I grind my teeth and shut the fucking door. Because I can't get to her in time.
Not yet.
He lifts Ellie by the arm, sticking the gun between her shoulder blades and backing up, keeping her in front of him like a shield.
She shakes her head, crying. "Why didn't you go, Logan? You would be safe."
"I'll never leave you." I swear to her. "Never."
"Very sweet." The man spits. He tells me to sit in the chair near the fireplace, to put my arms behind the back. I hear a rustle of plastic before he tells Ellie, "Tie him up. Tightly, or I'll shoot you both."
I feel her hands against my wrists, securing . . . zip ties. Fucking zip ties. Almost impossible to stretch or break no matter how much adrenaline and fury is pumping through me.
He yanks Ellie up and pushes her towards the desk, where the phone is. They're both in front of me now--which is better. If I can see them, it will be easier to make my move when the chance presents itself.
"There are too many guards around your sister's room. Call her--tell her to come here. Now."
"And you're gonna do what, exactly?" I ask, wanting to keep his attention on me. "You think they're just gonna let you walk out of here with the Duchess?"
"They'd better. If not, I'll put two shots in her belly. It may not kill her, but it'll take care of the bastards she's carrying."
"You're not getting anywhere near my sister, you sick fuck," Ellie hisses.
He lashes out to backhand her, but Ellie lifts her forearm, blocking the strike like I taught her years ago.
That's my girl.
He grips her by the hair, twisting her neck up to look at him. "Call her!"
"No!" Ellie shouts, even as a tear leaks from her eye.
I'm going to rip his head off his fucking shoulders, I swear to God.
But then suddenly he gets real calm. Thoughtful. He releases Ellie's hair, raises his arm and points the gun at my head.
"Call her, or I'm going to blow his brains out all over that wall. I don't need him; I'll still have you."
A strangled whimper comes from Ellie's throat, and then more tears. "No . . ."
"You have ten seconds. I'm counting."
"Logan . . ." Ellie whispers. And it's tortured. Because she can't call.
We both know it.
"Listen to me, Ellie. It's okay. It's all right, love."
She shakes her head, sobbing. "What do I do?"
I look into her perfect blue eyes and in my mind I'm holding her, comforting her, giving her my strength. "You know what I want you to do."
And my gaze drifts over her beautiful face, memorizing every curve and angle.
"I love you, Ellie," I choke out. "I should've told you sooner and more, but I do. These last weeks have been the best of my life. More than I ever dreamed, and I dreamed of you so often. Thank you, my sweet girl, for loving so well."
Her pretty face crumples. "I love you, Logan. Please don't leave me . . . please . . ."
"Shhh . . . it's all right. Everything will work out, I swear, Ellie. I promise you."
And I believe that, truly. Because there has to be a God--a woman like Ellie Hammond doesn't happen by accident. My girl was made by design. And if there is a God, he'll take care of her, protect her.
I hate that it won't be me. I want to be the man who holds her and keeps her. But even if I don't get to have that honor, when this ends, however it does . . . she'll come out the other side unscathed.
I believe that with all my heart--the one that has only ever belonged to her.
She reaches for me. "Logan."
"Close your eyes now. Close your eyes, Ellie, and know that I love you."
She doesn't close her eyes. Ellie falls to the ground, sobbing.
Then a moment later she's throwing herself at me. She covers my body with hers, wrapping her arms around the chair and hugging me.
"Ellie, stop!" My blood curdles with the horror that he could shoot her.
But he doesn't shoot. And she doesn't stop.
Not until she presses the cold, steely weight of the knife I strapped to her leg years ago into my hand, behind the chair--where the fucker can't see. When she looks into my face, her pupils are tighter and focused; she's calmer now, almost relieved.
She turns her head, staring at the gun that's pointed at her head.
"I'll call. I'll call my sister now."
"Get up!" The soon-to-be-dead bastard yanks Ellie off me and tosses her towards the desk. She makes a show of fumbling with the phone, dropping the receiver, giving me time to cut the plastic ties around my wrists.
I wait for him to lower the gun, just a bit to his side, so it's not trained on Ellie directly. And then I move. Spring up and grab him.
A shot echoes in the room, blasting my eardrums, then another . . .
Then, with the firm, harsh twist of my hands and the sound of a snapping neck--it's over. The man drops in a dead heap at Ellie's feet.
I take her in my arms, weak and heavy-limbed with the knowledge that she's safe. I scan her body, skim my hand over her, checking for injury. "Are you hit? Did he hurt you?"
She shakes her head, then cries, "Logan, you're bleeding!"
"It's just a scratch." I guide her towards the door, my shoulder throbbing.
Ellie grabs a shirt off the bed as we walk out into the hall. I lean against the wall, sliding down to the floor. She yells for help, and there's commotion as people rush to us and into the room.
Ellie tears her shirt into two pieces and presses one to my shoulder and one to my arm, and I groan--because it fucking stings.
"You're bleeding a lot."
Huh. So I am. The white cloths are quickly turning red.
I shrug. "Two scratches. Don't worry."
But she is worried. Her full little mouth is set in a tight frown and her brows are puckered.
I tilt my head at her. "You're looking very pretty today, Ellie."
Her eyes spark brightly and her eyes flare.
"Seriously? Are you high?"
I grin, feeling a bit high. "Kiss me, love."
She yells at me instead. "You've been fucking shot, Logan!"
I crook my finger at her, drawing her closer. And I wink. "That's the very best time for kissing."
Then I pull her to me with my good hand and cover her rosebud mouth with mine, kissing her deep and long.
And then . . . I black out.
Two weeks later
LOGAN IS GOING TO BE knighted by the Queen. For outstanding sacrifice to the Crown. We got the official proclamation today. He's going to be "Sir" Logan soon.
I haven't thought of the details yet, but I have a feeling the title will be part of some titillating bedroom role-play in our future.
The story's been in all the papers. How he saved the day--protected Princess Olivia and her babies and her sister too. He's a hero. Not that that's news to me, he's been my hero for years, but now he gets to be Wessco's hero as well.
When it comes to recovering from the gunshot wounds in his shoulder and arm, however . . . he's a big fucking baby.
Typical. Men.
I think he acts that way on purpose. My bandage itches, my soup is cold . . . My cock is hard--how about you come over here and help me out with that, lass?
The doctor said no strenuous activity, but Logan's idea of strenuous and mine are two different things. He hasn't ripped his stitches, but it's not for lack of trying.
He's a terrible patient. Sexy and broody and too sweet for his own good.
He tells me he loves me every day. Every. Single. Day. First thing in the morning, last thing before we drift off in each other's arms. And it thrills me, makes my heart throb every time.
Logan's accepted having security around the house--because the day he got out of the hospital, I moved in with him. Being the protected as well as the protector no longer eats at him like it did in the beginning.
Seeing a gun held to my head changed that for him.
Now, Logan's okay h
aving a small army surrounding me, guarding the house and the new life we're building together. He's gotten friendly with the guys on detail--telling them when they're doing something wrong, calling them out when he catches them looking at my ass.
He hasn't made any big employment moves yet, but he's leaning toward starting his own security consulting firm. It's something he's good at, something he knows--it's his calling, his duty, he says. For now, he's okay money-wise, living off savings and focusing on finishing the house and recovering.
Whatever Logan decides to do, he'll be successful--he doesn't have it in him to be anything less.
The Queen was right. Love isn't a cure; it doesn't magically solve every problem. But it makes solving those problems worth it. Love is our inspiration, our motivation . . . and our reward.
Two weeks later
"Fucking Christ, do I love you."
Logan's voice melts against my ear, his breath tickling, his strong chest pressed against my back, his words making me wetter, where he's hot and hard, inside me. My head lolls against his good shoulder and my arms rise to wrap around his neck behind me.
"Logan . . ." I sigh.
His fingers trace my lips and I suck one into my mouth, scraping the pad with my teeth. Then he slides his hand down, caressing my breast and pinching my nipple. It sends a jolt of sensation between my legs and my pleasure builds and builds. I turn my head, seeking his mouth--wanting his lips on mine.
And he kisses me, because he knows that's what I need.
His hand slides lower, finding my clit, petting me in perfect time to the thrusting of his cock.
"Yes . . . yes," I breathe against his mouth, my voice reedy.
I climb and climb and then I peak--soar. My back arches and everything tightens and contracts as waves of hot, blissful sensations tear through my body. Logan holds me to him with his strong arms as I spasm around him.
Then when I'm weak and chasing my breath, he gently guides my upper body down to the bathroom vanity counter. Resting my cheek against the cool marble, tenderly running his fingers through my hair.
Then, he fucks me.
Grasping my hips, hard and fast, he lets go, losing himself to how good it feels, grunting as he pounds into me. I love it when he comes--I can feel it, the hot pulse of his cock as his semen fills me, so deep inside. His rough, harsh gasp against my shoulder blade when he folds over me, thrusting and jerking one final, glorious time.
Then it's all feathery kisses, soft and sweet and adoring. This is how we start our day.
Not too shabby.
After he slips out of me, I turn in his arms and kiss him fully on his minty-fresh mouth. And then I see the time on his watch.
"Shit! We're going to be late. We can't be late."
I slip away from him and turn the shower on full blast.
Logan gives me a teasing grin. "So that's how it is, huh? You got what you wanted from me."
I giggle, turning back towards him to peck his lips. "Yeah, I really did."
His pinches my ass, playfully. "I'm just a piece of meat to you."
"No--you're a sexy piece of meat to me. And I love you."
His mahogany eyes go warm and light, almost golden. It's how he gazes at me whenever I say those words.
After one more quick kiss, I hop in the shower--because we really do have to hurry. If we're late, I'll never hear the end of it from Livvy.
She wanted us to sleep at her and Nicholas's apartments last night, but I wanted to stay here, in Logan's house--our house. It's my favorite place to be, even more favorite than a palace.
In record time, I'm out of the shower, hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to my still-damp body, running out the door to the SUV in the driveway. My dress and Logan's tux are waiting for us at the palace, where the glam squad will make me presentable.
Harry, a young, carefree security guard with shoulder-length brown hair, argues with Bartholomew, a bulkier bodyguard, in the driveway.
"You don't have it in you, mate."
"Oh, I have it in me--you can believe that."
I have no idea what their pissing contest is about, but I don't have time for it.
"You're both gonna have my foot in your asses if somebody doesn't drive me to the palace right now!" I yell.
They both look shocked.
And then they move their asses.
"She's kind of a violent little thing, isn't she?" Harry says to Logan as he climbs in the backseat with me.
Logan just laughs. And looks at me. "You're going to make a good mum one day."
I shake my head at him. "That's what you got out of my statement? Really?"
"Sure--you sound just like Tommy's mum and she's the best one I know."
And something occurs to me--something we haven't talked about yet.
"Do you want that one day?" I imitate Logan's accent. "To be a da?"
"I do." His face softens. "As long as you're the mum, I'd like very much to be the da."
My stomach gets warm and fluttery. "Me too. Should probably make me a Mrs. first, though."
Logan kisses my palm, smiling. "That's the plan."
Good to know.
But for today, there's only one wedding that matters: the royal one.
Lady Sarah sits at the vanity table, in the private bridal rooms in the back of St. George's Cathedral, looking unbelievably stunning in a short-sleeved white lace wedding gown with a two-tiered tulle skirt and cathedral-length lace veil. She's the image of the perfect bride. A dark-haired Bridal Barbie.
She stares at her reflection in the mirror, chanting, "It'll be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine."
"Is she on drugs?" Penelope Von Titebottum, Sarah's sister asks, pointing with the lily-and-lilac bouquet that matches her lavender maid-of-honor gown. "Did you take drugs, Sarah?"
"I wish." Sarah closes her eyes and breathes deep and cleansingly. "It's a calming technique Mother's meditation specialist taught me. 'Say it until you believe it.' It'll be fine. All fine. Very, very fine."
She really does sound like she's on drugs.
My poor sister waddles out of the bathroom, looking uncomfortable in a pretty lilac maternity-styled dress with an adorable white bow above her ginormous belly.
I'm not in the wedding party. I'm just here to look pretty. And help Sarah stay calm if I can. And . . . catch Livvy's babies, if needed.
"You feeling okay, Liv?" I ask her. "You look kind of pale."
She rubs my arm. "It's my only color these days." Then she lets out a slow breath . . . just like Sarah's.
"It will be fine . . . It will be fine . . ."
"It will be fine," my sister tells Sarah firmly. She's the only one in the room who's walked the royal green mile before, so I'm hoping Sarah will take her opinion to heart.
Sarah stands and nods. "You're right. Weddings happen every day." She shrugs. "I mean, truly, how many people are even out there anyway?"
Olivia closes her eyes and rubs her lower back.
Penelope tries to be helpful. "Not many. Only a few . . . thousand."
Slowly, Liv sinks down into the chair along the wall. Inhaling deeply.
"Thousands--child's play." Sarah scoffs--not convincingly. "And the total watching on television can't be more than a couple . . ."
"Million." Penelope waves her hand. "Tens of millions. Pfft."
Sarah nods.
And then she collapses onto the vanity bench, covering her face with her hands. "Oh dear God, help me! Please . . . send me a miracle."
That's when Liv starts to pant. "Hee, hee, hee, hoo. Hee, hee, hee, hooooo."
Oh boy.
Sarah spins around. "Olivia, . . . are you . . . in labor?"
Holding her stomach, my sister nods. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know this is--"
"--amazing!!" Sarah yells, throwing her arms up to heaven. "Thank you, Lord! Yes!"
"You're not upset that I'm stealing your thunder?" Olivia asks, panting.
"Take all the thunder, and the lightning, too
! If anyone even suspects you're in labor no one will look at me. It's perfect." The future queen sobers. "Will you be able to make it through the ceremony, though? I don't want you to take any risks."
My sister grimaces. "I should be able to make it down the aisle. But I want to get to the hospital soon, so if the Archbishop starts droning on, I'll give you a signal. If I'm moaning in agony--you'll know."
My sister's spunkiness has returned to her.
And then a thought occurs to me. "Hey, the babies aren't just going to share a birthday with each other, they're going to share Henry and Sarah's wedding anniversary. Lenora's gonna be pissed."
Just before the ceremony is set to begin, I find Logan out in the main Cathedral. It's beautiful. Light streams through the windows, depicting saints and biblical scenes in richly-colored stained glass. When my eyes finally land on Logan, it's like the wind is knocked out of me--because I haven't seen him since we parted ways to get dressed at the palace. And now, he's wearing his tuxedo.
God damn, he is fine.
The cut of his jacket shows off his broad, strong shoulders. The charcoal grey cravat accentuates his masculine throat and gives him a sophisticated but roguish look--like he stepped out of the pages of a romance novel. His dress pants hug him perfectly, highlighting his powerful legs, his hard, gorgeous ass, and his thick, impressive "endowments." I've seen Logan wearing a tuxedo before, but this time is different.
Because now, he's all mine.
And the way he stares at me--how his eyes drag up from my silver, strappy heels, over my curves beneath the snug, satin pale pink gown, to the blond curls piled high on my head--it seems like he's lost his breath too.
He swallows hard. "You look like an angel, Ellie." He lowers his voice and bends his head nearer. "Like a scrumptious dessert . . . and I'm going to eat you the first chance I get."
Heat spreads low in my stomach--I'll never get enough of him, or his wicked, adoring words. But then I blink, remembering why I sought him out, and that any eating will have to wait a while.
Aware of the guests wandering to their seats, I rise up and whisper in Logan's ear that Olivia is in labor.
He wants to get the car, take her to the hospital immediately. But I talk him out of it--even while he insists that my sister is "fucking batty" to wait. Then he covertly makes his way up to the altar, where Nicholas stands as best man beside Henry, both of them looking regal and elegant in their military uniforms.