. It reminds me why I didn’t mourn the leisure of dating or relationships after I married Aurora—married the business. Besides my family, I have no relationship that isn’t related to this business.

That is how I like it.

Liked it…

Fucksake, I solve problems.

I make things happen.

In her case, in this teenage girl’s conundrum, I have nothing. I rub the muscles in my jaw, watching her, fascinated by her, wanting to fix this issue that has her sleepily rearranging my living room. Give her something. Anything. Fuck. ‘It’s not something you can force, sweet girl. You’ll know what makes you comfortable one day. You’re still young.’

A bullshit line is not my usual approach. She tilts her head at me, her blonde brows weaved, her lips making a heart shape for a moment in her confusion. ‘I didn’t do this for me. I did this for you.’

Madonna Mia.

Her sweetness resonates in my cock; it is the first part of me that responds, wants to act. ‘What a waste of your time. Think of yourself. Now go to bed.’

She obeys me, walking towards the staircase, and I chase her with my gaze, following that sweet scent and warmth, and ignoring my cock as it beckons me to throw her face down and sink inside her.

She stills with one foot on the first step. ‘I couldn’t think of anything, though. I just realised something tonight. That I really have been operating under a constant level of duress. To the point I have no idea what makes a house feel like a home. I thought I knew. Hence, the rearranging. I thought it was that simple. I was wrong. But I never had the opportunity to find out. You have. You do.’

I think about my brothers. My obligations. But also, the fact that this is who I am, who I wanted to be—fuck—want to be. ‘I don’t.’

She glances at the ground, sadness flittering across her face. It pisses me off that she cares because, right now, I’m anticipating Bulan is on his way to Indonesia to tell Dustin I have his daughter. Right now, I’m using her.

She shouldn’t care about me.

She nods slowly before wandering up the stairs.

Watching her leave, I can’t tear my eyes from her until she turns the corner. Sighing roughly, I twist to scrutinise the dishevelled room, books butterflied open, including a first edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, the spine creased, the cushions on the floor. I shake my head with a small smile forcing its way onto my lips. I pull out my phone and text the housekeepers not to clean this room, before heading to my shooting range.