His Pretty Little Burden (Kids of The District, #4)

by Nicci Harris

"You're so young. So very pretty." He sighs with an easy smile. "We are such different and yet such similar creatures, my little deer."

"Who is this? I haven't had the pleasure." "A colleague's daughter," he states simply, turning his back on me, turning the warmth he showered down on me into icicles in the air. He walks towards her. Placing his hand on her lower back, he says over his shoulder, "Go to your room, Fawn."

The cognac heats my head, not a feeling I often allow. I usually cut myself off before letting any unpredictability take root, but not tonight. Not after seeing my little deer near faint from the fumes in this room. I sneer to myself. Dolled up and on show for them to gawk at, just as discussed with my family. At risk. She is always at some kind of risk, not having a man to care for her while she is the most vulnerable she will ever be. I glance over at Aurora as she entertains Bulan, then across to Lorna, who leans in close to Arif. I don't know anything about vulnerable women.

I walk around the broken table, over the glass, the crunching beneath my shoes like an echo of consequence, and I can't help remembering the night in the kitchen when I mindlessly scooped her into my arms. Fucksake, I care. I care about her.

"I am beginning to feel offended, and you don't want me to feel offended. So perhaps you don't know why you are here. Not to use my wife as a tour guide. Not to drink my liquor or to ask me for my girl." The my wasn't a mistake. I mean it to my core. Mine.

This"—I nod at the door—"is a bad idea. For⁠—" "For you, " she cuts in with a meaningful smile. Leaning on the wall beside me, Fawn's door in front of us, she says, "I've seen you with women, Clay. For the past two decades, I have seen every aspect of your affection for them. I've seen you swoon them, eye-fuck them⁠—" "Charming." A husky chuckle leaves her. "Charm them. I have seen you almost, almost love them." Aurora's face softens. "But I have never seen you look at a girl the way you looked at her tonight." "And how was that?" She touches my cheek. "Like you couldn't bear not to."

Unless... you take her to my boutique tomorrow and spend some time with her. I think she will prefer your presence in this. It will seem less military to her and more..." "Intimate." "Yes." She turns to leave, then says over her shoulder, "And you could use real intimacy in your life, Clay."

I put my hands in my pockets, my black jacket fanning out behind my arms, my eyes glued to the silver handle, willing myself not to take it, not to turn it. Not to fuck her. Not to touch her. But to have her ask me again why I can't sleep.

The girl isn't a spy. She isn't. She's a stray. My stray.

Her eyes dance beneath their lids—dreaming. Leaning down, I blow softly on her nipples, and they begin to grow to tight peaks beneath her silk nightgown. It takes every ounce of strength I have to not wrap my mouth around those exquisite tiny beads and suck on them through the silk. Another... perfection. This girl is too damn pretty. I grip the top of the white sheet laid across her waist and drag it down her hips, past where her little gown lies across her upper legs. My fingers skim across her knee, panning upwards, nothing more than the slightest of touches but enough to drag her gown up to her waist, revealing the prettiest bald pussy lips in the triangle gap between her thighs. I know what they look like when they open and swallow what they are given to swallow. Fuck. I pull the sheet back up. Walk from her room. Away from sweet temptation.

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.

But while I protect them. While I stand for them. They just don't care.

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.

"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 spiny 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.

"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 spiny 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.

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.

"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."

Besides my family, I have no relationship that isn't related to this business. That is how I like it. Liked it...

"I didn’t do this for me. I did this for you." Madonna Mia.

"What a waste of your time. Think of yourself. Now go to bed."

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.

The truth is, I still have no idea what makes a person comfortable in their space.

I haven't seen him since the mild stroke I had last night when I decided to be an anti-Marie Kondo and throw his neatly organised living room into chaos. He didn't make me feel crazy, though. He understood. He understood me.

"Do you want to please me?" My cheeks are not warm; they are icy cold as blood leaves them. I don't know what to say to that. "How would I... I mean... Yes... but⁠—" He chuckles softly at my paling face, and the deep timbre moves into my soul to be stored away with the crashing of waves and early morning bird song. "I'm taking you shopping," he states, his phone coming to life in his pocket. "Get ready. I'll meet you in the car." He answers the call, "Butcher," before strolling from my room. He's taking me shopping? He's taking me shopping! Don't smile. I shrug at his retreating back. "Sure, whatever." Then dart around the room to get ready.

This is just shopping, my brain scolds. Yes, my heart thinks, but it's shopping with him.

Passing the living room, I halt for a second to see my pillow pyramid and books still plopped open on the cream sofa. The roses are gone, though. I groan at myself, blaming the hormones and the fatigue and the goddamn confusion this house and that man inflict. Stupid, really. I stare at the messy room. He left it... No, not just left it. No. His house staff would have been down here at the crack of dawn to tidy this up, so that can only mean... He must have deliberately asked them not to stage it again. But why? Does he like the ruins of my silly moment? And now that I'm looking at it in the glow of day, I think the space does look more comfortable. Strange, but... welcoming somehow. Ha. I spin and head for the door.

His eyes pin me to the seat. "Take. Your. Hair. Down." My hands refuse to do as they are told, thrown by his tone on the phone, unaffected and commanding, and by his brazen demand. "Why?" He stares at me expectantly, a soft smile settling on his handsome face. "Because it will please me if you do." I reach up and pull the band from my ponytail; the long blonde curtain falls around my shoulders. "Are we spending the day together?" I ask pointedly. "Just the two of us? He relaxes further into his seat. "Why?" I try to hide my smile as I say, "Because it will please me if we do, Sir."

With a tight jaw hidden beneath a cool smile, he says, "You aren't afraid of me, are you?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "After what you have seen. Heard. What happened with the fucking gardener? You still aren't afraid. Tell me why." I stare out the window now, unsure how to answer that question given the reason for my being here is still a purposeful omission of sorts. "My mum told me my dad was dangerous. I'm not surprised that you are too."

But you, little deer,"—he shakes his head once, his piercing blue eyes arrow on me, pinning me to the seat—"have no place in this dangerous world." Rejection spindles through me, but I grit it back. I'll let my father be the judge of that. "Well, I never planned on staying, you know that. So, I'm sorry if I'm putting you out, Sir. I'll be out of your hair the moment my father comes for his property," I say, noting the tic in his jaw. The blue in his devasting gaze shrinks to nothing as the blacks expand to consume them in darkness. "What did you just say?" "Sorry?"

"Stop the car," he states, raising two fingers to the driver, who closes the dividing screen while the vehicle rolls to a stop. I take shallow breaths as he frowns at me, his gaze feverish, not only angry, but hot with warning. "Take your shorts off. Lay over my knees." With a shaky hand, I sweep a piece of hair from my face. "What?" He taps his thigh. "Underwear. Face down. Over my knees. There is no denying the gravity in his fixed blue stare—an icy haul, nearly palpable as it demands I comply. My body buzzes with adrenaline, never having been spanked. Not once. I actually, kind of—fuck, what am I thinking? I fight against the distant voice of argument, the one that says this is inappropriate, and indecent, and— I drown that voice. I want this, want to know what it feels like to have him spank me, to have him care.

"You are not allowed to say sorry anymore. Ever. It's your default response. It means nothing now."

"Did you like that, sweet girl? Don't lie. The truth is right... here." His feather-light touch creates subtle circles over the wet fabric, alarming me, shaming me, and all the while sending my mind reeling with pleasure. My cheeks burn. "Yes." "Do you want more?" Slowly I nod. "Yes."

He rains down slap after slap, until I drag my nails down the leather seating, carving into the material as my orgasm carves into me. I pant, face down, tears dripping from my eyes but not from sorrow. I'm all wrong. This is all wrong. Everything I want from him is all wrong.

Then he lifts me from his lap, dipping down to scoop me up, and cradles me in his arms. He kisses my temple, and I think I might die, my heart skipping off its tracks, no longer on the same trajectory. Lost in him.

"You're safe here. You have no place being here, yes, and you will leave once it's all done, but for now, you're under my care. You have my word." "Why do I feel like this?" I ask him, feeling incomprehensibly wrapped in content. "You trust me." My eyes widen in shock while my head nods in slow acceptance. "Yes."

"You will survive everything the world throws at you because you have learned how to adapt. You will survive. Just like you have survived everything else in your life. You're a very brave girl. Wilful. Stop apologising for being you."

"You're bossy." A little flitter of euphoria dances beneath my skin, through my blood and bones, a little high off him, light-headed, and hopeful—invincible. Gah, Mum was right. "Yes." He smiles at me. "I am."

When he taps the seat beside him, I instantly comply, sitting down. As he leans across me to buckle me in, I barely notice the way my arse stings under my weight. He belted me in. It's the little things. The small actions. Such a tiny gesture, but oh my God, I'm not sure anyone in my past would have even noticed if I was fastened in or not, let alone taken it upon themselves to secure me like a fragile item.

After the past ten minutes, our distance feels wrong. Reaching out, I grab his hand and place it on my thigh because I want him to touch me, want to know that the attachment we shared won't vanish and challenge my sense of reality. Is this the first time I've touched him? It feels like the first time, because like with any first, I'm worried I'm doing it wrong. Too firm. Too soft. Too early. I just want to know what it feels like to have someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh like they do in the movies when the relationship gets real, gets emotional, and now they are in comfortable silence in the car. "You'll survive too," I whisper. "You won't fail." Then he squeezes my thigh.

The rest of the drive is like that. His hand on my thigh My heart on the line.

"Woah," she mutters, opening her arms wide and spinning in a circle, the long strands of her white-blonde hair skirting out as she takes in her surroundings. I look at the time on my cell. Today is an inconvenience. Yet, I wanted to give her something. After last night, I needed to.

Aurora would have had hundreds of pieces of clothing sent to her room to choose from had I agreed to it, but I didn't, and I'm still not sure why. An entire day wasted—shopping.

I stalk her with my eyes, watching the prettiest thing I have ever seen—a sight that makes my chest ache, my mind torrid—the thing I dare not throw down and claim despite my every muscle convulsing to do so, stroll nervously around, stopping to touch the fabric on a mannequin.

I see a lot of myself in her, but where I have spent every day attempting to step from Jimmy Storm's shadow, she has spent every day clutching at life, merely trying to exist. We are both the perfect product of our institutionalised circumstances.

Moving forward, she will be my responsibility, and after, when we gut her father, she'll still be mine to watch over—however, from afar. It is better that way.

Her lips try to smile. "My mum would have loved this." "Get it for him then." "We shouldn't be buying him anything. I'm not keeping him. I'm not made of the right stuff to be a mother. I don't even know how to cook." "You learn on the job, little deer," I state, my words forcing a shaky breath through her lips. "You have the luxury of time before you give birth. Use your time. Think hard about whether you want to give him up."

I know I'm going to set her up and send her on her way. Hell, I'll give her enough money to never work, to never just survive. I consider it her payment for my brother's revenge. I'll trim the wage straight from Dustin's cut of the diamonds. I'm not worried about her—financially—and yet... there is this fucking burn in my chest that surges every time I remind myself that her presence is temporary, that she may give that boy up for adoption, limiting my access to him. Not that it'd stop me—Fucksake. What am I thinking?

"We should buy it for him," I say, gritting my teeth as I do, her short inhales finding their fragile way ...