Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (23 page)

All the pressure from
the outside world melts in this moment of perfection, this fast and fierce
blaze of glory. And all falls to white when Seth buries himself in her, feeling
her shiver around him with yet another orgasm, and he can no longer fight
nirvana. Her back is arched against him, and he presses his forehead against
her chest as his orgasm sputters through him.

Sweat slides between
their skin, and their hearts pound next to each other, as Seth slips out and
collapses beside her. His left shoulder screams in pain from his exertion, and
his right arm dully aches, but the physical discomfort doesn't begin to touch
the spiritual cleansing that lingers with the scent of their sex.
 

After a long stretch of
just lying there, pressed against each other with sweat drying and breathing
returned to normal, Vera’s fingers lazily trace across the snake once again,
and she softly says, “I think that's the first time we've ever fucked in a
bed.”

Seth laughs against her
shoulder, a cocky, indolent sound. He plants a kiss on her skin, and says,
“Just wait for the second time. And maybe the third. Who knows—we have all
night.” She lifts her head to look him in the eye, searching his gaze for
something, deception perhaps. Whatever it is, she breaks the eye contact before
she says, “Mmmhmmm, and just for tonight, I will pretend that you're mine.”

He pulls her back to
him, kisses her forehead, and says, “Tonight, I am.”

Chapter 31.
Graystone Apartments. New York City. December 3
^rd
 

It's
Raining When She Steps Out Of The Elevator
. The lobby is empty—only
one security guard reading a paper who flicks a lazy glance in her
direction.
 

He will tell Seth. And
Seth will be furious.
 

Emma's expression
tightens and she turns to the door, the empty street. No town car waits for the
young queen and she smiles, barely there. She hears the clerk's panic as she
pushes into the cold city. She tucks her head down. Dressed down in a pair of
skinny jeans, a thin black sweater and a long leather coat, her distinctive
hair tucked into a knit hat, she blends easily into the masses on the street.
Eyes prick the back of her neck, but she keeps moving, ignoring her security
detail and all the ways this could go wrong. As soon as she turns the corner,
Emma hails a cab and climbs into the dirty backseat. A heavyset black man is
watching her with curious eyes and she says quickly, "New York Bank and
Trust."
 

His eyebrows climb and
he nods, flicking on the meter as he eases into traffic.
 

Emma tucks her coat
around her and stares out at the city. It's that dim waiting period after the
cold settles and before the holidays begin—everyone moves with a brittle
efficiency, intent on their small world, and eager to ignore the faces next
them. New York is a city of mass and anonymity, and she loves that just now,
one of its favorite daughters can hide there.

It takes longer than she
anticipated for her phone to ring, the musical tone exclusive to Seth. The
cabbie flicks a look at her in the rear view mirror as she silences it and
sends Seth a short text.
 

Then she turns the phone
off and pockets it, returning her gaze to the passing city as they inch their
way through traffic to the bank.
 

When the cabbie finally
pulls to a stop, Emma is already moving, pulling a bill from her purse and
passing it to him. “Keep it,” she murmurs as she climbs out of the taxi and
steps toward the bank. For the first time, she feels a flash of hesitance and
fear.

It seemed like a good
idea, in the warm safety of her apartment, with only questions to keep her
company. But here, the wind pressing against her thighs and an imposing
columned structure looming over her, she has a hysterical fear that it
wasn’t—that in a list of bad moves she’s made recently, this might top it.
 

Her hands dip into her
pocket, and she shivers as the wind kicks up, an icy mist from a nearby
fountain spraying her. She clutches her phone in one hand and the key in the
other. Seth, furious and ready to protect her, or answers that no one else can
offer.
 

Another gust of wind
buffets her, and she pushes into motion.
 

The bank lobby is all
smooth marble and dark wood counters and disapproving glances from the bankers.
She’s startled—those looks are so rarely directed at the Morgan daughter. But
then she remembers she is dressed down. Her hair up and face scrubbed of
makeup, she could be anyone or no one, a high school waif wandering in from the
cold. She swallows her smile and tugs her gloves off as she approaches a
reception desk.
 

“Can I help you?”

Emma fights not to snap
at the woman’s sharp, nasal question. She drops the key on the counter and
smiles pleasantly. “I’d like to access my safety deposit box. Twelve oh
seven.”
 
It all happens quickly after
that. She’s ushered into a small office off the main lobby and given a cup of
coffee to wait with. As she sips it, she tugs her hat off and her gold-red hair
tumbles free in a decadent cascade.
 

“I’m so sorry to keep
you waiting. My name is Justin March.” The man is thin and officious, and old
enough to be her grandfather. Emma likes him immediately. There is something
genuine about him that eases her rattled nerves.
 

“Can you tell me the
number again?” he asks, and she repeats it, even though that number is what
kicked off the flurry of activity. Mr. March frowns at her. “Ma’am, I’m afraid
that box owner is dead.”
 

She nods. “I know. He
was my father.”
 

March shakes his head,
“No, ma’am. It belonged to Gabriel Morgan. He didn’t have a daughter.”

Her heart stops. The
banker is still talking and she knows she needs to listen—but she can’t, can’t
make sense of this.
 

“Ma’am?”
 

Emma jerks, startled,
and stares at him. “Your ID, ma’am?”
 

She fumbles for her
wallet and slides her driver’s license across to him, sitting back silently as
he goes to work on his computer. And then he smiles. “Mr. Morgan had listed you
to access the box, ma’am. If you’ll come with me?”
 

She doesn’t quite
understand what’s happening as Mr. March escorts her into a dim corridor and a
small room. There are wall-to-wall locked doors, numbered neatly, little
blankfaced rows of secrets. A hysterical laugh is building in her throat and
she coughs, struggling to hold her composure.
 

Gabriel knew and he left
her something. In a place that she was closest to her father, he left her the
key—literally—to all the answers. She stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching
as Mr. March opens a door and slides out a long black box that he carries to
the table. He looks at Emma expectantly and she summons her shy smile, the
family façade as she comes to stand near him. “Do you need anything at all, Ms.
Morgan?”
 

“No,” she whispers.
 

He nods and makes a few
noises about her privacy, and then he’s gone, and she is left staring at a long
black box.
 

Why here? Gabe had an
alliance with Remi Oliver, and safe houses around the city. He could have
hidden this anywhere. So why here, where they didn’t own the banker, where
their name carried little weight?

Her lips tighten and she
puts it together, too quickly. Because those things kept the secrets safe—kept
her safe. Because here, no one could touch it. Not even their allies and
family.
 

“Secrets piled upon
secrets,” she mutters bitterly, and sits. Her key slides in easily and she
opens the box.
 

There is a small stack
of photographs and she reaches for them, because they are easier than the
black, leather-bound journals. These are safe—Caleb and Seth and Emma at a
family dinner, Seth, his head bent over hers on the steps of the Hampton house,
Caleb, looking impossibly young, pushing her on a swing she can’t remember. Her
father holding her, sleeping on his shoulder. Her father and Gabe, smiling into
the camera. Tinney, lifting her to blow out candles. Gabe and Tinney and Emilio
smoking cigars, basking in the sun near a pool. Every photo a memory, every
memory happy. She shuffles through them faster, and her heart twists painfully
when she realizes that there is nothing but this. Photos and her father’s
words.
 
Nothing from her uncle.
 

She reaches for the top
journal and her hands shake, brushing against a small bookmark.
 

There are two words on
the slip of paper. Everything in her goes still and brittle, staring at it, and
she wishes suddenly that she wasn’t here alone. That she had allowed Seth to
protect her, this one time.
 
I’m sorry.
 

The journal is lying
open, waiting for her, and she forces her gaze to it.
 

He knows. I knew one day, one of us would make a
mistake. I didn’t think it would be me. It was a slip of the tongue. A mixed
date, and the fear on Miriam’s face. Gabe isn’t so stupid that he didn’t put it
together.
 

In all the years I’ve known Gabe, I have never
seen him like this. The only small blessing is the children are gone now. And
the Olivers. There may be a way to contain this.
 

We broke Gabe’s heart. I know it, and so does
she. I betrayed him—and the family that took me as one of their own. My best
friend and brother.

If there is anything that I regret, it is that.
 

She lets the journal
slap shut, unable to read any more. How long, after this was written, did her
father live? How long before Gabe—her stomach lurches and she barely makes it
to the small wastebasket before the coffee comes back up, bitter and stinging
the back of her nose.
 

Not so bitter as the
truth that her father and the boys' mother were in love.

She stays there, hanging
over the wastebasket, for a long moment. Then she swipes her hair back and
straightens her spine. Emma grabs it all, the pictures and the fucking journals
and Gabe’s tiny note. Shoves it all in her purse, and when the journals won’t
fit, wraps them in her coat. She locks the empty box, and leaves. Mr. March is
hovering just down the hall and she brushes by him. “Thank you. I’m done.”
 

She can’t breathe here,
carrying all the secrets of the dead. She wishes, suddenly, for that moment on
the stairs at Irving, with Quinn batting for her attention. When Seth was away
and Caleb was alive and there was no gray, no shadow to hide in. There was only
the family, and the rest of the world.
 

The icy air is shocking,
and stings the tears on her face. She stares at the city in a daze, and her
tumbling emotions seize suddenly.
 

He’s sitting on a bench
near the fountain, half hidden by stone mermaids cavorting in freezing water.
But he’s watching her. And another piece of their fucked up puzzle slides into
place.
 

Emma stalks to him, and
stands over the family assassin. There is no hint of a calm queen in her, not
right now. She’s furious, spitting mad.
 

He stops her with a soft
word. “It’s time we talk, princess.”
 

All the fight drains out
of her at the endearment from a killer, from one of the men who has always
protected her—and the last one living who raised her. She gives him a terrified
stare and Tinney stands.
 

“What if I’m not ready
to hear this?” she asks, a little girl question.
 

His gaze slips down to
the black journals. She looks at them. Snow is clinging to the darkness
 

“You’re ready, Emma,” he
says firmly, and takes her by the arm, steering her past the waiting Bentley,
toward a café across the intersection.
 

The café is small and
crowded. Tinney stands back, letting her gather her shredded dignity as she
surveys the little room. A few patrons give her curious looks as she stands in
the doorway and her shoulders come up and back, stiffening.
 

Wordlessly, she stalks
to an empty booth and slides into the far bench. She can see everything from
there—a smile twitches the assassin’s lips before he blanks his expression and
slips into the seat across from her.

Emma studies Tinney in
silence for long enough that he shifts, a slight fidget that appeases some
furious part of her. Let him be the one off-balance for once.
 

Then a waitress steps up
to their table, and without waiting for Emma to speak, Tinney orders a black
coffee and a hot chocolate with whipped cream.
 

And just like that, she
isn’t a queen—she’s a little girl again, enjoying a treat with her father’s
best friend as they wait for Emilio and Gabe to finish a meeting. She’s a
little girl and she’s cold, her hands icy as Tinney presses a thin Styrofoam
cup into her small fingers and smiles down at her.
 

“You’ve always protected
me,” she says slowly. Tinney stares at her, and her brow furrows. “Why?”
 

“Is that what you really
want to know, princess?” Tinney asks.
 

She flushes and shrugs.
“Your job isn’t to protect me.”
 

Tinney sits back, at
ease suddenly. This is the girl he has watched grow up—even when she was
protected by Caleb, he watched her. “Your father and Gabriel were my friends,
Emma. They would want you protected—and I can do that.”
 

“Gabriel killed my
father,” she snaps, and she can’t keep the hurt out of her voice.

Uncle Gabe, the man she
knew was dangerous, but who had never scared her—he had killed her father.
Sudden grief swamps her and she looks away, fighting the tears that want to
rise.
 

“Gabe was outvoted,”
Tinney says quietly, something very tired about the way he speaks.

“Mikie and Beth wanted
their deaths, and even though he wanted to fight them, he couldn’t. The
betrayal was too deep. Beth couldn’t look past it.”